California Landscape
Up close, the hills are tan.
Veins of dark oak fold to ridge
where cows graze, ensnared
by the glare of mid-summer’s day.
Can you see how the wind ripples in
tawny waves rising to where falcons wait
watching for motion only they can see?
But beyond the golden ridge
indigo mountains rise
to pure blue of absolute sky.
You’ll see no movement there,
though I’ve heard how bounding deer
will pause and scan the darker shades -
and, hearing piercing cries, will tensely fly
away from the famished lion’s
flashing eyes.
poem by Steven Federle
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Ive Been All Around This World
Up on the blue ridge mountains, there Ill take my stand.
Up on the blue ridge mountains, there Ill take my stand.
A rifle on my shoulder, six shooter in my hand;
Oh lord, I been all around this world.
Lulu, my lulu come and open the door.
Lulu, my lulu come and open the door.
Before I have to walk in with my old forty-four.
Oh lord, I been all around this world.
Mama and papa, little sister makes three.
Mama and papa, little sister makes three.
Theyre comin in the mornin; thats the last youll see of me.
Oh lord, I been all around this world.
Hang me, oh, hang me, so Ill be dead and gone.
Hang me, oh, hang me, so Ill be dead and gone.
I wouldnt mind your hangin, boys but you wait in jail so long.
Oh lord, I been all around this world.
Up on the blue ridge mountains, there Ill take my stand.
Up on the blue ridge mountains, there Ill take my stand.
A rifle on my shoulder, six shooter in my hand;
Oh lord, I been all around this world.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How white and level the plain
How white and level the plain
That stretches to the sea-ridge
The sea-ridge beyond which
The sea roars in and out
And laps against the giant rocks
This night.
I startle - the moon’s light
Which I thought feeble --
Clearly the plain before me lights
And the dark bosom of the sea
Entering and going silver shines
When the moon-rays with the dark waves commix
This night.
No sound save for my steps and the sea’s waves
And here and there a few cool gusts of wind.
No-body save for me - the rest so silent is:
The temples high above in black silhouette
Rise like pointed turrets to the sky
In silent draped and in dress funereal
I walk, I think, I look at the seas,
Tears come to my eyes and fall and fall
This night.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy
From a shack by a mountain stream
To a room in new orleans
So far from my blue ridge mountain home
The men I meet aint warm and friendly
Like the one in old virginie
Oh they aint real like my blue ridge mountain boy
I was just a little past eighteen
When I came to new orleans
Id never been beyond my home state line
There was a boy who loved me dearly
But I broke his heart severely
When I left my blue ridge mountain boy
Life was dull in my hometown
Lights were out when the sun went down
And I thought that city life was more my style
But nights get lonely away from home
And its easy to go wrong
The men aint kind like my blue ridge mountain boy
New orleans held things in store
Things Id never bargained for
And every night a different man knocks on my door
But late at night when all is still
I can hear a whippoorwill
As I cry for my blue ridge mountain boy
Oh but I can never go back home
Since the boy I love is gone
He grew tired of waiting for me to return
They say he married last october
But I never will get over
Oh the sweet love of my blue ridge mountain boy
Blue ridge mountain boy
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Green Hills
Green hills,
embroidered
mist, rich
rising ridge
fog filled
plunging fields
cattle,
black, weightless
rise poised
from bare bank
grazing
the grass of
heaven
poem by Steven Federle
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Storm on Hunter Hill
Pure line
slopes skyward
massive, dry,
creased clusters
cast-rock,
hard shale,
till crevasses,
small streams, fill with rain,
increase to flash-flood
greedy hands
grab pebbles, haul branches,
crashing to the road
below.
The rain wants it all down,
to sink it into the sea,
level proud mountains,
make all things
equal,
but the rising line flows
to a distant ridge
where dark oaks
hold out
for hard, blue
day.
poem by Steven Federle
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Deer Hunt
Because the warden is my cousin, my
mountain friends hunt in summer, when the deer
cherish each rattler-ridden spring, and I
have waited hours by a pool in fear
that manhood would require I shoot, or that
the steady drip of the hill would dull my ear
to a snake whispering near the log I sat
upon, and listened to the yelping cheer
of dogs and men resounding ridge to ridge.
