Sir Gawaine And The Green Knight
Reptilian green the wrinkled throat,
Green as a bough of yew the beard;
He bent his head, and so I smote;
Then for a thought my vision cleared.
The head dropped clean; he rose and walked;
He fixed his fingers in the hair;
The head was unabashed and talked;
I understood what I must dare.
His flesh, cut down, arose and grew.
He bade me wait the season’s round,
And then, when he had strength anew,
To meet him on his native ground.
The year declined; and in his keep
I passed in joy a thriving yule;
And whether waking or in sleep,
I lived in riot like a fool.
He beat the woods to bring me meat.
His lady, like a forest vine,
Grew in my arms; the growth was sweet;
And yet what thoughtless force was mine!
By practice and conviction formed,
With ancient stubbornness ingrained,
Although her body clung and swarmed,
My own identity remained.
Her beauty, lithe, unholy, pure,
Took shapes that I had never known;
And had I once been insecure,
Had grafted laurel in my bone.
And then, since I had kept the trust,
Had loved the lady, yet was true,
The knight withheld his giant thrust
And let me go with what I knew.
I left the green bark and the shade,
Where growth was rapid, thick, and still;
I found a road that men had made
And rested on a drying hill.
poem by Yvor Winters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Lady With The Spinning Head
Here she comes
Lady luck again
Figure of eight
Six and nine again
My lady with the spinning head
Whatever the deal
She wont let me down
Wherever I go
Shes always hanging round
My lady with the spinning head
La la la la la la la la la la la
Lady with the spinning head
La la la la la la la la la la la
Lady with the spinning head
Shes been gone
But I knew shed be back
Shes got the rent
She put me in the black
The lady with the spinning head
Took my mind
Took away my car
Do you dare to ask
What Im talking about
Im on top
When shes around
Shes my ticket
Out of town
La la la la la la la la la la la
Lady with the spinning head
La la la la la la la la la la la
Lady with the spinning head
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Encounter
Those who have touched it or been touched by it
Or brushed by something that the vine has brushed,
Or burning it, have stood where the sly smoke
Has touched them-Know the meaning of its name.
The leaf is smooth. Its green is innocence.
A clean, unblemished leaf, glossy when young.
A leaf the unobserving might overlook
And the observing find too prosperous.
I've seen a vine of it so old and crooked
It held a hen-coop in its grip, the stalk
Thick as a man's wrist. There it had grown,
Half out of sight, permitted, undisturbed.
Strangers to it, who on a autumn road
Have found a vine that swept a tree like fire
And gathered it barehanded and brought it home
For color, seldom gathered it again.
Some are immune and some have thought they were
And some, ever so cautiously with gloves,
Finding that it grew to near their homes,
Have tried to root it out and have succeeded
Except that something from the vine fastened
Upon their flesh and burned, and in a year
Or two the vine itself was there again,
Glossy and green and smooth and innocent.
My neighbor's cow grazing beside the road
Munches with joy (and almost with a smile)
The salad of its leaves, transmuting them
Into sweet milk that I will drink tomorrow.
poem by Robert Francis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seduction
The Lily swayed coquettishly,
And the Rose,
Whom the murky night had left
Drunk with dew,
Was fired with desire,
And the passion burned his cheeks.
He bent lover-like
Over the virgin Lily,
And his green arms,
Quivering amorously in the breeze,
Slipped 'round her dainty waist,
And her lithe body shook with emotion.
She raised her drooping head,
And held her fresh young lips to his!
The lustful Rose
Now strained her close,
And the virgin Lily struggled
As though she were being violated,
Yet, yielding graciously the next instant,
Swung wantonly against her lover!...
Suddenly they quiet grew,
And slowly disentangled
Leaf from leaf,
And drew apart,
The Violets, quidnuncs every one,
Had looked on all the while
And passed the scandal to the Larks;
Narcissus, becoming inflamed,
Embraced himself
With quite unnatural ardor.
But the ravished Lily
Hung her head in shame
And tried to hide
The tiny bits of gold
That lay sprinkled
Here and there
Along her happy petals.
poem by Harold Greenthal
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
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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A Chord of Colour
My Lady clad herself in grey,
That caught and clung about her throat;
Then all the long grey winter day
On me a living splendour smote;
And why grey palmers holy are,
And why grey minsters great in story,
And grey skies ring the morning star,
And grey hairs are a crown of glory.
My Lady clad herself in green,
Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;
Then round my spirit spread, I ween,
A splendour of forgotten grass.
Then all that dropped of stem or sod,
Hoarded as emeralds might be,
I bowed to every bush, and trod
Amid the live grass fearfully.
