En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Eve

Eve, with her basket, was
Deep in the bells and grass,
Wading in bells and grass
Up to her knees,
Picking a dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Down in the bell and grass
Under the trees.
Mute as a mouse in a
Corner the cobra lay,
Circled round a bough of the
Cinnamon tall. . . .
Now to get even and
Humble proud heaven and
Now was the moment or
Never at all.
'Eva!' Each syllable
Light as a flower fell,
'Eva!' he whispered the
Wondering maid,
Soft as a bubble sung
Out of a linnet's lung,
Soft and most silverly
'Eva!' he said.
Picture that orchard sprite,
Eve, with her body white,
Supple and smooth to her
Slim finger tips.
Wondering, listening,
Listening, wondering,
Eve with a berry
Half-way to her lips.
Oh had our simple Eve
Seen through the make-believe!
Had she but known the
Pretender he was!
Out of the boughs he came,
Whispering still her name,
Tumbling in twenty rings
Into the grass.
Here was the strangest pair
In the world anywhere,
Eve in the bells and grass
Kneeling, and he
Telling the story low. . . .
Singing birds saw them go
Down the dark path to
The Blasphemous Tree.
O what a clatter when
Titmouse and Jenny Wren
Saw him successful and
Taking his leave!
How the birds rated him,
How they all hated him!
How they all pitied
Poor motherless Eve!
Picture her crying
Outside in the lane,
Eve, with no dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Haunting the gate of the
Orchard in vain. . . .
Picture the lewd delight
Under the hill to-night -
'Eva!' the toast goes round,
'Eva!' again.

poem by Ralph Hodgson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ripening

I picture you,
opening the door,
walking up the orchard rows,
in the caramel of evening light.
A giant's shadow peers at you
from in between the trees,
trudging silently with you
as you lift the sun-warm fruit,
cup in one work-seasoned hand
an apple, rich and scarlet ripe.

I picture you,
opening your door,
treading the dew drenched grass,
the raucous song of wattle birds
spritzing the crisp dawn air.
Your hands busied at the basket
gently placing, one by one,
harvest fixed by darkness chill,
all glossy, sweet and unblemished.

I picture you,
opening my door,
singing to the hallway ceilings,
eyes creased deep in blissful smile,
tide of sunshine flooding in with you,
the giant heralding you in silence
as you tenderly bestow
your joyous gift for all seasons,
proud and precious gems of autumn.

poem by Maggie Munro
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Grass Smells Red

The grass smells red.
Untill these mortal bounds find thier way into the catostrophic fire's of love and redemption, the grass will smell red.
The grass tells a story of wars unsung and battles lost.
The grass tells a story of love gained and a fury found again.
The grass smells red...but does it speak?
Does it's voice ring out like the bells in a steeple?
Does it feel the pain of those who died?
Did it hear the screams?
The grass smells red and it grow's red.
It feels red.
This grass will die red.

poem by Troy Nichols
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ring Of Grass

Rings of grass crowns of flowers they're gone gone gone gone
Furs that I woven of whispering hours gone gone gone gone
She's gone away where the rings are real
And the furs have warmth that a woman can feel
Round and round round goes the wheel
And she's gone gone gone gone gone

Rings of grass and crowns of flowers gone gone gone gone
Castles of sand with seashell towers gone gone gone gone
She's gone away where the dreams are small
But the castles are rock and they never fall
And left me here to live among all that is gone gone gone gone gone

Rings of grass oh why did they die away gone gone gone gone
Whispering hours where did they fly away gone gone gone gone
And where is the wisdom to understand
That years would crumble our castles of sand
And the flowers and grass turn brown in our hands
When it's gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Country Scrumping

