Towards the hatch
veils are those days
mists at dawn
foggy afternoons
soft white blankets
at night on the
mountains far from
the city lights
eggshell as white as
as the purity of fear
on an albumin protection
the yellow moon slowly
grows
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lightning
Its crazy but often clear
But often clear
We shimmer and disappear
In color, in black and white
Black and white
We slowly fade out of sight
But these days were lit by lightning
These lights all were white
Its crazy but somehow clear
Somehow clear
We ride in silence out of fear
We spoke and soon come alive
Come alive
We prefer the silence of the blind
But these days were lit by lightning
These lights all were white
These days were lit by lightning
Of sharp,light,sharp,white,light,hard,good,white
Were crazy but often kind
Often kind
Enrage and in violence blind
You gather, and that alone
That alone
We race in small circles home
But these days were lit by lightning
These lights are were white
These days were lit by lightning
Of sharp, white, light
These days were lit by lightning
These lights are were white
These days were lit by light
song performed by by Counting Crows
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Surrounded
One foggy day, one foggy night,
no sun, nor moon to give us light.
An opaque mist steals over all,
not see-through, just an eerie sprawl
of candy floss. Such tones of white,
lingering like a odious blight.
One foggy dawn, one foggy chill,
there is no warmth, temperature nil.
It’s closing in, and firmly wrapped,
no sign of lift, one’s feeling trapped
here in our world. Sits, silent, still,
trespassing of its own free will.
One foggy land, one foggy scene,
no view to see where one has been.
Nothing in front, nothing behind,
just a place where one is confined,
surrounded by one vast smokescreen,
clear small oasis in between.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Snow storm
Snow was drifting down,
falling on people in the street
like soft powder from the sky.
A chilly wind blew
from the Drakensberg mountains
and around me it was white
and fresh.
Every thing was clear
and white clinging to shapes
that man put there.
Traffic lights brightly blinked yellow,
red and green
like one eyed Cyclops’s topped in white
with cables feeding
thunder and lightning to them
and I felt like Zeus
while I walked away
into the new white world
and the white started to cover me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Red Lights
Red lights - on the highway
Headlights - blinding my eye
Red lights - keep me waiting
White lights - drive me insane
Red lights - in the city
Streetlights - high in the night
Searchlights - Im looking for someone
Red lights - young bloods alright
Try as I can but (? )
I cant keep away
No no no no way
Red lights - she knows what Im here for
Headlights - look me in the eye
Red lights - are you looking for danger
White lights - drives me insane
Try as I can but (? )
I cant keep away
No no no, not for one day
Red lights - no questions
Streetlights c youths desire(? )
Red lights - burning desire
White lights c put you to bed (? )
Red lights- in the city
Streetlights - shadow the night
Sunshine - if you need some one
Headlights - that young bloods alright
Try as I can but (? )
I cant keep away
Not today
She brings me to my knees
Try as I can but (? )
I cant keep away
I want you babe(? )
Red lights - oh, I want you
Red lights - I need it
Red lights - you get too heavy
Red lights
song performed by by Uriah Heep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Winter Freedom
Freedom across all oceans and skies
Looking through a window into white
Into a glassy, cold terrain
I see my winter freedom
Into the mountains and pass the bare trees
I see my winter freedom
Pass the snow white roads and trees full of mysteries
Comes the joy of the first snow
The innocent breeze across your face
The endless walk into the night
Gazing across the sky at the night’s moon
To the morning sun across the horizon
Reflecting off the glassy ice and foggy mountain tops
Seeing and breathing in the first days of winter
But mostly…
Believing
In the wonders and joys of
Your Winter Freedom
poem by Rachel Pedroza
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Night was coming
Night was coming
with a piercing huge orange sun
breaking through
white and black clouds
in the west.
It found a gap
and the sun was hanging
like a orange ball
above the street
and it was blinding.
Cars passed barely visible
above the orange glare
and some had already
turned their lights on.
The sun dipped down
below some trees
and for a time
it glowed behind them
and soon it would be dark
and the first stars
were already appearing
and a full yellow moon
was rising,
but below bright lights
was already burning
right across the city
in colours of amber
streetlights
green, yellow and red
traffic lights,
blue lights flashing
on police cars
and almost every bright colour
caught on neon signs
while people came and went
to different destinations
some smiling and relaxed,
others in a hurry
and some others
locked in a world of their own.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Window
All night long, by a distant bell,
The passing hours were notched
On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell,
And the spark of life I watched
In her face was glowing or fading, -- who could tell? --
And the open window of the room,
With a flare of yellow light,
Was peering out into the gloom,
Like an eye that searched the night.
Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do you fear?
"I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear:
Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in the night-wind's breath,
And low in the leafy laurels the larking shadow of death."
Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird
Told of the passing away
Of the dark, -- and my darling may have heard;
For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray
Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word,
Till the splendor born in the east outburned
The yellow lamplight, pale and thin,
And the open window slowly turned
To the eye of the morning, looking in.
Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes you so bright?
"I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and white,
With the rose of life on her tips, and the breath of life in her breast,
And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes her rest."
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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A Beautiful Morning Begins
I must paint this scene a surely pleasure for all to see,
My pallet full and canvas white let me think of what’s so bright,
I’ll crown the hills mauve’n’white with yellow gleam,
Thru triple shades of dancing green
Sketching silhouettes gliding so high in the sky,
Who sing and call a new day is nigh as,
An owl’s eye’s blink, close and settle to sleep,
As the distant cock crows to earn his keep.
A dash of dew on petals of a rose,
To twinkle joy to dry that grows,
My brush for wind instills natures
glow
Helping footless tree’s sway too and frow.
A master stroke to portray nature’s potent night worker still,
As he leaves his web to a leafy hill,
I’ll thin this early morning mist as deer emerge,
From the deep forest glades to the grassland verge,
Now to catch this blazing golden yellow dawn,
For the sun is slowly showing his shining face,
Well I’ll be, it’s shaming the moon to hide the morn,
Radiating now, warmth and life for all the new born.
poem by Ken e Hall
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A Morning Awakening
A diamond of a morning din and city cars
I was waken from a dreadful dream; too early, abruptly soon
By then dawn had un shelved the sky from the flickering stars
Just left the stubborn faint, stark white moon
Oh drifting white pale moon forlorn and lonely
As me, abandoned by my love the night before
You have been left for me to watch one and only
Her slaying eyes I am still not tired to admire and to adore
The White City
I'm in the white city.
A dense fog
Disintegrates all my hopes.
There are people dreaming
Of nonexistent worlds,
There are disoriented people
Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.
There are lights turning on and off so erratically
In this white city.
There are hidden screams in the night
Covered by the heavy rain sounds,
That rain falling continuously
And monotonously.
In this white city,
The victims
Don't understand that they are victims yet.
There are flowers,
There are fast food kiosks,
There are botanical gardens,
With beautiful exotic trees,
And there are horror movies in the theaters.
As shadows emerging from the fog
Are the lost steps.
There are steps searching each other,
And there are steps that are separated forever.
The rain's sounds
Vibrate the eye of the windows,
Vibrate the burial stones,
Vibrate the dreams,
Those dreams
About better days.
Apparently,
Someone screams
In the white mist of the night.
Maybe he's the victim of an aggression,
Or maybe he's someone, who has lost his love.
Maybe it's just an echo...
I'm in the white city
And I'm searching for you in the darkness...
poem by Marieta Maglas
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CIcada's Song
That fog at dusk can almost be heard,
As heavy as the thundering of a bass drum.
Night birds beat their wings as gracefully as
A dancer would, with agility
Beneath the light of
Venus…
Listen to the sounds of the
Cicadas calling in the midday or their
Chanting in the twilight while their plaintive tune resonates throughout the forest-
Dewdrops decorate the surface of the ground and
Only angels can truly see rain in the dead of the night.
Dark days or dismal afternoons,
Foggy and overcast as a sorcerer’s nightmare-
Only the downpours of tears bring universal sorrow-
Rain or tears, the same, never ending …
Naiads weep with the full moon at midnight, for
The rain won’t cease to pour and their tears-
They just keep on falling, to mingle with the moisture
That blankets the surface of the earth-
Sky lightening illuminates the heavens as thunder claps.
God is wakening, opening the skies.
Cicadas carry on
With their cacophonous, though
Dolorous and melodious song, as
The moon disappears behind the mountains,
The rain ceases to fall and the sun rises and
Nature weeps her silent tears of joy.
