Hollow
I sit alone at the edge
of a bench, watching the children
as they laugh
and play.
And they run past me
as I smile back and laugh
with their small voices
and wet hair in their eyes.
And they call me their friend,
as they see me often.
I often sit alone on that bench.
In the dust at the corner
of the sunlit park.
With a sagging tree
just over my head,
dappling my clothes
and shading my eyes
from the sun.
Until I stayed the night.
The sun was shooed
out of the sky
and the moon took
her shift.
The shadows grew longer
and the children left,
calling in the faeries.
They wanted me to dance.
I smiled and stood
in the center
of the pure Beauty.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Related quotes
Memories On A Park Bench
He sat on a park bench
just to pass the time away
when he saw her there
from the corner of his eye.
She was older now,
but her beauty had not faded.
She turned in his direction
and he smiled at her.
At first, she looked at him strangely
until there was recognition.
She smiled back
and then joined him.
They sat there on the park bench
the sun smiling down on them
as the daffodils swayed in the breeze.
For both of them came a flood
of memories of when they were young
before the world spirited them away.
Both had walked down many roads,
had some hard knocks along the way.
Both recalled them now
the way old friends meeting do.
As they sat there
recalling memories from happier days.
All too soon they would be parting
and as they would go,
they would take with them
a little of each other
in the form of memories
that they acquired on a park bench.
5 April 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Old Man
The old man sat on a park bench
just watching the people pass by.
He did it day after day
alone in everyone's eyes.
He would smile occasionally
but no one ever knew why.
Everyone who saw him
wondered why he sat so still
and just looked out
at everyone who passed him there.
The old man sat in repose
from dawn until dusk fell.
He sat there in the summer sun
and as winter's bleakness fell.
He looked for some face
he might remember from his past
so they could reminisce for a while.
Sadly, the years slipped away.
Everyone spoke about him,
but no one ventured to talk.
Then one day the old man
wasn't on the park bench
and he was nowhere to be seen.
Now a different question was asked.
Day after day, the bench was empty.
Where had the old man gone?
Had he simply passed away?
The questions remained unanswered
because no one ever stopped
to enquire of his name.
I would like to think
that in the dying hours
on the park bench one day
that he had found
what he was waiting for
and then happily he faded away.
12 July 2012
poem by David Harris
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A Place To Sit
Smoochers and snoggers, and resting joggers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Ramblers and walkers, and street hawkers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Mini’s and Roller’s, and lady strollers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Old folk and young folk, and dogs with no folk
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Market traders and cavers, and money savers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Children that play who meet everyday
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Students and teachers, and lay preachers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Loose women and boys the ‘for sale’ toys
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Addicts and dealers, and police squealers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Dogs out for a pee who can’t find a tree
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Drunks in the night who like to fight
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Spray painters and doodlers, and bench abusers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Vandals and hooligans, and booted ruffians
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Demolishers and breakers, and obliterators
never stopped until they destroyed this concrete bench.
poem by Orlando Belo
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And You Don’t Remember Me
I sat on the park bench
pen and notebook in hand.
I watched all the people
as they passed on by.
I wondered how in life
each one of them had fared
with their happiness
and their sorrows.
I looked for inspiration
for something to write.
She looked at me and smiled,
I smiled back
thinking that was that.
“You don’t remember me? ”
She said and sat down.
I looked at her again
as memories swirled
around in my mind.
She was right
I didn’t remember her
Her hair was mousey colour
with flecks of grey
starting to appear here and there.
There were thick lines
across her forehead,
crow feet lines
near the corners of her eyes.
The corners of her mouth
drooped just slightly.
Her blues eyes were striking
and I knew I had seen them before,
but they were with a younger face
a long time ago.
A face that lit up
whenever she spoke.
“You still don’t remember me? ”
She asked once again.
I shook my head,
but unfortunately, I did.
I could remember
all the beauty
she had had in her youth,
before time had ravaged her
and taken away her beauty
and her youth.
She looked so sad.
I wanted to reach out
like I always wanted to,
but something deep inside,
a little voice you could call it,
kept telling me no.
My urge to hold her
was trying to win out,
but I couldn’t do it.
She was no longer
a part of my life.
All she was now
was a memory I clung to,
a memory of my youth
so long, long ago.
With notebook and pen,
I smiled and bit her farewell.
I whispered her name
as I said a last goodbye.
I didn’t look back
or I would have looked back with regret.
She was a past,
something none of us can ever relive.
poem by David Harris
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Lonely
There was an old man
sat on a park bench,
his trousers were baggy,
his hair was unkempt.
It flowed long and white
right down to his shoes
and children would pass by
looking bemused.
A glint in his eye
and a glow on his cheek
he sat all day long
not a word did he speak,
but should you have asked him
why he was there
he'd had given you reasons, I'm sure
with a stare.
He sat on the park bench
eating some berries,
he didn't look sad
and he didn't look merry,
then just when the church clock
struck quarter to four
the old man got up
and he fell to the floor
Nobody noticed him tumble
nobody even passed by
and as sunshine hid behind a cloud
that lonely old man, he did die.