Your country cousin took you
Across a field to a vast orchard
Where low hung branches
Made the green apples within
Reach of your young boy’s hands.
Don’t eat too many of them
Or you’ll get gut ache, she said.
Your eyes had never seen so
Many apples, row after row
In long lines down the field and
Fields beyond. You picked an apple
And bit into it. They make cider
From these, she said, picking off
An apple too and biting with relish.
Your younger sister looked nervously
On wondering if she too should pick.
Go on, your cousin said, pick and eat.
Your sister reached up and pulled
And a few apples fell to the ground
With soft sounds of thump on the
Short grass. She picked up one and
Brushed it off on her dress. Have to
Run if the farmer comes, your cousin
Said, and don’t tell of this or we’ll be
For it. For what? Your sister asked.
Your cousin looked around and replied,
A good telling off or a good tanned ass.
You stood all three of you eating, beneath
The apple trees, in the short green grass.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Is My Father's World

This is my Father's world, and to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Father's world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker's praise.
This is my Father's world: I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
His hand the wonders wrought.
This Is My Father's World
...as sung by Amy Grant
This is my Father's world. O let me ne'er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father's world: why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let the earth be glad!
This is my Father's world: He shines in all that's fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.

song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Springfield Magical

In this, the City of my Discontent,
Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass,
"Romance, Romance — is here. No Hindu town
Is quite so strange. No Citadel of Brass
By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate;
No picture-palace in a picture-book
Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!"

In this, the City of my Discontent,
Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep
Wild legends new and old burn round my bed
While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep.
Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts,
Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent;
And, for a day, fair Peace have given me
In this, the City of my Discontent!

poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old Man Beside A Huge Tree

i have seen the picture of an old man
beside a huge oak tree

the picture is old
black and white and the kind of one that is strong
for it will last another lifetime

i have not seen the old man
neither the huge oak tree for real

i have the picture of the old man and the old oak tree
and the younger man sleeping
his smooth skin caressed by the fluffing grass

there is a story there and it is all about
gods and dogs
a film about a director who lost his fame
and fortune
about a young gardener who captures a heart
and made it bleed

at the end the old man met a happy death
the old oak tree was gone
but i have not really seen what is real
i have seen only the picture of what i thought could have been real
black and white

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Before You

Supposing Death
to be a woman

what then?
She asked

would you embrace it
as willingly as you do me?

The afternoon sun
seemed to hang

in the sky
like a child's balloon

as you lay that day
in the tall grass

maybe
you said

if it had eyes
and a smile like yours

and she pulled
a stem of grass

and placed between lips
and stared above

as birds flew
to and fro

and would you go
willingly into the dark

as you do with me
into this tall grass?

You turned to face her
taking in

her blue eyes
and cheeks

maybe
if it allowed me

to kiss as good
as you do

and as long
and she turned over

took out
the stem of grass

and kissed your lips
welcome to Miss Death

she said
and you both laughed

and lay back
gazing at the summer sky

a deep blue
not knowing then

death would come for her
long before

it would ever
come for you.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Song of Honour