My Lady clad herself in blue,
Then on me, like the seer long gone,
The likeness of a sapphire grew,
The throne of him that sat thereon.
Then knew I why the Fashioner
Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;
And ere 'twas good enough for her,
He tried it on Eternity.
Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree
Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:
'The World's a bubble,' solemnly
He read, and turned a second page.
'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,
'God keep you in your weary wit!
'A bubble--have you ever spied
'The colours I have seen on it?'
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Green, Green, and More Green
There is green everywhere,
even in peoples' hair.Some
on hands, some on shirts.
There is green everywhere!
Green, green, and more green.
I think I'm going crazy over green.
If you don't wear green you get pinched,
then you'll start to itch.
So many people are obsessed with green.
Green Spring, green air.Green feet, green wheat, green meat.
Green isn't very neat!
poem by Autumn Howard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Vampire
A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I!)
Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand,
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand.
A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honor and faith and a sure intent
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
(Even as you and I!)
Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned,
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know she never knew why)
And did not understand.
The fool we stripped to his foolish hide
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside --
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died --
(Even as you and I!)
And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white hot brand.
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing at last she could never know why)
And never could understand.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Legend Of Big Foot
A hairy man once roamed the earth,
a hairy thing, was he from birth,
the years would come, the years would go,
each year that passed, his hair would grow,
it grew so thick, his mum dispaired,
yet she kept trimming off his hair,
til sissors worn to nubs one day,
he shucked his clothes, and ran away,
his back, his bum, his chest, his head,
was covered with thick hair, it's said,
no need for clothes, so he wore none,
people would laugh, and he would run,
no runner born on Earth could beat,
this hairy critter with big feet,
he slept by day and roamed by night,
for cruel folk, had made him shy,
quite good in heart was he, bigfoot,
he never stole, he never took,
one day while he munched watercress,
he found a maiden in distress,
amazed, he looked upon her form,
her feet were bare, her dress was torn,
he towered over her and stared,
at all this chick's excessive hair,
he helped her up, not one word said,
he touched her hand, and smiled instead,
hand-in-hand, they walked from there,
to go where people could not stare,
the legend of big-foot began,
the night two hairy people ran,
into the lovely forrest green,
To mostly lived their lives, unseen
poem by Elizabeth Lindberg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Eyes Of A Woman
Have you ever looked into the eyes of a woman
You can tell a lot about a woman, just from her eyes
No eyes could ever subdue the artistry of a woman's
As they say, the beauty of a woman lies in her eyes
And indeed they do, just look at those gorgeous eyes
Look at those olive green eyes, full of ecstasy and desire
I've never seen such angelic eyes in my life
Which is what led me to this paper and pen
As from the first time my eyes met them
I could not simply get them out of my head
I could not help but notice Oh, those dazzling green eyes
I am left speechless, as I remember that sight of grace
You indeed can tell a lot about a woman just from her eyes
Green is the colour of nature, and all the beauty it withholds
Symbolizing growth, harmony, freshness and fertility
Green has strong emotional correspondence with safety
It withholds great healing power, looking at them, I noticed
Being the most restful colour for the human eye, I realised
Green suggests Stability and endurance, indicates growth and hope
Olive green is the traditional colour of peace
Just from looking at your enticing green eyes, I noticed
The kind of woman that you are, how special you indeed are
My sweet love I do bid you, never have my eyes ever seen
Such magnificence, such divine delicacy in the eyes of a woman
And I do bid you, never have my eyes ever met yours like that
Never have my eyes ever fallen in love with the eyes of a woman
Never have my eyes smiled at the sight of the eyes of a woman
Never has my heart skipped a beat at such a sight
And I can only write on a paper, what magnificence I have witnessed
But I do bid you, that words alone may not bear what I have experienced
poem by Gabriel Gauci Maistre
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The Nine Little Goblins
They all climbed up on a high board-fence--
Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes--
Nine little Goblins that had no sense,
And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;
And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat--
And I asked them what they were staring at.
And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws in his hair so red--
'This is what this little arm is fer!'
And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,
'How on earth do _you_ scratch your head?'
And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge--
Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.
And the third little Goblin leered round at me--
And there were no lids on his eyes at all--
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
'What is the style of your socks this fall?'
And he clapped his heels--and I sighed to see
That he had hands where his feet should be.
Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And paste them over his upper lip;
And then he moaned in remorseful pain--
'Would--Ah, would I'd me brows again!'
And then the whole of the Goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know--
Singing the songs that their grandsires sung
In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.
And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare--
Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,
And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,
And I felt the heart in my breast snap to
As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.