I flinched at every lonely rifle crack,
my knuckles whitening where I gripped the edge
of age and clung, like retching, sinking back
then gripping once again the monstrous gun,
since I, to be a man, had taken one.
poem by Judson Jerome
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Before the Squall
The wind is rising on the sea,
The windy white foam-dancers leap;
And the sea moans uneasily,
And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.
Ridge after rocky ridge uplifts,
Wild hands, and hammers at the land,
Scatters in liquid dust, and drifts
To death among the dusty sand.
On the horizon's nearing line,
Where the sky rests, a visible wall,
Grey in the offing, I divine,
The sails that fly before the squall.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Krishnakali
In the village they call her the dark girl
but to me she is the flower Krishnakali
On a cloudy day in a field
I saw the dark girl's dark gazelle-eyes.
She had no covering on her head,
her loose hair had fallen on her back.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelleeyes.
Two black cows were lowing,
as it grew dark under the heavy clouds.
So with anxious, hurried steps,
the dark girl came from her hut.
Raising her eyebrows toward the sky,
she listened a moment to the clouds' rumble.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
A gust of the east wind
rippled the rice plants.
I was standing by a ridge,
alone in the field.
Whether or not she looked at me
Is known only to us two.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
This how the Kohldark cloud
rises in the northeast in Jaistha;
the soft dark shadow
descends on the Tamal grove in Asharh;
and sudden delight floods the heart
in the night of Sravan.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
To me she is the flower Krishnakali,
whatever she may be called by others.
In a field in Maynapara village
I saw the dark girl's dark gazelle-eyes.
She did not cover her head,
not having the time to feel embarrassed.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Sky's New DayDress
Almost everything is turning pink now,
Under the light of the rising sun.
The sky which was cloaked in its evening gown
Is now changing for its morning dress
Made of blue, white and gold.
In doing so, the sky shifts colors,
As if he waves to us his majestic cape.
The walls of the buildings start to lighten,
which means the sun was coming
To embrace the sky with its golden, shining warmth.
And now the sky's dress sways along
With his dance of grace
In such slow, yet exhilarating tempo.
Black turns Navy Blue.
Navy steps down to Indigo.
Indigo swirls around to Violet Sky.
Violet Sky waltzes into Periwinkle.
And now I wait for that final bow,
Wherein the greatest spectacle is shown.
When Periwinkle bows and leaves the dance floor,
Cornflower Blue shall enter to dance
With the sun
And the clouds,
All on the Sky's daydress.
poem by Armmina Liberté Maclang
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The Curlew Song
The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees,
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world,
And the shadows sleep around,
Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon
In her hazy glory crowned;
While dingoes howl, and wake the growl
Of the watchdog brave and true;
Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Whose loud, rough bark
Shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Near herby banks the dark green ranks
Of the rushes stoop to drink;
And the ripples chime, in a measured time,
On the smooth and mossy brink;
As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die,
To start from the swamps anew,
And join again o'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
And join again
O'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
The clouds are thrown around the cone
Of the mountain bare and high,
(Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek -
To the face of the sombre sky)
When down beneath the foggy wreath,
Full many a gully through,
They rend the air, like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
They rend the air,
Like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees;
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
poem by Henry Kendall
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At The Station Of The Versailles Railway
I WAITED for the train unto Versailles.
I hung with bonnes and gamins on the bridge
Watching the gravelled road where, ridge with ridge,
Under black arches gleam the iron rails
Clear in the darkness, till the darkness fails
And they press on to light again—again
To reach the dark. I waited for the train
Unto Versailles; I leaned over the bridge,
And wondered, cold and drowsy, why the knave
Claude is in worship; and why (sense apart)
Rubens preferred a mustard vehicle.
The wind veered short. I turned upon my heel
Saying, “Correggio was a toad”; then gave
Three dizzy yawns, and knew not of the Art.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Exploring Those Adventures
I have not witnessed the Scottish Pine,
With branches crooked as those
Of the Oak or Maple trees.
Or the bark of Birch,
Like that of the Palm.
I am not mesmerized,
By ripples made on a Pond.
As much as I am by waves...