I climbed a hill as light fell short,
And rooks came home in scramble sort,
And filled the trees and flapped and fought
And sang themselves to sleep;
An owl from nowhere with no sound
Swung by and soon was nowhere found,
I heard him calling half-way round,
Holloing loud and deep;
A pair of stars, faint pins of light,
Then many a star, sailed into sight,
And all the stars, the flower of night,
Were round me at a leap;
To tell how still the valleys lay
I heard a watchdog miles away,
And bells of distant sheep.
I heard no sound of bird or bell,
The mastiff in a slumber fell,
I stared into the sky,
As wondering men have always done
Since beauty and the stars were one
Though none so hard as I.
It seemed, so still the valleys were,
As if the whole world knelt at prayer,
Save me and me alone;
So pure and wide that silence was
I feared to bend a blade of grass,
And there I stood like stone.
There, sharp and sudden, there I heard -
Ah! some wild lovesick singing bird
Woke singing in the trees?
The nightingale and babble-wren
Were in the English greenwood then,
And you heard one of these?
The babble-wren and nightingale
Sang in the Abyssinian vale
That season of the year!
Yet, true enough, I heard them plain,
I heard them both again, again,
As sharp and sweet and clear
As if the Abyssinian tree
Had thrust a bough across the sea,
Had thrust a bough across to me
With music for my ear!
I heard them both, and oh! I heard
The song of every singing bird
That sings beneath the sky,
And with the song of lark and wren
The song of mountains, moths and men
And seas and rainbows vie!
I heard the universal choir,
The Sons of Light exalt their Sire
With universal song,
Earth's lowliest and loudest notes,
Her million times ten million throats
Exalt Him loud and long,
And lips and lungs and tongues of Grace
From every part and every place
Within the shining of His face,
The universal throng.
I heard the hymn of being sound
From every well of honour found
In human sense and soul:
The song of poets when they write
The testament of Beauty sprite
Upon a flying scroll,
The song of painters when they take
A burning brush for Beauty's sake
And limn her features whole -
The song of men divinely wise
Who look and see in starry skies
Not stars so much as robins' eyes,
And when these pale away
Hear flocks of shiny pleiades
Among the plums and apple trees
Sing in the summer day -
The song of all both high and low
To some blest vision true,
The song of beggars when they throw
The crust of pity all men owe
To hungry sparrows in the snow,
Old beggars hungry too -
The song of kings of kingdoms when
They rise about their fortune Men,
And crown themselves anew -
The song of courage, heart and will
And gladness in a fight,
Of men who face a hopeless hill
With sparking and delight,
The bells and bells of song that ring
Round banners of a cause or king
From armies bleeding white -
The song of sailors every one
When monstrous tide and tempest run
At ships like bulls at red,
When stately ships are twirled and spun
Like whipping tops and help there's none
And mighty ships ten thousand ton
Go down like lumps of lead -
And song of fighters stern as they
At odds with fortune night and day,
Crammed up in cities grim and grey
As thick as bees in hives,
Hosannas of a lowly throng
Who sing unconscious of their song,
Whose lips are in their lives -
And song of some at holy war
With spells and ghouls more dread by far
Than deadly seas and cities are
Or hordes of quarrelling kings -
The song of fighters great and small,
The song of pretty fighters all
And high heroic things -
The song of lovers - who knows how
Twitched up from place and time
Upon a sigh, a blush, a vow,
A curve or hue of cheek or brow,
Borne up and off from here and now
Into the void sublime!
And crying loves and passions still
In every key from soft to shrill
And numbers never done,
Dog-loyalties to faith and friend,
And loves like Ruth's of old no end,
And intermission none -
And burst on burst for beauty and
For numbers not behind,
From men whose love of motherland
Is like a dog's for one dear hand,
Sole, selfless, boundless, blind -
And song of some with hearts beside
For men and sorrows far and wide,
Who watch the world with pity and pride
And warm to all mankind -
And endless joyous music rise
From children at their play,
And endless soaring lullabies
From happy, happy mothers' eyes,
And answering crows and baby-cries,
How many who shall say!
And many a song as wondrous well
With pangs and sweets intolerable
From lonely hearths too grey to tell,
God knows how utter grey!
And song from many a house of care
When pain has forced a footing there
And there's a Darkness on the stair
Will not be turned away -
And song - that song whose singers come
With old kind tales of pity from
The Great Compassion's lips,
That makes the bells of Heaven to peal
Round pillows frosty with the feel
Of Death's cold finger tips -
The song of men all sorts and kinds,
As many tempers, moods and minds
As leaves are on a tree,
As many faiths and castes and creeds,
As many human bloods and breeds
As in the world may be;
The song of each and all who gaze
On Beauty in her naked blaze,
Or see her dimly in a haze,
Or get her light in fitful rays
And tiniest needles even,
The song of all not wholly dark,
Not wholly sink in stupor stark
Too deep for groping Heaven -
And alleluias sweet and clear
And wild with beauty men mishear,
From choirs of song as near and dear
To Paradise as they,
The everlasting pipe and flute
Of wind and sea and bird and brute,
And lips deaf men imagine mute
In woods and stone and clay,
The music of a lion strong
That shakes a hill a whole night long,
A hill as loud as he,
The twitter of a mouse among
Melodious greenery,
The ruby's and the rainbow's song,
The nightingale's - all three,
The song of life that wells and flows
From every leopard, lark and rose
And everything that gleams or goes
Lack-lustre in the sea.
I heard it all, each, every note
Of every lung and tongue and throat,
Ay, every rhythm and rhyme
Of everything that lives and loves
And upward, ever upward moves
From lowly to sublime!
Earth's multitudinous Sons of Light
I heard them lift their lyric might
With each and every chanting sprite
That lit the sky that wondrous night
As far as eye could climb!
I heard it all, I heard the whole
Harmonious hymn of being roll
Up through the chapel of my soul
And at the altar die,
And in the awful quiet then
Myself I heard, Amen, Amen,
Amen I heard me cry!
I heard it all and then although
I caught my flying senses, Oh,
A dizzy man was I!
I stood and stared; the sky was lit,
The sky was stars all over it,
I stood, I knew not why,
Without a wish, without a will,
I stood upon that silent hill
And stared into the sky until
My eyes were blind with stars and still
I stared into the sky.

