M4
this is a bright day for us
the sun is mild, the air is 26 degrees,
the grass carry the morning dews
the flowers are fully dressed with their
bright colored petals to please the hours
inside the house the leather furniture
glosses over an event
the walls are painted white the beams
and trusses all yellow green
the garage is finally porcelain tiled
expensive tastes dominate here
time is short, the weather gives in
for something that won't last
and then the dirge marches in
a Sunday dress, beloved mourners
the prayers are sung, the candles lighted
another important shit is gone
in this far away town.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Tribute To Hope
when hope dies
a cheap funeral is due
the coffin is made of
old mahogany
the flowers are
improvised colored
Japanese paper
cut by ordinary women
of the town
the candles are
recycled
the room is dimly
lighted
with a coconut oil lamp
the mourners
are the very same people
that killed it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dream Flight Tiny Flowers
a dandelion dazzles
bright yellow petals
set among soft blades
green grass carpets
flowers waiting host bees
in pollen quest flights
petals fade to dreams
dandelion transcends
really to harness winds
assumes new dimensions
aeronautical aspirations
tiny flowers bunched seeds
together dream lift flights
to distant diverse fields
dandelion purpose blooms
dream flight tiny flowers
produce seed parachutes
compass aline on heavens
choose navigation stars
rich green grass maps
imagination showers
through blue skies
or grey black storms
watch seasons changes
feelings thoughts minds
souls dance time changes
through wonder ranges
yellow petals subtle changes
one day transformation clicks
into white honeycomb wishes
fades into spectral stems
preparations need seeds
in readiness to roam skies
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bright Yellow Petal Flowers Imagination Showers
in life I never drank dandelion wine
for sour grapes bitter tastes I had no time
upon rich green grass map child like flowers
bright yellow petal flowers imagination showers
through blue skies or grey watch seasons changes
feelings thoughts minds souls through wonder ranges
yellow petals one day transform into white honeycomb
fade into spectral preparation seeds in readiness to roam
dandelion seeds are spun web silk threads of freedom life
carried away by gust breath of wind or child’s puff glow spice
tiny silk stem parachute flowers, freedom launch breath awaiting
to travel like tiny parachutes, on breeze wind wonder never abating
strong wind can carry tiny flower parachutes, miles away from parent
plant yet freedom seed flying stays, within wonder of any vision heart
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Capeweed
Originally from South Africa and quite pretty indeed
Those flowers in Spring that cover the paddocks they are known as capeweed
With bright yellow petals and a dark brown heart
From all others quite easy to tell them apart.
Unwanted in Australia or 'twould seem that way
About them the farmers have no kinds words to say
But like thistles they survive deadly toxic spray
Though quite pretty to look at on a bright Spring day.
No strangers to the paddocks they are quite well known
And they have a beauty that is of their own
In late Winter and Spring in abundance to be seen
Their bright yellow flowers dapple Nature's own green.
The farmers cannot kill them off though hard they do try
And with each passing year they seem to multiply
In the paddocks they seem to dance in the breezes of Spring
When the weather is warming and the nesting birds sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Winter Morning In Gippsland
The wattle wears her cloak of flowers so lovely bright and yellow
But in the paddocks there's no grass and for hay the cattle bellow
It has been frosty over night and the ground with frost is hoary
And the only beauty I can see is the wattle in her glory.
The farmer says too cold and dry as dry as he remember
The Spring will come in late this year and no grass in September
The hereford cow hunched with the cold and she as tough as leather
For two months it's been cold and dry we need a change of weather.
The trainer on the trotting track watch his trotters exercising
And near ten o clock the sun comes out and the temperature starts rising
And across the paddock's uneven ground the old farm tractor rattle
As the farmer brings big bale of hay to feed his hungry cattle.
A Winter morning in Gippsland and for hay the cattle bellow
And the wattle wears her cloak of flowers so lovely, bright and yellow
And the farmer says too cold and dry as dry as he remember
And we need a week or two of rain for grass growth in September.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Golden Memory
When I was a young child
about five to seven years of age.
I noticed the neighbour's trees
were dirty and sooty and black.
Black with smoke chimney coal dust.
The bark was ugly dirty and black
the leaves were ugly dirty and black.
And barely green if at all in most places,
except a little on the side facing the sun.
The sun I saw as a beautiful yellow light.
Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were really tall shrubs, but I was but still
a young child, with much to learn in this world,
ruled by mean men. Magic and the elfin language,
still danced like sparkling stardust in my eyes.
Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were so sad dull black lifeless and ugly.
I took a bright yellow lively house paint.
And painted the trees yellow bright golden yellow,
in all sad places I could short armed easily reach.
But I also got paint on my hands face clothes.
In my wonderful joy I got paint on my clothes.
My apparently best going to town best clothes.
My mother punished me for painting the trees.
And the leaves a bright joyous yellow colour.
For making a small part
of this dull adult world.
A golden magical shinning
bright fairy glade place.
For painting making a small part
of this dull adult fading world.
A golden orb magical shinning
bright mystical fairy glade place.
For trying to make the tired
world a better magical place.
Thus were childhood dreamers
often beaten into submission.
By those who failed to see
the divine presence in dreams.
By those who failed to see
the magical sparkle in dreams.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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To My New Neighbors
on this morning chat
she says she will be arriving on time
for the halloween
she will be lighting candles for her dead parents
and other relatives of this old town
offer them flowers and prayers that she can muster
she will be bringing her middle child
who starts to write his poems in his notebook
she tells me he is the silent type
the one who can thrive without a conversation
she shifts the topic about the color of the rails of her new house
the verandah is not pink now, it is painted white
and she is asking what flowers fit into the picture
i suggest the bougainvillas, the flowering ones already
sold in the nearby farm by an old lady
she is excited, she will be having us, as neighbors finally
our fence shall be a line of daisies
our yard evergreen, our trees shall be the ones with
perfume: the champacas and the ylang-ylangs
and expectedly, there will be a lot of laughter and
nice conversations of cultured and educated people
whose sense of morality would be high
the chat is quite long, and i decided i have to end it.
i have still other poems inside my mind.Unwritten.
What bothers me, and for which i am really interested
is the poetry of his middle child. I like someone who writes
like me. And i do not need a lot of conversations too.
i like my silence. I love the talk inside my silence.
I will burst.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seasons......
Spring brings joy and revival
The world is filled with freshness,
Sprinkle and sparkle glimpse
Sky gets painted with Rainbow;
Summer is bright and colourful
Bright yellow flowers bloom afresh,
Summer has arrived with fullness,
White, yellow, red, orange and blue;
Autumn is dusty and dry
Withering and falling old leaves,
Autumn is setting in fast
Old decay for new to arise;
Winter is cool and blissful,
Snow is pleasant surprise,
Everything is painted white,
Soon it shall melt to make way;
The cycle of Seasons goes on,
World changes with its mood.
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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I threw my arms about those shoulders
M.B.
I threw my arms about those shoulders, glancing
at what emerged behind that back,
and saw a chair pushed slightly forward,
merging now with the lighted wall.
The lamp glared too bright to show
the shabby furniture to some advantage,
and that is why sofa of brown leather
shone a sort of yellow in a corner.
The table looked bare, the parquet glossy,
the stove quite dark, and in a dusty frame
a landscape did not stir. Only the sideboard
seemed to me to have some animation.
But a moth flitted round the room,
causing my arrested glance to shift;
and if at any time a ghost had lived here,
he now was gone, abandoning this house.
poem by Joseph Brodsky
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Time Is A Revealer
that early morning when the dews
are pearls on the leaves
you appear
as a lovely brown woman with tight skin
too naive even for a white rose
more innocent than twilight
i was speechless like the grass
i was sprawled and all of me looked up
the coming of the skies
the sun comes up like a chariot of fire
that is how they name what god was there
i am amazed with what is going on
someone is riding on a horse and charging
someone is taken away but not crying
someone says, well, this is nothing but a circus
there is no abduction since the beloved was too willing
to be taken as a hostage of ecstasy
then there is the time for surrender
the white rose wilted and all its petals lay crushed on the grass
i was the grass sprawled on the sun
the skies all shut
the chariot pass that way and the horses fade like a mirage
then you lay there alone
your skin too loose, in fact, hanging on your bones
your teeth are no longer white as pearls
no dews on your lips
you are alone now and you wish for death
meanwhile, there is only darkness there is so much silence
my heart so empty my mouth utters a word
how can i ever forget your name
you too fade like time like a betrayal
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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New Year
WHITE year, white year,
Muffled soft in snow,
A diamond spray whose gems are gone
Before their grace we know,
A crystal-coated spray whose hours
Melt when looked upon,
Hoarfrost stars and hoarfrost flowers,
White year!
Green year, green year,
Sweet with sun and showers,
A windblown spray whose blossoms bright
Are the seven-colored hours,
A dancing spray whose leaves are days,
A spray whose leaves delight
In azure gleam and silver haze,
Green year!
