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 brook
I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"
I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way -
Solemnly now, and not in play:
"Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"
Heigh-ho, but the years go by -
I would to God that a child were I!
poem by Eugene Field
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Wanders To You
Its been so long since I slept
The good book at bedtime no longer suffices
The bottle of whiskey just one of my vices
It might help me to sleep
There you are with your golden brown skin
The sparkling pacifico catching your chin
The salt on your marguerita will stick to your lips
Lips that Id die for a fleeting stolen kiss
My mind wanders to you and things that we might do
But youre just another illusion
My mind wanders to you
You couldnt live with someone in dreamland
Toothpaste from harrods when the corner shop will do
A friend giving a lift becomes a chauffeur for two
The grandest illusions to hang on to
There you are with your golden brown skin
The sparkling pacifico catching your chin
The salt on your marguerita will stick to your lips
Lips that Id die for a fleeting stolen kiss
My mind wanders to you and things that we might do
But youre just another illusion
My mind wanders to you
Wanders to you and the things that we might do
But youre just another illusion
My mind wanders to you
(come with me)
(wander with me)
There you are with your london grey skin
The light from the streetlamp corrupting your chin
The cream from a guinness lingers on your lips
Lips that would beg for a meaningful kiss
My mind wanders to you and all that we might do
But youre just another illusion
My mind wanders to you
Wanders to you and all that we might do
But youre just another illusion
My mind wanders to you
Wanders to you
Wanders to you
song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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~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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Brook of the Sahara
Through the Sahara a babbling brook flows,
With its announcing sound heard firsthand.
Its inquiring voice the receptive ear knows,
Whether in the days past since God created man,
Has ever such a flourishing sight arose?
This is the renewing of the face of the land,
By which the spirit of man lifts and grows.
Our God has created this by His divine trade,
A master expertise only He can possess.
No other substance existed until this God made,
A creation out of His substance and uniqueness.
This flowing brook can no longer be delayed,
Moving from the east of heaven to the west,
It feeds tree growth giving soothing shade.
Under the trees the smith blows on red hot coals.
He forms an instrument and cools it for human doer,
And heavenward the immediate puff of steam rolls.
And on from man the brook moves for the frontier,
Perfecting in its way the life God so nobly molds.
Continuing on inquiring of every receptive ear,
Has ever been seen this sight man now beholds?
May righteousness dropp down from the sky,
To renew God's divine creation He designed
From His holy throne in heaven on high.
Let this flourishing marvelous sight be refined,
As this babbling brook goes rushing by.
Continuing to inquire of every perceptive mind,
Has ever such a flourishing sight appealed an eye.
poem by Albert Price
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Cry Never Heard
Oh how this life is draining
From once this babbling brook
Use to to be so free flowing
Now to move it must be shook
Oh how I want to close my eyes
Make this world disappear
For there's nothing here for me
Nobody seems to care
Of this life I once so embraced
I wish for death to be near
poem by David Kush
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By a Babbling Brook
This dismal scene inspires me none
Me thinks to sleep for forty winks,
An’ let the brook babble on.
I will close my eyes and
Try to unravel the babble of
A babbling brook.
Maybe it’s a soothing song,
Maybe I’m wrong, but listen
Oh my yes it is indeed it is,
With its dribble and drabble
An’ swirly gurgles
Gurgling and swirling along,
The ducks are quacking
Their peace the frogs are lacking,
An’ by golly I’m singing a babbling song.
Well now me thinks
I’ll have that forty winks.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Poet Blues
these words, no matter how sad
can’t quite sing the blues like
my swift stringed electric guitar
weeping like the willows bent
over their flowing creek of tears
poem by Patrick Szwaja
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Karma
One day a wind will rise
from the furrows
of a barren field
and move through the jagged frames
of broken windows
and bullet holes in walls
and through the cages of bleached ribs
and sardonic grins of skulls
this wind will rise from the sunfilled skies
and brush the cheeks of sleeping lovers
beneath the boughs of swaying Willows
and startle the still winged dragon flies
on the face of a glassy brook
this wind will gust in its race to find rest
and break like the shards of a wave
on some deserted foreign shore
where no foot has ever set
and never will
poem by George Murdock
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Jesus Said
The thief of lives
stole my cousin's
breath away
sleep now dear cousin
forever in peace
in fields of swaying daffodils.
Jesus said
there is room
in my father's house
for everyone
and I am the way.