poem by Ralph Hodgson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of Honour

I climbed a hill as light fell short,
And rooks came home in scramble sort,
And filled the trees and flapped and fought
And sang themselves to sleep;
An owl from nowhere with no sound
Swung by and soon was nowhere found,
I heard him calling half-way round,
Holloing loud and deep;
A pair of stars, faint pins of light,
Then many a star, sailed into sight,
And all the stars, the flower of night,
Were round me at a leap;
To tell how still the valleys lay
I heard a watchdog miles away. . . .
And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell,
The mastiff in a slumber fell,
I stared into the sky,
As wondering men have always done
Since beauty and the stars were one,
Though none so hard as I.

It seemed, so still the valleys were,
As if the whole world knelt in prayer,
Save me and me alone;
So pure and wide that silence was
I feared to bend a blade of grass,
And there I stood like a stone.

There, sharp and sudden, there I heard --
Ah! Some wild lovesick singing bird
Woke singing in the trees?
The nightingale and babble-wren
Were in the English greenwood then,
And you heard one of these?

The babble-wren and the nightingale
Sang in the Abyssinian vale
That season of the year!
Yet, true enough, I heard them plain,
I heard them both again, again,
As sharp and sweet and clear
As if the Abyssinian tree
Had thrust a bough across the sea,
Had thrust a bough across to me
With music for my ear!

I heard them both, and oh! I heard
The song of every singing bird
That sings beneath the sky,
And with the song of lark and wren
The song of mountains, moths and men
And seas and rainbows vie!

I heard the universal choir
The Sons of Light exalt their Sire
With universal song,
Earth's lowliest and loudest noes,
Her million times ten million throats
Exalt Him loud and long,
And lips and lungs and tongues of Grace
From every part and every place
Within the shining of His face,
The universal throng.

I heard the hymn of being sound
From every well of honour found
In human sense and soul:
The song of poets when they write
The testament of Beautysprite
Upon a flying scroll,
The song of painters when they take
A burning brush for Beauty's sake
And limn her features whole --

The song of men divinely wise
Who look and see in starry skies
Not stars so much as robins' eyes,
And when these pale away
Her flocks of shiny pleiades
Among the plums and apple trees
Sing in the summer day --
The song of all both high and low
To some blest vision true,
The song of beggars when they throw
The crust of pity all men owe
To hungry sparrows in the snow,
Old beggars hungry too --
The song of kings of kingdoms when
They rise above their fortune men,
And crown themselves anew, --

