En.Citatepedia^®.ro

~Spring Clues~

...A billowing, babbling brook
A winding moss and Stone Pebbled Lane
...Country-side Pastoral Visuals
Sprinklets of Soft March rain...

...Fields of Narcissus
Their Bulbs are in full Bloom...
... Spectrum-Yellow Butter-Golden...
Colours carry us on to June...

poem by Theodora Onken
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The moss that loves the stone

It is the moss that loves the stone
Most. No matter what or when, the
Moss somehow manages to stay
Even without a why, they say.
But the moss keeps on sticking
To the body of the stone that
Keeps its nonminding stiffness.
It is cold, it is hard, it is unfeeling
At all. It is the moss that keeps its
Love. It sticks with it, rain or shine.
It rolls with it. It stays with it even
In the desert, even it if means its
Own death. It is the moss that sticks
To the stone. It is its true lover.
In the river, the water has ordered
The moss to leave. It ordered the stone
To crush it. The moss cannot be
Removed. It covered the stone.
It is loving it whole.The stone has
Become the moss, and the stone
Is gone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Catch a Rainbow

On one side the Sun is shinning bright
And on the other side clouds are pouring rain in daylight
I wonder what it's going to be like
And then to my surprise
I see seven colours that I can recognise! !

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet! !
All the beautiful colours it reflects.

A Rainbow is arch of light,
And it gives us all insight.

A Rainbow is Spectrum of colours,
And it gives us great Honors.

A Rainbow is a positive energy,
And it gives our life a good synergy.

A Rainbow is a symbol of Peace and Harmony,
And it gives life a meaning and symphony.

A Rainbow is a complete Circle,
And it gives us a chance to believe in miracles.

I wish I had Wings to fly high,
Up in the open sky,
To be bold and catch the pot of gold,
To catch the Rainbow and see if the mystery unfolds! !

poem by Leena Ajay Pimple
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There's A Place

Endless fields
of golden daffodils
swaying to the babbling brook
flowing beneath
the weeping willows
my mind wanders
to another
darker place.

poem by Vince Gullaci
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The Yellow Ribbon On The Old Oak Tree

who can forget the yellow ribbon
on that old oak tree? tell me.

tomorrow, i shall wear my yellow cap
my yellow shirt, my yellow brief,
my yellow pants.

my jaundiced eye, my golden yellow ring.
tomorrow, in my country, the sky is yellow.

all steps lead to the yellow brick road.
all fruits are ripe and mellow and yellow.

Tomorrow, the country is yellow.
Yellow for integrity, Yellow for change.
Yellow for justice. Yellow for truth.

One day more, and the sun shall rise
Yellow as ever.Yellow forever.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Colours

Colours are just colours
One might suppose
Rage is red…
But then again…
so is a rose

So colours are more
Than they seem, don’t’ you think
For boys it’s usually blue
For little girls always pink

Yep, colours are colours
Perhaps that’s all they should be
Just something to look at
Only something to see

But colours have emotion
At least they do to me
Perhaps I just don’t see hues
In the same way
that you see

Because blue to me
Is more than just a hue
It’s the sky, it’s berries,
Oceans … and sadness too

Green is envy, grass and dinero
Purple is royalty, plums and passion
Yellow is cowardice, butter and tallow
Colours are … whatever you wish to fashion

Perhaps I see colours differently than you
Perhaps exactly the same way… I hope
But my advice to you, whatever you do
Is … don’t get me started on taupe! !

poem by David Whalen
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A lane in England

In autumn I walked in England
in a lane full of trees
where leaves lay auburn
on a road wet from rain.

Barren, stripped oak trees
were between other green ones
and it was as if I was going
right through a tunnel
with here and there trees
of which the leaves were more yellow.

In the distance the road bended to the right
where a bush fence
cut neatly square
and telephone poles
ran along the edge of the road

and the green moss banks
were covered with auburn leaves
at places
and on the other side
of the road
a shrub stretched out green and long
like a sausage
that was lying next to the road

and I would love
to have a lane like that
next to my driveway.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Sunday-Sweet-Sunday

Bucholic 'tis this season...
Down the lane the church bells ring-
Springs in the air-and salvation 'tis everywhere...
As a choir of sweet song birds sing;

Pastoral influence dominates me now...
Ever aware in my believing mind...
I hold church twenty-four-seven-
Celebrating with my Savior most kind;

For He has given us so very much...
Why just look at the green tree and baby wren...
Move your eyes over to the babbling brook...
And smell the fragrant blooms in the glen;

He has given us so much to believe in...
Even in a world oft' painted in sorrow and pain...
He gives us blue skies when over-run by grey ones...
And sunshine following a tempest of rain;

For He is a most loving power...
So willing to love and forgive-
I will celebrate-Sunday-Sweet-Sunday-
For as long as upon this earth i live;

poem by Theodora Onken
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Spring In Lisnaboy

My many walks on memory lane i enjoy
'Twill soon be Spring again in old Lisnaboy
And though March 1 is the first of the calendar Spring
March can be wet and cold and few songbirds do sing.