But sometimes as I pass that bench
I have a strange feeling inside
that someone is eating a berry or two
and watching the people go by
poem by Ruth Walters
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 4)
Entering the flat
the Constable found no one there.
He searched every room,
nothing, only the fired gun on a note
left on the table.
He had noticed the back window
was left slightly ajar.
He picked up the note
and quickly read it through,
then put it in his pocket
along with the gun.
He smiled to the neighbour
as he left the flat.
He told her to lock it;
Mr D would be coming back.
At the car he got in
saying that,
they had to go back
to the station.
He sat on a bench
near the waters edge.
The white walking stick
resting between his legs.
He could not look at his watch,
as that would give the game away.
A blind man is not supposed to see,
so he had no idea of the time.
All he could tell
that day was turning into night.
He stood up;
he had to stretch his legs.
He moved along to
the bench by the bridge.
The dark waters of the lake,
lapped against the shore.
Then he heard the footsteps
walking across the wooden bridge.
He knew by the sound
they were of a woman’s shoe.
He did not look up
to see who it was,
just listened, as they got closer,
until they were in front of him.
He could now see her face,
under the light of the moon.
Her hair was dark,
and danced on her shoulders.
He wanted to say something,
but though he better not.
The killer could be lurking,
in the bushes somewhere,
waiting for his chance,
when he thought
the coast was clear.
She stopped and stood,
near the waters edge;
she watched the moon’s silver finger
dance on the breeze-ruffled waves.
He sat unnoticed except
for his white walking stick.
The blind could see nothing
at least that is what he hoped
anyone passing would think.
Then from the darkness, he emerged.
A mask of death he wore.
He moved quietly up behind the woman,
extended his hands out to her neck.
To be concluded……
poem by David Harris
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Children Of Persia
Children of persia
Some are the brothers of human kind
And own them, whatsoever their estate;
And some for, for sorrow and self- scorn
Man's enmity with unguarded fate
Feel the love tonight
I will cherished you children of persia
Children of persia I put a smile on the faces of you all
So show your smile for me in return
I give you praises
For being the children of persia
I light up your life children of persia
I share this music that fills my heart with you children of persia
This is your song children of persia
So let's sing it along
The magic comes along
God will lift up your spirit children of persia
If you need to cry children of persia
I will understand
Go ahead and cry
If you want to laugh
Laugh your heart out children of persia
I won't let you fall
Children of persia
I will never abandon you children of persia
This is your song
Let all your fears die children of persia
I am your friend children of persia
What are you going to do at the end?
Children of persia I believe you all could fly
Won't you light the way God for the children of persia?
Children of persia believe in your dreams
Don't give up your hopes children of persia
When tears are in your eyes children of persia I will dry them
I am on your side children of persia when times are rough
Children of persia
I believe that somewhere in the darkest night a candle glows
Children of persia
I believe that the prayers you are saying will be answered
Children of persia
Children of persia you all live from day to day
And you children of persia don't borrow from the sunshine
Children of persia your future is written in the stars
Children of persia I don't want to watch you all drown
Children of persia don't worry about tomorrow
Because tomorrow will worry for it's self
I don't want to hurt you children of persia
This is true
I am being honest with you all children of persia
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Hiroshima Child
I come and stand at every door
But none can hear my silent tread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead for I am dead
I'm only seven though I died
In Hiroshima long ago
I'm seven now as I was then
When children die they do not grow
My hair was scorched by swirling flame
My eyes grew dim my eyes grew blind
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And that was scattered by the wind
I need no fruit I need no rice
I need no sweets nor even bread
I ask for nothing for myself
For I am dead for I am dead
All that I need is that for peace
You fight today you fight today
So that the children of this world
Can live and grow and laugh and play
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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The Same Place
The
same place where the sun is still embracing her memory,
in the same place where the stories seems pure magic,
in the same place where the sky is still kissing the perfume of her hair, in the same place where the moon is still holdin...g her hand,
in the same place where the night is still missing her,
...in the same place where magic and love the same symphony all over again it's the same, but still the same seems like the first time,
first time when your eyes were dancing with her eyes,
first time when u were listening that song all over again,
first time when u were reading the same poem all over again,
first time when u met the magic and u decide to dance, a last magic dance, u were lost without her perfume,
u wanted to dream again, to laugh again, 'cause only her eyes could make u smile, in that last petal of rose that she gave u, u felt the magic, and u embrace her memory, in that sweet box called 'love' that u always take with u....
there are your heart, your soul and your love,
memories, that there always gonna stay there...
pictured in that beautiful and touching symphony called 'her soul',
i name it magic, u named it passion,
u wanted to stay, she wanted to go,
u wanted to miss, she wanted to forget,
u wanted to love, she wanted to forgive,
u wanted to wish, she wanted to dream,
same feeling, but not played by the same symphony...
same memories, but not remembered by the same heart....
same old stories, but not remembered by the same eyes...
magic words, sweet memories, same old perfume of roses..
where did she go?
when the sun is calling 4 here?
when the sky is missing her?
when the moon is dreaming at her?
when the sea is waiting 4 her?
when the sand is whispering to come back?
where did she go, if the magic never dies?
where did she go, if the dreams never fall? '
poem by Abdelrahman MHussien
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Evening Song of the Thoughtful Child
Shadow children, thin and small,
Now the day is left behind,
You are dancing on the wall,
On the curtains, on the blind.
