All Winged Creatures I Have Loved
All the winged creatures I have loved!
And when, a child, I 'neath the thicket roved,
I from their nests the little birds conveyed—
At first, of reeds I cages for them made,
Where, mid green mosses, I to tame them tried.
Later, I used to leave the windows wide:
They flew not off, or if the woods their choice,
Still they returned whene'er they heard my voice.
A dove and I long lived in friendliness!
Now I the art of taming souls possess.
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Green Thicket
All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear a bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
All in a green thicket his song it did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry,
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.
All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew,
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.
All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,
It was like the kind touch of a hand that I know,
And the smile and the tears of dead Aprils ago,
All in a green thicket one morning in Spring,
For to smell the young woodland and hear the bird sing,
Oh, long did I loiter and dream by the way,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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The Gift
Written by mark davis & marti sharron
Every captain must steer the wheel, not by choice but from the voice
Thats in his ear, I have lived long and Ive done much wrong
But Ive survived through my lies, Im still here, so all you people
Know what I say is true, that Im here because of you, I have lived on
Yes Ive made it through, youve returned your love to me
Well I felt fire and I got tired of running from the truth
And I let people down, and I wore a crown of being the biggest fool
So all you people know what I say is true, that Im here because of you
I have lived on, yes Ive made it through, youve returned your love to me
There were times I had enough, I almost gave it up
But you reached out your heart to me, look what youve done now
Ive become the best, oh, Im the best I can be, oh, oh, oh
Youve returned your love, the gift of love, yes, you gave this gift to me
song performed by by Natalie Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By the Pool of the Third Rosses
I heard the sighing of the reed
In the grey pool in the green land,
The sea-wind in the long reeds sighing
Between the green hill and the sand.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
Day after day, night after night;
I heard the whirring wild ducks flying,
I saw the sea-gull's wheeling flight.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
Night after night, day after day,
And I forgot old age, and dying,
And youth that loves, and love's decay.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
At noontide and at evening,
And some old dream I had forgotten
I seemed to be remembering.
I hear the sighing of the reeds:
Is it in vain, is it in vain
That some old peace I had forgotten
Is crying to come back again?
poem by Arthur Symons
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Remembrance
As a child I saw the sun
hanging over the marsh,
when it caught the first red rays.
In that marsh land
long-tailed widow-birds
glided deeper into the reeds.
Plover’s pretending
to have broken wings,
tried to entice me away
from their nests.
In life’s marsh
there were enemy soldiers
that was stone-dead,
while I had hidden deeper
into the reeds.
Groups of enemy patrols
cut past following the river,
to find my comrades and I.
Every time that the sun
hanged new over the reeds,
the enemy became less
and the chance to catch us diminished
and mosquitoes swarmed around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Green Woods Of Truagh
In the green woods of Truagh we met without fear,
Your kiss on my lips, and your voice in my ear,
Your tender arms about me, and your eyes glad and clear–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the days go on wings,
On every brown branch a gladsome bird sings
And the fragrant amber blossom of the honey-suckle swings–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the bracken stands high,
And wells of spring-water in deep hollows lie,
And the red deer is browsing in the cool shadows nigh–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh no sorrow dared stay,
The lark called me early at dawn o' the day,
And o'er my sleep at night pleasant dreams used to play–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh you wait till I come–
I left home and you for the stranger's far home,
To bring a hoard of yellow gold across the grey foam–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–if God hears my prayer–
I shall reach you, O true love, my empty hands there,
For little of the yellow gold has fallen to my share–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–your heart on my own,
And your bright hair in ringlets across my cheek blown
Now where in all the wide, wide world, could greater bliss be known?
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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[Month of] May
This is the laughing-eyed amongst them all:
My lady's month. A season of young things.
She rules the light with harmony, and brings
The year's first green upon the beeches tall.
How often, where long creepers wind and fall
Through the deep woods in noonday wanderings,
I’ve heard the month, when she to echo sings,
I've heard the month make merry madrigal.
How often, bosomed in the breathing strong
Of mosses and young flowerets, have I lain
And watched the clouds, and caught the sheltered song -
Which it were more than life to hear again -
Of those small birds that pipe it all day long
Not far from Marly by the memoried Seine.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
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Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same
He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.
poem by Robert Frost
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Just Like Birds
Little johanna girl of my prairie
Help me fill this house with living words
Further up an further in
Let em fly from our lips
Just like birds
Just like birds
All that dark woods from pakistan
The glory the glory lodged inside
Strive to enter the narrow gate child
To the fountain that flows deep an wide
He will never leave you
My much afraid
He waits patient
In our prayers unprayed
Now stay close to me
In an amongst the trees
Ill carry your shoes child
You run an play beneath the eaves
Our faith will come by the hearin
A whisper in the leaves
Listen johanna hear his voice
In the drone of the bees
He will never leave you
My much afraid
He waits patient
In our prayers unprayed
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Voice of Love
After a long solitary confinement
In deep love for someone
I heard a song
A song in the woods
Where I stood
The woods which stood in the solitude
There was nobody
Nobody except me
Nobody heard the song
Which rapped in the woods
Somewhere, but I didn't know where
The song I heard wasn't raspy
Neither soft nor melodious
The song I heard was heart-strucken'd
There was a tone
A tune where you can find
A rapt of love.