And they sang 'You're asleep! There is no board-fence,
And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!--
'Tis only a vision the mind invents
After a supper of cold mince-pies,--
And you're doomed to dream this way,' they said,--
'_And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!_'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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I Grew My Hair Out
I finally grew my hair out.
I had tried before, but it frightened me.
It grew large, thick, black and wavy,
The hair my ancestors gave me.
They wore it long and free.
I finally grew my hair out,
And a friend said 'You look like a Greek god.'
And I said 'Which one? '
And he said 'I don't know. The chubby one that drank wine.'
And I thought about red wine
And the delighted laughter of women
About the hooves and horns
That I'd hidden inside my head
And had forgotten about, before I ever knew them.
But they were there all along, waiting.
Then I grew my hair out.
poem by Edward Allen
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In Lavender And Green
Will you come to me in lavender and green?
With bells about your feet,
And music in your step,
When you come to me in lavender and green.
Will you come to me in lavender and green?
With sunshine in your eyes,
And springtime in your hair,
When you come to me in lavender and green.
Will you come to me in lavender and green?
With softness in your words,
And healing in your touch,
When you come to me in lavender and green.
Will you come to me in lavender and green?
With your name upon my lips,
And delight within your kiss,
When you come to me in lavender and green.
Will you come to me in lavender and green,
In dreams at midnight’s rest,
Or afternoon’s recline?
Come then to me in lavender and green.
Will you come to me in lavender and green,
At the setting of the sun,
When my days are nearly run?
Still come to me in lavender and green?
Will you come to me in lavender and green,
If I wait at heaven’s door,
As I waited once before,
While you walked to organ’s tune,
On a summer’s afternoon.
Now dressed in springtime hues?
My love, companion, muse,
A vision still I see,
Dressed in lavender and green.
poem by Greg Davidson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Green Green Grass Of Home
The old home town looks the same as I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and papa.
Down the road I look and there runs mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, theyll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing tho the paint is cracked and dry,
And theres that old oak tree I used to play on.
Down the lane I walk with my sweet mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, theyll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
[spoken:]
Then I awake and look around me, at four grey wall surround me
And I realize that I was only dreaming.
For theres a guard and theres a sad old padre -
Arm in arm well walk at daybreak.
Again I touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, theyll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me neath the green, green grass of home
song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To M.H.
Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But a thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches--of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself;
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You!
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Three Bushes
SAID lady once to lover,
'None can rely upon
A love that lacks its proper food;
And if your love were gone
How could you sing those songs of love?
I should be blamed, young man.
O my dear, O my dear.
Have no lit candles in your room,'
That lovely lady said,
'That I at midnight by the clock
May creep into your bed,
For if I saw myself creep in
I think I should drop dead.'
O my dear, O my dear.
'I love a man in secret,
Dear chambermaid,' said she.
'I know that I must drop down dead
If he stop loving me,
Yet what could I but drop down dead
If I lost my chastity?
O my dear, O my dear.
'So you must lie beside him
And let him think me there.
And maybe we are all the same
Where no candles are,
And maybe we are all the same
That stip the body bare.'
O my dear, O my dear.
But no dogs barked, and midnights chimed,
And through the chime she'd say,
'That was a lucky thought of mine,
My lover. looked so gay';
But heaved a sigh if the chambermaid
Looked half asleep all day.
O my dear, O my dear.
'No, not another song,' siid he,
'Because my lady came
A year ago for the first time
At midnight to my room,
And I must lie between the sheets
When the clock begins to chime.'
O my dear, O my d-ear.
'A laughing, crying, sacred song,
A leching song,' they said.
Did ever men hear such a song?
No, but that day they did.
Did ever man ride such a race?
No, not until he rode.
O my dear, O my dear.
But when his horse had put its hoof
Into a rabbit-hole
He dropped upon his head and died.
His lady saw it all
And dropped and died thereon, for she
Loved him with her soul.
O my dear, O my dear.
The chambermaid lived long, and took
Their graves into her charge,
And there two bushes planted
That when they had grown large
Seemed sprung from but a single root
So did their roses merge.
O my dear, O my dear.
When she was old and dying,
The priest came where she was;
She made a full confession.
Long looked he in her face,
And O he was a good man
And understood her case.
O my dear, O my dear.
He bade them take and bury her
Beside her lady's man,
And set a rose-tree on her grave,
And now none living can,
When they have plucked a rose there,
Know where its roots began.
O my dear, O my dear.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Tree Telling of Orpheus
White dawn. Stillness.When the rippling began
&nbs p; I took it for sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors
&nb sp; of salt, of treeless horizons. But the white fog
didn't stir; the leaves of my brothers remained outstretched,
unmoving.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp;Yet the rippling drew nearer – and then
my own outermost branches began to tingle, almost as if
fire had been lit below them, too close, and their twig-tips
were drying and curling.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; Yet I was not afraid, only
; & nbsp; deeply alert.