But April she comes with her hosts of wildflowers
And the nesting birds sing in the mild April showers
And old Lisnaboy at it's best to be seen
And everywhere looking so lush and so green.

And April will fade to the beauty of May
And the swallows above the lush fields all the day
Will sing as they chase flies with young to be fed
In their mud nest on a rafter of some nearby shed

And at dawn before the sun shines in the sky
The skylark to greet the day upwards does fly
And the hawthorns heavy laden in their blossoms of white
In the full bloom of beauty a beautiful sight.

The bloom of lost youth we can never regain
But i do love my walks on memory lane
And a hark to the past is a thing i enjoy
Fond memories of Spring in old Lisnaboy.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Sunday Cycle Rides

Quite often, on a Sunday morning,
Dad and I would take a cycle ride.
Up the steep hills, we would struggle,
But, down them, we would glide.

We’d cycle to villages like Monxton,
Abbott’s Ann and St Mary Bourne.
We’d pass fields of lowing cattle,
As well as fields of golden corn.

Once, as we were passing some sheep,
I gently applied my brakes and stopped.
I stood watching the cute little lambs,
As they leapt, and jumped, and hopped.

We would cycle along the back roads,
And whiz along winding, country lanes.
I felt happy enough when the sun was out,
But not so much so, when it began to rain.

Along the roads, we’d pass babbling brooks,
And horses with rhythmic clip-clopping hooves.
We’d pass village greens with duck ponds,
And pretty little cottages with thatched roofs.

But our cycle rides abruptly came to an end,
When, one day, my Dad suddenly died.
Nowadays, I don’t even own a bicycle,
But I really miss our Sunday cycle rides.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Heaven as spectrum

Bold March sunlight bounces
off the yellow-grey-brown London claybricks
of the house across the gardens;

the next-door neighbour’s cut the dead ivy
and the reflected light hits the artificial flowers
and their strong delicate colours, glowing
in their various cobalt vases; blooming joyful
where living flowers find that corner sad;

the flowers as if washed today with brighter water-colours;
as if grace itself, wishing to send a message
to this room today, had chosen the spectrum
of the flowers’ purples, yellows, blues and reds
as its medium and message; and its smile;

today, the spectrum is for me
metaphor enough – its rainbow limits
playing now-you-see-me… with the retina,
hinting at the formless always beckoning
there, beyond the form..

metaphor enough
for heaven’s mind itself; and heaven’s smile.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Habitat-Visions of a fragile planet

Babbling brook bubbles over broken pebbles
Rippling round smooth stones
Wonderful waterfall winding through
Meandering lazily, not in a hurry

Scorched sand beneath burning sun
Heat waves rippling upwards
Reaching towards the dry dead heat
Rushing to drown all in drought

Green grass in fresh pasture
Waving in soft cool breeze
Cattle slowly munching through
Yellow flowers and small green clovers

White streaks of wonder
Taint the clear blue sky
Whips of cloud, invisible mist
Pictures formed, incomprehensible

Black carpet splattered with invasive dots
Sparkle consistently no matter what
These far away stars glisten and shine
Remember how small we are, humbling.

Huge expanse of aqua blue space
Millions of colours mingle into obscurity
Flashes of red, blue, green yellow
Decorate the huge blue mass

Wet, humid sticky, green
Insects buzzing, damp over whelming
the pure heat enough to dizzy oneself
Rainforest drums with snakes like vines.

poem by Fae LundConlon
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The Rain of March

The Fitful Showers of March

The rain of March, the rain of March
Came again
Came slanting down in full force
With pattering sound on the tin roof
Splashes of cold water wetted everything
The dry sand all around shone with a dazzle
The woodland paths softened with the tears
Of the blue sky.

For whom the sky wept?
The little leaves on the boughs
Quenched their thirst
Who washed all their heat and pain
The rain of March, the rain of March
Came again.

poem by Ratan Bhattacharjee
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Butter.

Butter

Butter, like love,
seems common enough
yet has so many imitators.
I held a brick of it, heavy and cool,
and glimpsed what seemed like skin
beneath a corner of its wrap;
the decolletage revealed
a most attractive fat!

And most refined.
Not milk, not cream,
not even creme de la creme.
It was a delicacy which assured me
that bliss follows agitation,
that even pasture daisies
through the alchemy of four stomachs
may grace a king's table.