The song has given pathogen in me
Who's that guy?
Singing in love
Crying and dying in love?
I listened to the song carefully
Now I found
The lonely woods are in me
And the song I heard
was the voice
The voice of love in me.
poem by D'menz Veen
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The tale of the sparkling white river
At the sparkling white river
that cuts its way through the earth,
some green reeds grew in bushes into the water.
Tranquillity and the magic
of water, sun and wind
was the spirit that dwelt in the reeds.
a Really ugly god appeared and started to cry,
as no beautiful nymph
would set an eye on him.
He washed his face in the water
to try and transfix some of its healing magic
to himself and washed his face again,
but the image reflected upon the gentle pool
remained the same
and deeper into the water he went.
Half blind by his crying,
he stumbled into the reeds
and walk still deeper in,
to hide away from the creatures
that lived upon the water
and dwelt in the sparkling stream.
There was power in his tears
and where they fell upon the reeds,
they were cut from the stems.
To Pan on that day,
the river and the reeds
came as a blessing.
With reeds in his hands
he walked to the shore
and the setting and sounds did something to him.
He cut the reeds into pipes
of different lengths
with notches and holes
and blew life in to them
and to this very day,
that instrument bears his name.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Loved
I loved,
But didn’t speak about it.
I loved,
But didn’t show my feelings.
I loved,
But didn’t expose my soul.
I was speechless
And I was tireless
To listen to your words.
For me they were singing birds.
I loved
And I had seen a wonder.
I loved,
Was not afraid of any thunder.
I loved
And heard only your voice.
You were my only rejoice.
Your eyes sparkled,
They were two shining miracles.
My heart used to sank
As only you touched my hand.
That was long time ago.
My love I didn’t show
As I was only seventeen
And all around seemed blue and green.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
The 5th of April,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Green Home
Green Home
By Lori Triggs
Copyrighted 2009
I wish to have a green home to look like
A sinter block stucco 4 or 5 bedroom Italian villa home
With one floor even two master bedrooms and master baths.
I wish to have a green home made of
Reclaimed light woods with marbles,
Glass tiles even gradients the look of new.
I wish for many long with wide windows even
Long with wide double windows to see from,
And with fancy French doors in the bedrooms even den.
I want reclaimed blue jeans for installation for the home
With solar panels even water wells are off the grid with
Energy saving appliances and furnace that is very green to me.
I want a green home with polished brass faucets even fancy knobs
With towel racks of the same to look sleek and shiny even new,
Sinter block stucco wall 10 to 20 feet high with iron gates opens as sliders.
I want allot of lush gardens with
Butterfly bushes, all butterfly plants, even
Hummingbird plants even dragonfly planets with palm trees too
So I can sit and write in the lay Nile or by the pool even in the gardens.
poem by Lori Triggs
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Now Is Past
_Now_ is past--the happy _now_
When we together roved
Beneath the wildwood's oak-tree bough
And Nature said we loved.
Winter's blast
The _now_ since then has crept between,
And left us both apart.
Winters that withered all the green
Have froze the beating heart.
Now is past.
_Now_ is past since last we met
Beneath the hazel bough;
Before the evening sun was set
Her shadow stretched below.
Autumn's blast
Has stained and blighted every bough;
Wild strawberries like her lips
Have left the mosses green below,
Her bloom's upon the hips.
Now is past.
_Now_ is past, is changed agen,
The woods and fields are painted new.
Wild strawberries which both gathered then,
None know now where they grew.
The skys oercast.
Wood strawberries faded from wood sides,
Green leaves have all turned yellow;
No Adelaide walks the wood rides,
True love has no bed-fellow.
Now is past.
poem by John Clare
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The Foster Mother's Tale. A Dramatic Fragment
Ter. But that entrance, Selma?
Sel. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!
Ter. No one.
Sel. My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina -- angels rest his soul;
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapped in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost,
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but nost unteachable--
And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,
A gray-haired man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him, and, when the Friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a rare and learned youth:
But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turned; and ere his twentieth year
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened!
A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgement: so the youth was seized
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobbed like a child -- it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was working near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.
Ter. 'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?
Sel. He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Soul Cages
The boy child is locked in the fishermans yard
Theres a bloodless moon where the ocean died
A shoal of nightstars hang fire in the nets
And the chaos of cages where the crayfish lie
Where is the fisherman, where is the goat?
Where is the keeper in his carrion coat?