During low and/or high tides.
Sand Dunes of Cape Cod,
Are striking when first seen.
Although the beaches,
Sweep breezes across the waters...
Much like they do on South Padre Island,
And Key West!
While watching the flight of Seagulls...
Fish then come to rest.
Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco.
The color of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The blue sky above the floating pink clouds,
In the early morning sunrise...
Lifting after dawn!
Hearing the clang of trolley cars.
Climbing steep hills,
In clean crisp air!
I often feel it...
As if I'm still there.
The sunsets I like the best,
Seem to be those in San Antonio!
And yet...
When I am at home,
Reminiscing times I miss...
As I witness the snowflakes drift,
From my bedroom window...
Alone in Connecticut.
I select from memories I cherish,
With you and me...
Happy to be together.
Exploring those adventures...
As our eyes close to kiss,
Each other's lips!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Beauty Of A Summer's Day
The beauty of a Summer's day begins
Watching the bright, morning sun rise,
Dew upon the lawn and roses,
And the early flight of colorful butterflies.
The beauty of a Summer's day
Is an attractive and picturesque one,
A sky of a variable color of pale to light blue,
And sport and entertainment for everyone.
The beauty of a Summer's day
Is stetched with green foliage on the hill,
And colorful wildflowers bordering the roadway,
The water wheel turning at the grist mill.
The beauty of a Summer's day increases
Watching the rolling waves of the ocean,
Sea shells washing upon the sandy shore,
And gazing at the sea gulls gliding in slow motion.
The finality of a Summer's day
Is depicted with memorable scenes
Of picnicking, camping, swimming, and traveling,
Reserved for Summer enthusiasts for future dreams.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Wind Rising in The Alleys
Wind rising in the alleys
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unspent dreams….
You are laden with beginnings….
There is hope in you… not sweet… acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths,
Wind rising in the alleys,
Carrying stuff of flame.
poem by Lola Ridge
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The Wild Hills
Fly me across the wild hills in autumn,
With soft amber shades, brown, russet and brick,
Peach, copper and bronze all blending together,
A carpet of sadness, in this sight so tragic.
Fly me across the wild hills in winter,
With amethyst shades, puce, purple and grey,
Blue, ebony and pewter, all fusing together,
A carpet of starkness, in this scene of decay.
Fly me across the wild hills in springtime,
With pale emerald shades, sage, olive and lime,
White, yellow and silver, all mingling together,
A carpet of lushness, in this new view sublime.
Fly me across the wild hills in summer,
With magenta bright shades, pink, dark mauve and red,
Lemon, orange and gold all in harmony together,
A carpet of richness, in this panorama spread.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Look At A Pit
Take another look over that ridge
see that there is no more hope bridge
what about the other side
where the storm was that one time u had to hide
is it gone where is it where is it
am in a pit
so easy to look up nothing down
is the bottom here am i to drown
in this darkness surrounded by light
no one here to hold me tight
console my fear tell me its all ok
just someone to say
something that would make me feel of worth
why is it so dark
this is not the green park
with the cliff that overlooks the ridge
connected by my bridge
where o where is it
there is something tangible here
so dark i have tangible fear
poem by David Knox
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Wheels Are Turning
Written by gerry beckley and dewey bunnell, 1998
Found on human nature.
Albuquerque will be there in the morning
Purple mountains will rise up from the floor
After that you can just lift up the curtain
And the whole world will be there at your door
Down the road you see the heat waves a waving
All the signs are telling you where to go
And for you, this is a bold invitation
Its all you need, you dont need any more
Those wheels are turning once again
Now the sun is rising out of the ocean
Diesel trucks are flying by on the shore
Yes thats your spirit inside you just waiting
Its time to move, now that much you must know
Step outside and take a breath of the morning (step outside the door)
And the wind will tell you which way to go
You are the needle on the compass for certain
The missing map has come back to your door
Those wheels are turning once again
Thunder in the canyon waking up the night (waking up the night)
Black crow with an indigo glow on the highway
Albuquerque will be there in the morning
Purple mountains will rise up from the floor
After that you can just lift up that curtain
And the whole world will be there at your door
Those wheels are turning once again
Thunder in the canyon waking up the night (waking up the night)
Black crow with an indigo glow on the highway
Barking in the canyon waking up the night
Black crow with an indigo glow on the highway
Those wheels are turning once again
Theyve always been your truest friend
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bloody fields of Wheogo
The moon rides high in a starry sky,
And, through the midnight gloom,
A faery scene of woodland green
Her silver rays illume.