The song of courage, heart and will
And gladness in a fight,
Of men who face a hopeless hill
With sparking and delight,
The bells and bells of song that ring
Round banners of a cause or king
From armies bleeding white --

The song of sailors every one
When monstrous tide and tempest run
At ships like bulls at red,
When stately ships are twirled and spun
Like whipping tops and help there's none
And mighty ships ten thousand ton
Go down like lumps of lead --

And song of fighters stern as they
At odds with fortune night and day,
Crammed up in cities grim and grey
As thick as bees in hives,
Hosannas of a lowly throng
Who sing unconscious of their song,
Whose lips are in their lives --

And song of some at holy war
With spells and ghouls more dread by far
Than deadly seas and cities are,
Or hordes of quarelling kings --
The song of fighters great and small,
The song of pretty fighters all,
And high heroic things --

The song of lovers -- who knows how
Twitched up from place and time
Upon a sigh, a blush, a vow,
A curve or hue of cheek or brow,
Borne up and off from here and now
Into the void sublime!

And crying loves and passions still
In every key from soft to shrill
And numbers never done,
Dog-loyalties to faith and friend,
And loves like Ruth's of old no end,
And intermission none --

And burst on burst for beauty and
For numbers not behind,
From men whose love of motherland
Is like a dog's for one dear hand,
Sole, selfless, boundless, blind --
And song of some with hearts beside
For men and sorrows far and wide,
Who watch the world with pity and pride
And warm to all mankind --

And endless joyous music rise
From children at their play,
And endless soaring lullabies
From happy, happy mothers' eyes,
And answering crows and baby cries,
How many who shall say!
And many a song as wondrous well
With pangs and sweets intolerable
From lonely hearths too gray to tell,
God knows how utter gray!
And song from many a house of care
When pain has forced a footing there
And there's a Darkness on the stair
Will not be turned away --

And song -- the song whose singers come
With old kind tales of pity from
The Great Compassion's lips,
That makes the bells of Heaven to peal
Round pillows frosty with the feel
Of Death's cold finger tips --

The song of men all sorts and kinds,
As many tempers, moods and minds
As leaves are on a tree,
As many faiths and castes and creeds,
As many human bloods and breeds
As in the world may be;

The song of each and all who gaze
On Beauty in her naked blaze,
Or see her dimly in a haze,
Or get her light in fitful rays
And tiniest needles even,
The song of all not wholly dark,
Not wholly sunk in stupor stark
Too deep for groping Heaven --

The alleluias sweet and clear
And wild with beauty men mishear,
From choirs of song as near and dear
To Paradise as they,
The everlasting pipe and flute
Of wind and sea and bird and brute,
And lips deaf men imagine mute
In wood and stone and clay;

The music of a lion strong
That shakes a hill a whole night long,
A hill as loud as he,
The twitter of a mouse among
Melodious greenery,
The ruby's and the rainbow's song,
The nightingale's -- all three,
The song of life that wells and flows
From every leopard, lark and rose
And everything that gleams or goes
Lack-lustre in the sea.

I heard it all, each, every note
Of every lung and tongue and throat,
Ay, every rhythm and rhyme
Of everything that lives and loves
And upward, ever upward moves
Form lowly to sublime!
Earth's multitudinous Sons of Light,
I heard them lift their lyric might
With each and every chanting sprite
That lit the sky that wondrous night
As far as eye could climb!

I heard it all, I heard the whole
Harmonious hymn of being roll
Up through the chapel of my soul
And at the altar die,
And in the awful quiet then
Myself I heard, Amen, Amen,
Amen I heard me cry!
I heard it all, and then although
I caught my flying sense, oh,
A dizzy man was I!
I stood and stared; the sky was lit,
The sky was stars all over it,
I stood, I knew not why,
Without a wish, without a will,
I stood upon that silent hill
And stared into the sky until
My eyes were blind with stars and still
I stared into the sky.

poem by Ralph Hodgson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Grass.