Eclipse on the moon when the dark bird flies
Where is the child with his fathers eyes?
There are the soul cages these are the soul cages
Hes the king of the ninth world
The twisted son of the fog bells toll
In each and every lobster cage
A tortured human soul
These are the souls of broken factories
The subject slaves of the broken crown
The dead accounting of old guilty promises
These are the souls of the broken town
These are the soul cages these are the soul cages
These are the soul cages these are the soul cages
i have a wager the brave child spoke
The fisherman laughed, though disturbed at the joke
you will drink what I drink but you must equal me
And if the drink leaves me standing,
A soul shall go free
i have here a cask of most magical wine
A vintage that blessed every ship in the line
Its wrung from the blood of the sailors who died
Young white bodies adrift in the tide
and whats in it for me my pretty young thing?
Why should I whistle, when the caged bird sings?
If you lose a wager with the king of the sea
Youll spend the rest of forever in the cage with me
These are the soul cages these are the soul cages
These are the soul cages these are the soul cages
A body lies open in the fishermans yard
Like the side of a ship where the iceberg rips
One less soul in the soul cages
One last curse on the fishermans lips
These are the soul cages these are the soul cages
These are the soul cages these are the soul cages
Swim to the light swim to the light
He dreamed of the ship on the sea
It would carry his father and he
To a place they could never be found
To a place far away from this town
A newcastle ship without coals
They would sail to the island of souls
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I chose my way
The road I took came to a fork.
I had no choice but to decide
which of the two paths I would walk.
One narrow way, one broad and wide.
Whichever path I choose to take
a question lingers in my mind.
Perhaps I’ve made a grave mistake
but I press on leave doubts behind.
The narrow way; I made my choice.
Although I chose impulsively
I listened to some inner voice.
That whispered it was right for me.
I reached my goal successfully
which made me what I am today
Although I wonder where I’d be
if I had gone the other way.
Once you decide don’t second guess
but execute the choice you made.
The only way to reach success
is to keep on unafraid.
20-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Lonely Dove
A lonely dove struggled above
an ocean without a shore.
Weary of crying, "I am dying,
help me, I can fly no more." He wept alone and tried to wing on
but was too spent with pain.
He had no nest, or place of rest,
and fell, never to rise again. Now there is an empty space
where the lonely dove once flew.
For on one at all heard his haunting call
and only the Father his anguish knew. Now there is an empty space
where the lonely dove once flew.
For no one at all heard his haunting call
and only the Father his anguish knew.
Now just an empty silence falls
where the lonely dove cried alone.
For his calls ceased as he made his peace
and a deaf and blind world turns on.
poem by Kathy Dyer
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The Smile
Reawakened from the woods
Dry leaves as hairs grew
Some stuck to the face
That was made like ripe fruit
The agony spoke in serenity
Is night so long or the cave
The mystic for the union long
The palm that guarded the lips
The drums were made of magic
Holy utterance began the rite
Religiosity of the darkened walls
Chords in voice of the symphony
Small words like revelations
Music had become a long howl
Still rules the goddess in black
One miracle when lips uneasy
Words flew like winged objects
How chants break down spirit
The trance was not yet over
Final beats as it shook the earth
11/3/2009
(On Schiller mit Sarah Brightman-The smile)
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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A Hunter's Indian Dove
DARK is her cheek, but her blood’s rich blush
Comes through its dusk with a sunset flush,
While joy, like a prairie-bee, slaketh its drouth
At the red honey-cup of her smiling mouth,
And her wild eyes glow, like meteors, there
’Neath the streaming storm of her night-black hair.
And ever I pride in my forest choice,
The more while I list to her bird-like voice,
Warbling old songs in her own wild speech,
But with this new burden still added to each;
“Who’ll pity, who’ll comfort the dark wood-dove
When the white hawk leaves her to die of love?
O then, by the artless tears that rise
’Neath the downcast lids of her gleaming eyes—
By the truthfully tender and touching grace
That boding passion then lends to her face—
I swear, in the very wild spirit of love,
Never to leave her, my Indian dove!
poem by Charles Harpur
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The Hunter's Indian Dove
DARK is her cheek, but her blood’s rich blush
Comes through its dusk with a sunset flush,
While joy, like a prairie-bee, slaketh its drouth
At the red honey-cup of her smiling mouth,
And her wild eyes glow, like meteors, there
’Neath the streaming storm of her night-black hair.
And ever I pride in my forest choice,
The more while I list to her bird-like voice,
Warbling old songs in her own wild speech,
But with this new burden still added to each;
“Who’ll pity, who’ll comfort the dark wood-dove
When the white hawk leaves her to die of love?
O then, by the artless tears that rise
’Neath the downcast lids of her gleaming eyes—
By the truthfully tender and touching grace
That boding passion then lends to her face—
I swear, in the very wild spirit of love,
Never to leave her, my Indian dove!
poem by Charles Harpur
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