En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Trees of Darkness

The trees of darkness are tall, wise and livid with rage,
A cheese slice is covering our eyes then the tree-cage.
Black trees are not yellow, red and orange
But the slice of fun moved like a lunge.
I plunge into leaves of Autumn, faults of time,
Carrying my food with my mouth and crime.
Trees grow forward in time, and we shall be divine
In different places, diverse views are taken to align.
Dark places will spoil the view and place,
But why do some people define this space?

poem by Naveed Akram
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Wonderful World

(d. fletcher / m. flett)
This is a wonderful day
Its as bright as a days ever been
There is a big yellow sun looking down
On a wonderful scene
Up in the blue sky birds fly
And sing our cares away
And out of each throat each note
Greets a wonderful day
There is the sound of a symphony
Carried along on the breeze
Even the flowers are swaying in time
With the leaves on the trees
Heaven is found right here on the earth
It surrounds us in the wonderful things all around
In this wonderful wonderful
Wonderful wonderful world
This is a wonderful day
Its as bright as a days ever been
There is a big yellow sun looking down
On a wonderful scene
Heaven is found right here on the earth
It surrounds us in the wonderful things all around
In this wonderful wonderful
Wonderful wonderful world
Wonderful world, this wonderful world
Wonderful world, this wonderful world
Wonderful world, this wonderful world

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Abstract painting

My eyes fall on an abstract painting
of which my girlfriend,
wants to paint a series
that may hang in board halls
and offices.

There’s something hot and alive
in the background
that changes from golden yellow,
to flame orange
and flows into black red
and a green line
runs from the foreground
into the horizon.

With strong straight lines wood,
and sink plate shacks appear
with horizontal and vertical lines
and it looks like a squatter camp,
or the houses of a headman
in the country.

To me it looks like drums and large tin cans
that lies around in the front
and a big old TV set
with sitting places round it
and at the back,
there are two wooden pens
to keep in sheep and goats.

Maybe there’s red sand
on the one side
and yellow and green grass
for grazing on the other side,
but honestly I do not want to stay
in such a place.

[Reference: Abstract painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my mabooki webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1416_An_Abstract_ painting.htm]

poem by Gert Strydom
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In Back of the Real

railroad yard in San Jose
I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.

A flower lay on the hay on
the asphalt highway
--the dread hay flower
I thought--It had a
brittle black stem and
corolla of yellowish dirty
spikes like Jesus' inchlong
crown, and a soiled
dry center cotton tuft
like a used shaving brush
that's been lying under
the garage for a year.

Yellow, yellow flower, and
flower of industry,
tough spiky ugly flower,
flower nonetheless,
with the form of the great yellow
Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.

poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Choose Your Color

I will paint the walls blue
Blue is calm, blue is power
Blue is the color of tranquility
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the ceiling green
Green is healthy, green is peace
Green makes time move faster
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the floor red
Red is fire, red is danger
Red is the symbol of passion
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the sky purple
Purple is sad, purple is gloomy
Purple is the color of romance
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the tree black
Black is fear, black is death
Black is the symbol of grief
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the street yellow
Yellow is happy, yellow is fresh
Yellow is the color of sunshine
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the fence orange
orange is wisdom, orange is wealth
Orange is the color of success
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint everything white
White is good, white is pure
White is the color of faith
Have you seen my colors yet?

(August 16th,2006)

poem by Christopher G. Turner
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The Yellow School Bus

The yellow school bus with the black wheels took sick children to school each day.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether or not the sky was gray.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels went pass three streets and up a hill.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether sunny or chilled.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels always brought a smile to little kids face.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was filled with love and filled with grace.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels kept breathing until that final breath.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was painted red with blood and death.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels and the little sick children were all of friends.
But the now dead children will never take a ride in the yellow school bus again.

poem by RaShawn Ince
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With the smell of turpentine

With the smell of turpentine
and paint in front of the fireplace
you paint magical lines
with blue, green and gold
and I look at you
while brush strokes
like magic make abstract images appear.

The Creator must have looked like this
while He looked at the world
while building it
and I see your golden eyes
looking carefully at the painting
and at times you frown
while you try to draw perfect lines
and light and colour
create magical feelings
and flow into each other
and you build shade and depth.

Gasping for breath lovely are you
while your fingers play with the brush
and there are more than curves and lines
from which your beauty comes.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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You and Yellow Air

YOU, AND YELLOW AIR by John Shaw Neilson
I dream of an old kissing-time
And the flowered follies there;
In the dim place of cherry-trees,
Of you, and yellow air.

It was an age of babbling,
When the players would play
Mad with the wine and miracles
Of a charmed holiday.

Bewildered was the warm earth
With whistling and sighs,
And a young foal spoke all his heart
With diamonds for eyes.

You were of Love's own colour
In eyes and heart and hair;
In the dim place of cherry-trees
Ridden by yellow air.