I was the first to see him, for I grew
; out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed: the two
moving stems, the short trunk, the two
arm-branches, flexible, each with five leafless
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; twigs at their ends,
and the head that's crowned by brown or golden grass,
bearing a face not like the beaked face of a bird,
&nbs p; ; more like a flower's.
& nbsp; &n bsp; He carried a burden made of
some cut branch bent while it was green,
strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this,
when he touched it, and from his voice
which unlike the wind's voice had no need of our
leaves and branches to complete its sound,
&nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp;came the ripple.
But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and
stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me
& nbsp; &n bsp; as if rain
; & nbsp; rose from below and around me
& nbsp; &n bsp; instead of falling.
And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling:
& nbsp; I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know
; what the lark knows; all my sap
& nbsp; &n bsp; was mounting towards the sun that by now
& nbsp; &n bsp; had risen, the mist was rising, the grass
was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them
deep under earth.
; He came still closer, leaned on my trunk:
&nb sp; &nbs p; the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded.
Music! There was no twig of me not
& nbsp; &n bsp; trembling with joy and fear.
Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
& nbsp; &n bsp; came into my roots
&nbs p; ; out of the earth,
&nb sp; &nbs p; into my bark
; & nbsp; out of the air,
into the pores of my greenest shoots
&nb sp; gently as dew
and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.
He told me of journeys,
of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
&nbs p; of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots ...
He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,
&n bsp; and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemed
my thick bark would split like a sapling's that
; & nbsp; grew too fast in the spring
when a late frost wounds it.
&n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
&n bsp; As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
&nbs p; were both frost and fire, its chords flamed
up to the crown of me.
I was seed again.
&nb sp; &nbs p; I was fern in the swamp.
&nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp;I was coal.
poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mississippi Lady
Written by - Jim Croce
With just a sleeping bag and an old guitar
I left the band in New Orleans
I did some time with the bottle, some with the river queens
I never thought I would meet a girl
Who could turn my head around
Till I met that Mississippi Lady in sleepy Gulfport town, she was a
Chorus:
Mississippi Lady
My lovin' Gulfport gal
She taught me how to love
And she really loved me well
She took me up to heaven
Then she brought me down
That Mississippi Lady, Sweet Cordelia Brown
Hot July in Gulfport
And I was working in the bars
And she was working on the street
With the rest of the evening stars
She said, I never met a guy
Who could turn my head around
And that's really sayin' something
For Sweet Cordelia Brown
She was a
Chorus
Now I'm back in New York City
Playin' in a band
But my mind's on Mississippi
Is it hard to understand
I never thought I would meet a girl
Who could bring me that far down
Like the girl I met in Gulfport
Sweet Cordelia Brown
She was a
Chorus
That Mississippi Lady, Sweet Cordelia Brown
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lady in Grey
On this road, I did meet,
In the wee hours, a lady,
frail and petit.
I spoke to her softly,
and bid her good day.
This little old lady,
all dressed in grey.
Just a slight nod, was her
greeting you see,
as she continued her walk,
up the hill past me.
I had to know, on this very night,
why this lady in grey, gave me
such a fright.
I turned my head quickly,
to ask her, her name
but gone was the lady,
I had met in the rain.
This story you see, really is
true.
fore I met her that morning,
around the hour of two.
The lady in grey, was Mrs.
Metler, you see,
a lady from a time, long
before you and me.
Dec.01 2012
poem by Earl Spencer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let’s Be Green
Let’s be green, the poster said.
My eyes just popped out of my head
Imagining weird aliens,
Sat upon the garden fence,
Who ask us to
Assume their hue
And come to their defence.
Lets’ be green; I paused a bit.
That can’t be right; it just won’t fit.
Why should my thoughts be left all fallow,
Naïve, untutored, innocent, callow?
I’m much too wise
For that disguise.
It seems too dim and shallow.
Let’s be green, it still went on.
I wondered which attire to don:
Jade-green jumpers, sea-green shoes,
Grass-green gloves or tree-green trews
Crossed through my mind,
Though I can’t find
In my wardrobe aught but blues.
Let’s be green. I guessed, at last,
What it meant, as I drove past:
Environmental taking care
With recycling everywhere.
My too-full bin
Is now a sin
And littering I must not dare.
So let’s be green and join the throngs
Chanting planet-saving songs
Which sustain the revolution
To eliminate pollution:
Just go for green
And keep it clean
Should be our resolution.
poem by C. Richard Miles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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