His words comfort me.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Poem for Danny and a cliché for JC
The poet sat by the babbling brook
whence all but he had fled;
the poet babbled on; the brook,
dried up and long since dead.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Dreamer's Journey
In my dream I am flying, I'm dancing on starlight,
Sending a wish into the night that I may find you,
That we may journey to a place where love lives eternal,
A place where endless rainbows mark the beginning of dreams,
Where unicorns graze in fields of daffodils and I am lost in your smile,
I send a wish upon the wings of angels that you may join me,
For my heart is drenched with the tears of a lonely soul,
Will you follow me to the place where love lives forever,
For in this place all dreams can become a beautiful truth...
The dream is real... The failure to realise it is the only reality...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Going For Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
poem by Robert Frost
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Home Thoughts from Abroad
April in England–daffodils are growing
By every wayside, golden, tall and fair;
April–and all the little winds are blowing
The scents of springtime through the sunny air.
April in England–God, that we were there!
April in England–and her sons are lying
On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;
April–we hear the thrushes' songs replying
Each unto each, above the cannons' roar;
April in England–shall we see it more?
April in England–there's the cuckoo calling
Down in her meadows where the cowslip gleams;
April–and little showers are softly falling,
Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams;
April in England–how the shrapnel screams!
April in England–blood and dust and smother,
Screaming of horses, men in agony.
April–full many of thy sons, O Mother,
Never again those dewy dawns shall see.
April in England–God, keep England free!
poem by Norah M. Holland
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There Is So Much to Say
There is so much to say
With complicated reasons
And the varieties of way
In new and yearly seasons
We have but a little while
To say our thoughts and mind
To walk the distant mile
Before those hours are behind
Blessed are the interrelations
Of every village and tree
There is so much graduation
In there thoroughly to see
Where brook is flowing freely
Breezing whispering leaves
Water streams colors steely
The greenery fields and sleeve.
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Shadows on the Down
When daffodils danced in Chuck Hatch, and white clouds
Drew their own shadowy purple across the hills,
Darkening the valley where the small flint church
The Saxon built stood roofless to the sun,
Believe me, Memory, it was not a shadow!
No shadow of a cloud you saw that day
Flowing across the smooth deep-breasted downs,
But something darker, sweeter,--the wild thyme
Of Sussex, flowing like a river of joy
That tossed a hundred skylarks up.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; No shadow,
Believe me, Memory, but the purple thyme
Flowing by windmill and by wattled fold
On to the white chalk coast and sparkling sea.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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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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The Shower
The landscape, like the awed face of a child,
Grew curiously blurred; a hush of death
Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild
The zephyr held its breath.
No wavering glamour-work of light and shade
Dappled the shivering surface of the brook;
The frightened ripples in their ambuscade
Of willows thrilled and shook.
The sullen day grew darker, and anon
Dim flashes of pent anger lit the sky;
With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling on
The storm's artillery.
The cloud above put on its blackest frown,
And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain,
The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it down
In ravelled shreds of rain:
While I, transfigured by some wondrous art,
Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod,
My empty soul brimmed over, and my heart
Drenched with the love of God.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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You Are Not A Dream
last night you are the woman undressing before me
beside the brook with bamboo trees swaying on its side
i am told that you are just a dream
the fruit of my weary mind
i have seen the waterfalls flowing from your hair
i have touched the full moon of your breasts
i laid my body on the cool green grass of your body
your hands are soft and perfumed like the orange flowers
cascading on my face
i feel the rain dripping on my cheeks
when you left me
you are not just a dream my love
you are real from the very beginning of my sleep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tiny Deaths
you rip the clouds
from the sky itself....
head swaying side to side,
eyes lost in the museum
of feelings too long denied.
babbling odes to the gods,
breathing breath stolen
from a primeval forest....
naming the color
beneath shadows,
your fingers buried
in my hair!
tiny deaths....
postcards written in flesh!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Carlyn's Poem (1976 chapbook) (density ****)
'Seven Golden Daffodils' came to me
And peace to try at poetry
'Seven Golden Daffodils' touched my days
A life reshaping in new ways.
Orange sun and frosted mount
Emerald isles in silver laced seas
White sloop from fable named Halcyone.
Wine that caught the fire's glow
Enchanting melodies from silver strings
Golden flames - cracked sparks to fling.
Faces that returned a smile
Friendship warming as a child
Flying feet on oaken floors
All of this and even more.
poem by Bill Grace
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