It was the time when red lovers
With the red fevers burn;
A time of bells and silver seeds
And cherries on the turn.

Children looked into tall trees
And old eyes looked behind;
God in His glad October
No sullen man could find.

Out of your eyes a magic
Fell lazily as dew,
And every lad with lad's eyes
Made summer love to you.

It was a reign of roses,
Of blue flowers for the eye,
And the rustling of green girls
Under a white sky.

I dream of an old kissing-time
And the flowered follies there,
In the dim place of cherry-trees,
Of you, and yellow air.

poem by John Shaw Neilson
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When I was a child[2]

When I was a child
every day was filled with laughter
and even the dogs
and cats talked to me.

The trees were huge
and threw big shadows
while the bright yellow sun
went to rest
and corn fields and orchards
with peaches, apricots and pears
stretched as far
as I could see

The cool breeze whispered
as it blew through the popular trees
and something rippled
in the big dam
that lay like a lake
in front of me
after the good summer rain.

The swollen river was angry
and I could hear its cussing stream
from far away
while it rushed over rocks
at places where it did not flow before.

Once the world was a bigger place
and I loved the world
and it loved me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Another Child Moves On

The flowers in a still life painting never move
The phonograph needle on a record album never leaves the same groove
But in another town in another place
Another child is born to the human race
And another child moves on

We dream a little less each day
We suffer in some new way
Soon we discover a bright new lover
Then realize we were born for demise
As another child dances in front of our eyes
And another child moves on

The flowers in a still life painting never move
The phonograph needle on a record album never leaves the same groove
but in another town, in another place, another child joins the human race
and another child moves on
And when another child moves on
Tell me what is gained when he's gone?
In the great green valley of life
Another death cuts us like a knife

We play baseball in the lights at the park
Discover a new kiss by the moonlit dark
Watch silly shows as the picture tube glows
edit our speech to soothe our friends
Knowing full well how this all ends
And then another child moves on

The flowers in a still life painting never move
The phonograph needle on a record album never leaves the same groove
But in another town in some new place
Another child is born to the human race
And another child moves on

And another child moves on
Tell me who has lost whose won?
A mother sighs and a mother cries
A father merely lowers his eyes
And in another town in another place
A bright smiling child joins the human race
And the whole world smiles along

Beau Golden
1989

poem by Beau Golden
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Dreams on the Hillside

Last night I slept beneath the starry skies
Cloudless, warm, with fireflies
A cool summer breeze brushed over me
And crickets chimed harmoniously
And while I lay on the dark hillside
My world lit up and reality died.

In a field of paper flowers did I stand
In a world with no evil, hate, or reprimand
I looked up and saw lavender clouds curling in the sky
And watched the dragons and fairies fly

Candy grew from every tree and
The sun and moon smiled down at me
Spotted butterflies flittered here and there
While fairies placed red flowers in my hair

And blue wind painted white leaves yellow
While looking up at me was a small and happy fellow
And the teal clouds rained down golden drops of morning dew
That glistened on the green fescue*.

Chocolate bunnies hopped by the brook
So I stopped to take a look
And there I met a humble honeybee
Who kindly offered some cookies and tea

The weeping willows began to sway and shift
Causing glitter to spray from every crack and rift
While rainbows filled the blooming skies
With honeycombs that lit up my bright blue eyes.

Unicorns galloped over a distant hillside
And sugary bullfrogs hummed and sighed
On velvety bubbles and candy apple trees
Nimble elves danced atop golden leaves-

But all at once I awoke to the chilly fall air
That nipped at my nose with very little care,
I could not find the flowers or the candy apple trees,
The dragons, the bullfrogs, or the yellow-blue leaves
There I lay on the dark hillside under the starry skies
And found that my dreams had all been lies.

*fescue: type of grass

poem by Ali Vaughan
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Ramp!

When i was young
It seemed that life was wonderful
A miracle
Oh it was beautiful
Magical
All the birds in the trees
They could sing so happily
So joyfully
Oh playfully watching me
Good mourning!
Yeaaaaah!
One, two... one, two, three, four!
Pump it up!
Aaaah!
Rmb no remmy no skippy no fate yeah
Wind me jam for the microphone and busy with the dj
Jungless in the place
Jungless on the case
Scooter are you ratty?
When i was young
It seemed that life was wonderful
A miracle
Oh it was beautiful
Magical
All the birds in the trees
They could sing so happily
So joyfully
Oh playfully watching me
Yeah!
When i was young
It seemed that life was wonderful
A miracle
Oh it was beautiful
Magical
All the birds in the trees
They could sing so happily
So joyfully
Oh playfully watching me
Come on!
Love, peace and unity
Cyberia the place to be
The k the l the f and ideology
Halleluja!
One, two... one, two, three, yeah!
Rough!
Aaaah!
Here we go!
When i was young
It seemed that life was wonderful
A miracle
Oh it was beautiful
Magical
All the birds in the trees
They could sing so happily
So joyfully
Oh playfully watching me
Stand up!
Once again!
We're getting triggy!
Cyberiaaaaa!
Yeah!
Goodbye!

song performed by by Scooter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Shift in Perception 2

I used to hate colour yellow.
It made my complexion look sallow.
And reminded me of jaundiced eyes,
Stubborn stains that won’t go despite
Trying every trick.
It used to make me sick.