Fog tip-toes behind the thicket, and
Disappears past the horizon while the
World dances in blissful wakefulness…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Tiger
The city is a jungle, you better take care
Never walk alone after midnight
If you dont believe it you better beware
Of me
I am behind you, Ill always find you, I am the tiger
People who fear me never go near me, I am the tiger
The city is a nightmare, a horrible dream
Some of us will dream it forever
Look around the corner and try not to scream
Its me
I am behind you, Ill always find you, I am the tiger
People who fear me never go near me, I am the tiger
Yellow eyes are glowing like the neon lights
Yellow eyes, the spotlights of the city nights
I am behind you, Ill always find you, I am the tiger
People who fear me never go near me, I am the tiger
The city is a prison, you never escape
Youre forever trapped in the alleys
Look into the shadows and youll see the shape
Of me
I am behind you, Ill always find you, I am the tiger
People who fear me never go near me, I am the tiger
Yellow eyes are glowing like the neon lights
Yellow eyes, the spotlights of the city nights
I am behind you, Ill always find you, I am the tiger
People who fear me never go near me, I am the tiger
And if I meet you, what if I eat you, I am the tiger
I am behind you, Ill always find you, I am the tiger
Tiger, tiger, tiger!
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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A Portrait
LIKE the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawn
Is her dainty way;
Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawn
Are her eyes of gray;
Like the clouds in their moving white
Is her breast's soft stir;
And white as the moon and bright
Is the soul of her.
Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green,
Like the voice of a bird
That sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen,
So her voice is heard.
And the secret her eyes withhold
In my soul abides,
For white as the moon and cold
Is the heart she hides.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Mists Of The Mountain
we sit here facing the mists of
the mountains
this November as we escape
city life
we catch a glimpse of who we are
what we really are
the mists slowly fade away and we stop
to ponder
we exhale we inhale we taste a moment
of life
we feel a little of death
we prepare for the next step
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shouting words down the sidewalk while watching the moon
Moon beams!
pouring out light like streams of crystal
onto black ice cracked streets!
There are no birds
tonight
Hello Moon!
white
yellow
epiphany that shed form
Circumference of sky
falls sweetly into the arms
of the moon
and I walk
back down the sidewalk
to a home I hardly know
& to a home- soon I see
the Sky is waiting infront of me
and that is the home
that I know!
Goodnight
white
yellow
Moon!
poem by Steven Adelman
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The Foggy Dew
A splendid place is London, with golden store,
For them that have the heart and hope and youth galore;
But mournful are its streets to me, I tell you true,
For I'm longing sore for Ireland in the foggy dew.
The sun he shines all day here, so fierce and fine,
With never a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine;
The sun he shines all day here from skies of blue:
He hides his face in Ireland in the foggy dew.
The maids go out to milking in the pastures gray,
The sky is green and golden at dawn of the day;
And in the deep-drenched meadows the hay lies new,
And the corn is turning yellow in the foggy dew.
Mavrone ! if I might feel now the dew on my face,
And the wind from the mountains in that remembered place,
I'd give the wealth of London, if mine it were to do,
And I'd travel home to Ireland and the foggy dew.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Moonlight Sestina
While reading Li Po, I fall
Asleep, and dream of the moon
My body lies on white
Cool sheets, flooded in a pool
Of moonlight. Lost in a dream
I lie in light, floating.
Like a full moon floating
On waves, I feel the fall
And rise, the tide of these dream
Currents. Closer, the moon
Approaches to my pool
Of flesh, shining me white.
From the glare of waxing white,
Gauze curtains – breeze floating -
Shield this rippling pool,
Become a waterfall,
And break the mirror moon-
Light through wet prisms, I dream.
Is this Shechinah? my dream
Self asks. At once the cold white
Chills me to ice. The moon
Swells until it's a floating
City, waiting to fall -
Atlantis – in the pool.
I yearn to be that pool
Skin, transparent as dream.
Instead I fear the moon fall:
I cannot part the white
Sea of thighs, Still floating
Whole, I cry to the moon:
“I am not ready, Moon”
Silence shimmers my pool,
But brightness fades, Floating
Away. Then from the dream
I emerge, weeping white
Tears that shine like star-fall.
Li Po's moon plunge sank dream
Deep. Whirlpool of lunar white
Drowns us; floating, we fall.
poem by Lillian Susan Thomas
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Early Works - Misty City
City’s lights like dotted jewels
glow and blink on night’s velvet gown
mist of white blanket
creates ghostly shapes under light.
Foghorn in bay like monster’s roar
breaks silence in the city’s white crown
people, collars hugging neck
wander on their forever trek.
Quiet cities, misty city,
city by the bay,
listen to the monster baying
at your open door.
“Let us in. Let us in.” they say
and blares another trumpet blast.
“Let us in. Let us in.”.
Your white guardian to pass.
Sleeping city, misty city,
city with halo crown
people in their pastures lay
arms unfurled on bodies round.
Silent demands on shadows lay
across the still waters of the bay.
Ghostly crown holds no pity
welcomes no one to the misty city.
15 June 1978
poem by David Harris
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A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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