'Tis as if I saw it all — sat now in the grass, and heard
The soft warm wind in my ears like the lilt of a lonely bird;
Sat now in the grasses so — saw, but said never a word.
The two of them in the wood, below me there by the rill;
He with the light on his brow, she in the shadow still;
And a cloud so white goes over the blue on the gleaming hill.
My nest in the grass was good: they deemed that none might see —
Ah God in heaven! my eyes looked out of the hell in me,
As his arm went round her waist, and his lips where mine might be —
Touched hers, as her face drew up like a flower in the light to his —
Touched hers, as I felt her soul shine out in a dream of bliss;
While mine with the pangs of hell was alive in a world like this!
I dared not move, nor could I shut my eyes to it all;
And still they clung and kissed: I heard the waterfall,
I heard the warm wind sing till the day began to pall.
And then they rose, the twain who had taken my life from me;
I did not rise, but lay where none might hear or see,
In the grass in the dark and sobbed, 'Would God that the end might be!'
The years have come since then, and the years have gone but I,
Though the fever of death was strong upon me, did not die;
And though I am old and weak as upon my couch I lie,
'Tis as if I saw it all — sat still in the grass, and heard
The soft warm wind in my ears like the lilt of a lonely bird;
Sat still in the grasses so — saw, but said never a word.

poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Venus Stop The Train

Venus, stop the train
For the brakeman lost his place
Satellites were spinning and out of space
They televised her feelings while the light
The light struck terror
I kept my distance because she fell in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She fell in love with me
I was polite to her
A soft sadness having much more than her
Loneliness
Her father warmed the benches
Vice president of southern branches
He reached out to her when her mother slept
He would never forget the light
The light, the light striking terror
I kept my distance because she fell in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She fell in love with me
I was polite to her
A soft sadness having much more than her
Loneliness
Satellites spinning
Satellites spin
Well the light
The light, the light
The light, the light
The light strikes terror
The light strikes terror
I keep my distance because she falls in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She falls in love with me
I'm polite to her
A soft sadness having much more than her
Ugliness
I keep my distance cause she falls in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She falls in love with me
I'm polite to her
I reach my soft hand out to her
I've known her for a very, very long time

song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Last Night You Sent A Picture

last night
you sent a picture
a face surrounded with flowers.
i sent mine
a face waiting for your body
in bed.
you sent another picture this time
it is your son saying
leave her alone and
so i sent a picture of my wife
kissing my lips and too saying
leave him alone
he is mine.

this morning you say
i'm sorry and i am wondering
if i have to send another picture
thru the MMS
saying: are you the mistress of the ruins?

sorry? what are you sorry for?
we have nothing. I am only giving you
what you ask. Just giving.
Not taking.

yes, not taking you
seriously. And you like it?

love this poem. Play me.
You still like toys. Toy me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gordon's Grave

All the heat and the glow and the hush
   of the summer afternoon;
the scent of the sweet-briar bush
   over bowing grass-blades and broom;

the birds that flit and pass;
   singing the song he knows,
the grass-hopper in the grass;
   the voice of the she-oak boughs.

Ah, and the shattered column
   crowned with the poet's wreath.
Who, who keeps silent and solemn
   his passing place beneath?

~This was a poet that loved God's breath;
   his life was a passionate quest;
he looked down deep in the wells of death,
   and now he is taking his rest.~

poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Naming of Things.