New Year, new year
From rosy leaf to gold,
A shining spray on the Tree of Time
Where myriad sprays unfold,
A spray so fair that God may see
And gather it, bloom and rime,
To deck the doors of Eternity,
New Year!
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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October's Bright Blue Weather
O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;
When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And goldenrod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fingers tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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On the open plain (Catena Rondo)
Some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds,
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun;
on this earth so it's been since time begun,
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds,
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun
they rejoice over a day that is new
are fresh with the glistening morning dew;
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun
they rejoice over a day that is new
as bees and butterflies flutter along
birds do sing the happiest kind of song
they rejoice over a day that is new,
as bees and butterflies flutter along
wild deer graze at the soft tender green grass
while they in massive herds do slowly pass
as bees and butterflies flutter along
wild deer graze at the soft tender green grass
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds
grow to strength in a world full of big weeds,
wild deer graze at the soft tender green grass,
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds,
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun;
on this earth so it's been since time begun,
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds.
poem by Gert Strydom
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March Of Time
Hours of lust, hours of tears passing by before my eyes
Today, tomorrow, yesterday. . .one life
Days of joy, day of sadness come and go to pass me by
A month, a year, one hundred years, they fly
Bridge: ohh, one day I will be gone to lead another life
Ohh, and this world will stop to turn around with me
cause
Chorus: time. . .marches
Time. . .marches
On without us all, never stops, yes
Time. . .marches
Time. . .marches
On and on and on, flies eternally
Times of peace, times of fights, constant movement is our life
Cant stop no more, not until. . .we die
We long for more. . .eternity, and maybe theres another life
This one is short, no matter how you try
Bridge: ohh, but never give up all the hope to lead a good life
No, dont waste your given time to make things worse
Chorus: time. . .marches
Time. . .marches
One without us all, never stops, yes
Time. . .marches
Time. . .marches
On and on and on, flies eternally
Plese, please help me see, the best way to be
Make a change and we, live eternally
No more wasted years, no more wasted tears
Lifes too short to cry, long enough to try
Chorus: time. . .marches
Time. . .marches
On without us all, never stops, yes
Time. . .marches
Time. . .marches
On and on and on, flies eternally
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dat Gal o' Mine
Skin as black an' jes as sof' as a velvet dress,
Teeth as white as ivory —well dey is I guess.
Eyes dat's jes as big an' bright as de evenin' star;
An' dat hol' some sort o' light lublier by far.
Hair don't hang 'way down her back; plaited up in rows;
Wid de two en's dat's behin' tied wid ribben bows.
Han's dat raly wuz'n made fu' hard work. I'm sho';
Got a little bit o' foot; weahs a numbah fo'.
You jes oughtah see dat gal Sunday's w'en she goes
To de Baptis' meetin' house, dressed in her bes' clo'es.
W'en she puts her w'ite dress on an' othah things so fine;
Now, Su', don't you know I'm proud o' dat gat o' mine.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Primrose
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole--
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks--
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the flange of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree--
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes--
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Sunlight on white paint. For the New Year.
The house across the way is newly painted white.
Right now, that’s all my being seems to need:
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,
the morning sunlight pours across white paint;
contains a thousand messages, in me
interpreted.. or simply left to be..
this moment, that’s as much as being craves:
this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..
even as I write, I watch the sun’s
white paint brush move across the house’s front
and tell the eye of reason that this world
is turning, basking, in this morning sun;
already sparkling on the Bondi waves
as if the world had just been washed anew;
cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal
as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty;
Italian villa forecourts just hosed down,
the air all fresh to meet the warming day;
the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now,
will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew;
as every carefree holiday yourself
recall, as proof eternal of pure soul..
and here - the witness of my silent mind
needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find
its very self, this moment without taint:
immortal sunlight shining on white paint.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Paint It
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they are painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens every day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and its heading into black
Maybe then Ill fade away and not have to face the facts
Its not easy facing up when your whole world is black
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I wanna see it painted, painted black, oh
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted from the sky
Painted, painted, painted black oh baby
Painted painted, painted black
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bright Colors
bright colors hang
on a horizontal pole
a white bench a red
pail and purple clouds
yellow sand black
sea grass and lavender
shadows umbrellas
on alternate orange and
white and saffron and
yellow green and crimson
blue sea with white foams
escape from a shrinking world
to the sea breeze and solitude
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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