We have a yellow bowl near the toaster
where summer's butter grows
soft and sentimental.
We love it better for its weeping,
its nostalgia for buckets and churns
and deep stone wells,
for the press of a wooden butter mold
shaped like a swollen heart.

poem by Connie Wanek
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Rainy Day In June

I need some sunshine on my face
To help me dry my eyes
I need a blue sky over here
So I can clear my mind
Maybe your soft breath on my back
To make me feel at ease
Anything more than what I've got
On this rainy day in June
It's a rainy day in June
The sky is grey and I am blue
Tryin' to make it without you
On this rainy day in June
Yesterday morning I woke up
On the wrong side of the bed
And on the right side laid a note
I knew what it said
Then the rain came, hasn't stopped
I don't know if it will
But I'll keep waiting with the hopeful heart
On this rainy day in June
It's a rainy day in June
The sky is grey and I am blue
Tryin' to make it without you
On this rainy day in June
The thunder rolls, the lightning flashes
Every thought began with you
I see your face in every clouded paths
On this rainy day in June
It's a rainy day in June
The sky is grey and I am blue
Tryin' to make it without you
On this rainy day in June

song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mindless Murmur Of A Babbling Brook

The mindless murmur of a babbling brook
Is the telling of it’s story
A story that has no beginning
And flows on without end

It dances…It sparkles
All the while telling it’s tale
E’en when there’s no one to listen
Not family…nor friend

Dabbling and babbling in sprinkles and splashes
Chortling away in mad mischievous delight
Then off to the sea it disdainfully dashes
Spreading rumors and humors into day and night

It gathers in pools, settles in sinks
Yet meanders off distractedly, to left and right
It swells fat and sassy, then as capriciously shrinks
Tinkling musically away into darkness and light

It’s said “there’s method in madness”
The brook knows not…of either one
Not method…not madness…nor glee or sadness
Only capricious, communion with moon and sun

Does the constant, mindless babble
Of it’s unceasing, senseless rant
Give substance to…that it is able
To form cogent thought…or that it can’t?

Could it be that it’s saying, in a moss moistened drawl
In watery discourse, all the while liquid and lazy
“Tis not this brook that is mindless at all
Tis Humanity that’s truly crazy! ! ”

poem by David Whalen
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Whose Country Is This?

Whose country is this?
It is a land full of snakes;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of many waters;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of thieves! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of oil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of earthquakes!
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of lovers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of volcanoes!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful flowers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hansome men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of roses;
Whose country is this?
it is a land ruled only by men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land without rainfall;
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by a woman;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of corruption!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pirates! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by law;
Whose country is this?
It is a land controlled by rebels!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ice;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of singers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of troubles;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of war! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land with the biggest cemetery in the wolrd!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of desert;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of trees;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant teenagers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of timber;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hatred;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of love;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of care;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of peace;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of smokers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of businesses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of harlots;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of wise people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of idiots!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of gold;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of cocoa;
Whose country is this?
It is a alnd full of crabs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of evil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of rainfalls;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ants;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of horses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pigs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of statues;
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of birds;
And so on, and so forth!
Because nature had made them so as we see them around us,
But the wise and fool live together on this earth.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Life And Death On The Stone In The Pond

on that rainy month
a stone was so kind
enough
to let the green moss
wrap its
solid body

there was
mutual bliss in
their
company
then the drought
comes in months
the river where the stone
lives
dried and
mud turned to
cracked
surfaces

the moss knows
that this happens
every year
dies peacefully
around the solid body
of the stone
like sleep waiting
for the next rain
the stone is
undisturbed

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Gather Moss And More Of Moss

to gather moss
be a stone
to gather more moss
be a very still stone
be a stone still till the end
of time

you stand still and think
you want to be the moss
rather than a stone

to be all moss
you must betray the stillness
of stone
you must even forget
the importance of
what a moss can be

then you think some more
to be completely this moss
you need to be friendly
to the water and to the river

then you decide to be the water
instead of the moss
to be more than the water
you wish instead to become the river

and so you flow and learn the rush
and become the running river
until what you want really
is just to flow
to rush and run and then
you become nothing
but the motion itself
until you are lost

and then
you become what you are now
lost but real
always flowing, rushing, running

where nobody owns you
not even the river
or the stones or the moss

you have become
this running, this flowing, this being
so real so free

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hard Living

Hard living
In the country
Planting the corn
In the fields
Living a dream
Where we see our corn grow
Hard living
Planting that corn in the fields
In this warm summer day
Hard living
We have while living in the country
Our dream
Is to see our corn grow
This earth is strong
The rain we need
To water our fields
We pray for the rain
We worship the rain
We praise God for the rain
The rain helps our crops to grow
Our dream is to have a good crop this year
We are proud of our country
We are the country man
We work hard with our hands in the fields
This is what we call hard living

poem by Aldo Kraas
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