That's a Small Skipper
Jane said

And that's a Clouded yellow
as two butterflies

flittered overhead
as you both lay

in the tall grass
on the side

of the Downs
and you followed

her finger
as it indicated

the butterflies' flight
and then they were gone

and she gazed at you
and said

What?
How do you know

the names of things?
I'm a country girl

not a townie like you
she replied

her lips moulding
the words like a potter

moulds clay
and you caught a whiff

of her perfume
carried on the calm breeze

over your heads
and you looked

at her there
in the grass

her head turned back
to the sky

her eyes reflecting
the summer blue

and her left leg
bent upwards

so that her knee
stood naked

beneath the sun
and her right hand

lay next to yours
the white blouse

open at the neck
and she said

I often used to lay here
alone listening

to the overhead birds
and the winds' moan

watching tractors
in the fields below

and mother wondering
where I was

And now?
you asked

Does she wonder
where you are now?

she turned her head
and gazed at you

No not now
she knows I'm with you

and that I'm showing you
the store of nature

and the panoramic view
And she trusts you?

you asked
sensing her hand

touch yours
the flesh warm

and soft
She trusts you

Jane said
and another butterfly

fluttered by
like a ballerina overhead.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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September Grass

Well, the suns not so hot in the sky today
And you know I can see summertime slipping on away
A few more geese are gone, a few more leaves turning red
But the grass is as soft as a feather in a featherbed
So Ill be king and youll be queen
Our kingdoms gonna be this little patch of green
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down with me now
September grass
Oh the memory is like the sweetest pain
Yeah, I kissed the girl at a football game
I can still smell the sweat and the grass stains
We walked home together. I was never the same.
But that was a long time ago
And where is she now? I dont know
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down with me now
September grass
Oh, september grass is the sweetest kind
It goes down easy like apple wine
Hope you dont mind if I pour you some
Made that much sweeter by the winter to come
Do you see those ants dancing on a blade of grass?
Do you know what I know? thats you and me, baby
Were so small and the worlds so vast
We found each other down in the grass
Wont you lie down with me right here
September grass
Wont you lie down with me now
In this september grass
Lie down
Lie down
Lie down
Lie down
(repeat)
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down here now
In this september grass

song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Calgary Morn

Sitting on my friend’s deck
soaking up the morning sun
that promise of another wonderful day
while watching the birds at play,
with the only sound to mar the silence
is a lawnmower cutting grass somewhere,
which scents the air
with the sweet smell of newly cut grass.
I sit quietly with my thoughts
wondering what surprises
this Calgary day is going to bring.
Sunshine smiles from my friends
with a hug or two.
This beautiful Calgary morn
holds much to love
and want to cling on too.

(7 July 2011)

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Food In Heaven

Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven



He made the cows to want the rain to fall he made the grass that they use to eat to fill the want inside a cow he makes grass as bread for cows they just continue there to graze in some places in the desert spaces there is grass for cows to eat this is called heaven sweet to cows they drink water when they have it in a drink flavored pouch oh no see eh ewe caught me making lies no listen while eye smile and tell ewe this poem is so nice there is grass for all the cows there is grass on every hill and every cow can eat in heaven they still have grass for every cow there is food in heaven there is food there in a drink flavored pouch.

poem by Charles Hice
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Never Been

I have never been to Ireland but one day I will. This is how I picture it in my minds eye.

I love the green fields, the wondering hillsides, and the great grass meadows to the vast shorelines of Ireland.
It is one of nature’s greatest wonders.

It is so full, rich, and ripe with history that calls out to you in the night with sweet songs of melancholy.
These are the plains that the wind cries wallowing in the darkest of somber sleeps.

Soft yet sweet these melodies haunting songs that chills run down the back of your spine.
Nothing more beautiful can be seen from such bony shores.

Tongue spoken lyrically as dances trolley to a jig in synchronous rhythmic syncopation.
So happy and jolly the music skips as if children playing on the sidewalk of your mind.
This my friend is Ireland and you.

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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The Summer Sun Shone Round Me

THE summer sun shone round me,
The folded valley lay
In a stream of sun and odour,
That sultry summer day.

The tall trees stood in the sunlight
As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
And bowed and beckoned me.

The deep grass moved and whispered
And bowed and brushed my face.
It whispered in the sunshine:
"The winter comes apace."

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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