Ugly yellow top cabs,
Yellow fumes in chemistry lab,
But now that I have mellowed
I have spotted beautiful yellows.

It is the colour of spring and sunshine,
That is our life line.
Bright mustard fields,
Sunny daffodils,
Cheerful sunflowers,
Clusters of Amaltas,

Marigolds and yellow roses,
Daisies and buttercups,
Elegant yellow glaidioli,
That fascinate me as I pass by
And feel compelled to stop
at the florists shop.

Butter scotch ice cream,
Mango sliced and diced.
Golden yellow apples,
And musk melons,
Pale yellow peach liqueur,
A must after dinner.

Yellow candle flames,
Brass temple bells,
Brightest colour of the spectrum
It catches everyone’s attention
It’s the colour that now lifts my mood
How could I hate it I find myself brood

Just a change in mental association
How it alters one’s perception.

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Among the Trees

I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for the one my heart calls for

I wonder lost among the trees
I see your light amongst the dark

I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is brighter then the rest

I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is out of my reach

I wonder lost among the trees
Your light comes closer

I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is bright like an angel from the sky

I wonder lost among the trees
Your light fades away and leaves me alone

I wonder lost among the trees
Without a hand to guide the way

I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for my guiding light

I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost, alone

I wonder afraid of the world
Around me I look for the one

I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost and alone forever...................................

poem by kelly Martini
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Canvas

Before my eyes brilliant colour, perfection
Dancing gracefully in every direction,
The world of trees, the art of nature
Are simple reasons for a painter.

The power mother nature can release
Could make a painting, a masterpiece
A gallery of natures finest hues,
Enough to stir the most reluctant muse.

Should mother nature tutor me in art
My tree would show a living beating heart,
And should I save one single living tree
My canvas would inspire the world to see.

Red, orange, yellow, green and brown
Colours of beauty my brush would put down
Bright and vibrant Maple Red and Golden Oak
Living, breathing felt with every brush stroke..

©2011

poem by Hazel Connelly
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A measured beauty: the Japanese mind

Between the high grey residential block
and the busy, noisy Japanese street
there’s a small park: three tall trees
in a broad bed of grey slate chips;

this autumn afternoon, the trees
have shed their golden-yellow leaves
over the grey ground; the gardener
has carefully brushed them with his wooden broom
off the chips, and into tidy golden rings
around the bases of the trees;

as if the leaves were gathered in some joyful ceremony
of gratitude, respect, and friendship; not farewell,
but time dissolved into a circled beauty;

the passers-by note this timeless act of worship;
share this with the others as they pass,
politely glancing towards strangers;
meeting, respectfully, not their eyes,
but, as leaves to trees, their heart.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Barbarella Fortuneteller

If you want to know whats written in the stars
And youre in rio, go-to barbarellas bar
With a magic circle as that company
Today she writes tomorrows diary
Barbarella, magical barbarella
Mystical fortuneteller
Painting a sky of blue
Do you know barbarella, magical barbarella
Mystical fortuneteller
Selling your dreams to you
Oh oh oh, oh...
Oh oh oh, oh...
You take a look into her gypsy eyes
Youll get the feeling
That she never ever lies
She will seduce you with that misty look
Shes gonna read you like an open book
Barbarella, magical barbarella
Mystical fortuneteller
Painting a sky of blue
Do you know barbarella, magical barbarella
Mystical fortuneteller
Selling your dreams to you
Oh oh oh, oh...
Oh oh oh, oh...
Heya, heya, make the furure very clear
Dont you be too shy!
Heya, heya, while you whisper in my ear
Tell another lie
Barbarella, magical barbarella
Mystical fortuneteller
Selling your dreams to you
Oh oh oh, oh...
Oh oh oh, oh...
Oh oh oh, oh...
Barbarella, magical barbarella
Mystical fortuneteller

song performed by by Boney M.
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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Images Of The Past

Image 1

A big white horse
Galloping
All four feet hanging in mid-air

On the ground below it
A yellow butterfly

A broken wing.

Image ii

A dirty boy chases a dirty pig
His dirty father chases both
While mother hides her face
Behind a black umbrella.

Image iii

I see on the ceiling a little spider, a lizard
And a white moth
The faded yellow fluorescent bulb blinks
I blink too

The little spider is gone and the moth flew away.

Image iv

A girl on a swing swinging high on air
Her left slipper left in space
Rightly so
Captured still in the middle of air

The two of us look we did not move
Like a Flemish painting

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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