Dark mountains show a ridge of snow
Against the deep blue sky,
And a winding stream with sparkling gleam
Flows merrily murmuring by.
Not a sound is heard, save a bough when stirred
By the night-wind's moaning sigh,
Or, piercing and shrill, echoed back by the hill,
A curlew's mournful cry.
And twinkling bright in the shadowy night
A lonely taper shines,
And seated there is a wanton fair
Who in amorous sadness pines.
For her lord is gone, and she sits alone,
Alone in her mountain home!
But 'twas not her lord that she deplored,
For she liked to see him roam.
The joy in her heart is a bushranger smart
Who, lion-like, prowls in the night;
And with supper all spread, and a four-post bed,
She waits by the flickering light.
Equipped for fight, in trappings bright,
Came a band of warriors there,
By gallant Sir Fred right gallantly led,
The 'ranger to seize in a snare.
They spread all around, and the house they surround,
Nine men with revolver and gun;
"A reward's on his head!" cried the gallant Sir Fred,
"And we're nine to the bushranger's one!"
Still gleamed the light in the shades of the night,
And still the pale moon shone;
But no 'ranger came to cheer the dame
As she sat by the window alone.
The warriors bold were freezing with cold,
And wished they were in their beds,
When the echoing beat of a horse's feet
Sent the blood in a rush to their heads!
At gentle speed on a snow-white steed
And singing a joyous song
To the beckoning light in the shadowy night
The bushranger rides along.
A stalwart man was he to scan
And flushed with ruffian pride;
In many a fray he had won the day
And the "New Police" defied.
Up started then Sir Fred and his men
With cocked carbines in hand
And called aloud to the 'ranger proud
On pain of death to "stand".
But the 'ranger proud, he laughed aloud,
And bounding rode away,
While Sir Frederick Pott shut his eyes for a shot
And missed - in his usual way.
His troopers then like valiant men
With their carbines blazed away.
The whistling lead on its mission sped,
But whither, none can say.
The snow-white steed at a gentle speed
Bore the 'ranger from their view
And left Sir Fred to return to bed -
There was nothing else to do.
But Sir Frederick Pott with rage was hot
As he looked at his warriors eight.
They were nine to one, with revolver and gun!
He cursed his luckless fate.
He shuddered to think how his glory would sink
When the country heard of the mess
And the tale was told of his exploits bold
In the columns of the press.
In fury then he marched his men
To the home of the wanton fair
With warlike din they entered in
To search and ransack there.
In slumber sound a boy they found,
And brave Sir Frederick said;
"By a flash in the pan we missed the man,
So we'll take the boy instead!"
poem by Anonymous Oceania
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Sea Song of the Exiles
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Farewell, white cot whence the ripe grapes fall,
Gold blooms that bask on the mossy wall!
Dear land, farewell!
Hill, plain, and dell!
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Farewell, betrothed, with the pure, pale brow;
'Neath sombre heaven dark billows we plough.
Dear land, farewell!
In thee our loves dwell;
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Our eyes, whose tears all brightness blot,
Leave the dark wave for a darker lot!
Dear land, farewell!
In our heart's a knell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Aerodrome
So now the aerodrome goes up
Upon my father's fields,
And gone is all the golden crop
And all the pleasant yields.
They tear the trees up, branch and root,
They kill the hedges green,
As though some force, malign and brute,
Ravaged the peace serene.
There where he used to sit and gaze
With blue and quiet eyes,
Watching his comely cattle graze,
The walls begin to rise.
What place for robin or for wren,
For thrush and blackbird's call?
Now there shall be but flying men
Nor any bird at all.
'Twas well he did not stay to know,
Defaced and all defiled
The quiet fields of long ago,
Dear to him as a child.
But when the tale was told to me
I felt such piercing pain,
They tore my heart up with the tree
That will not leaf again.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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