On the ceiling, children, too,
Peeping round the nursery door,
Let me come and play with you,
As we always played before.
Let's pretend that we have wings
And can really truly fly
Over every sort of things
Up and up into the sky.
Where the sweet star children play--
It does seem a dreadful rule,
They must stay inside all day.
I suppose they go to school.
And to-night, dears, do you see,
They are having such a race
With their father moon--the tree
Almost hides his funny face.
Shadow children, once at night,
I was all tucked up in bed,
Father moon came--such a fright--
Through the window poked his head;
I could see his staring eyes,
O, my dears, I was afraid,
That was not a nice surprise,
And the dreadful noise I made!
Let us make a fairy ring,
Shadow children, hand in hand,
And our songs quite softly sing
That we learned in fairyland.
Shadow children, hin and small,
See, the day is far behind;
And I kiss you--on the wall--
On the curtains--on the blind.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Ode To The Cherry Blossom
I have grown up with this tree,
as my father had grown with it,
and his father before him.
The cherry blossom tree where I was first exposed to the beauty of nature,
where my baby seat was set upon the picnic blanket in the grass,
and I could watch the petals fall and dance around me and my family.
and they would land in my seat,
and I would play with them.
The cherry blossom tree,
with its long branches,
where I first learned to climb,
and where I got my first broken bone,
after I slipped while pretending to be a monkey.
The cherry blossom tree,
where we had our first play date together.
We ran around and played two person tag,
and two person hide and seek,
and two person leap frog.
The cherry blossom tree,
where we had our first date,
where I picked a blossom and put it in your hair,
and called you my hime,
my princess.
The cherry blossom tree,
where we took shelter from the pouring rain,
and I gave you my jacket to put over your head,
and we ran home to take a bath in our clothes,
Because they couldn’t have gotten wetter anyway.
The cherry blossom tree,
under which we said our vows,
and got married,
and you cried,
and said you felt beautiful,
and I kissed you,
and said you looked beautiful,
and we ran through the blossom petals.
The cherry blossom tree,
where we took our two daughters,
and watched them pick flowers,
and give them to you.
The cherry blossom tree,
where our daughters took their loves,
and probably got caught in the rain,
just as we did.
The cherry blossom tree,
which we would watch from the near by bench,
watch children who were not ours play there,
watch couples who were not us date there.
The cherry blossom tree,
where I go to remember you,
where I sometimes cry for you,
where our daughters cry for you.
I grew up with that cherry blossom tree,
and now as I wait to rejoin you,
my love,
I watch others grow with it too.
poem by Evan Puglisi
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Play Children Play
I came home late one night,
In my door stood my daughter-in-law,
Park your car, I have something to tell you,
As I entered the door, she said, "Mother left today."
Play children play, your mother left today.
There is no where for a writer to start,
When his wife leaves and breaks her children's heart,
When she walked out, she never said good by,
No one has ever known why.
Play children play, today your Mother went away.
Many things we planned to do that day,
For no reason she just walked away,
Twenty years has past and gone,
Some how we took care of our home,
You children have married, but still alone.
Play children play, for the day your Mother went away.
poem by Kenneth McKinley Davis
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Invisible
Did you spot the girl
Who sat all alone,
On a bench in a playground
Outcast and unknown? ......
The mates meet up early
To recall and recite
From the programmes they watched
On the previous night
The girl on the bench
Her eyes dart pensively
She doesn't join in
As she has no tv
The mates meet for break
Strong opinions they share
On what clothes they like
Trends in labels to wear
The girl on the bench
Turns away in her shame
She doesn't join in
Shabby clothes on her frame
The mates meet for lunch
The school rings with loud prattle
The alpha females
Choose a cage they can rattle
The girl on the bench
muted through her own choice
She doesn't join in
scared of her own small voice
The mates have a moan
At their parents restrictions
Loving guardian's angst
They interpret as friction.
The girl on the bench
Knows the deal she's been dealt
She doesn't join in
Little love has she felt
The mates gather up
Final bell has been rung
The school empties out
All except one...........
The girl on the bench
Sadly stands and walks home
How she longs to fit in
And not feel so alone.
poem by Stevie Taite
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To My 7 Children
When you were young, as I recall,
I watched you grow, I watched you crawl,
You took your first few steps with me
And I was your security.
Though never rich, we plodded through
And loved each other, me and you,
We made do with the things we'd got
Though they were few, we'd not a lot.
A roof, good clothes, and you were fed,
You had warm blankets, and a bed,
While I did all that I could do
To keep you, and your mothers, too.
I worked and studied, called away
To try improve things, day by day,
But one by one your mothers left
And took you too, I was bereft.
I couldn't keep a wife, it seemed
They wanted more than I could scheme,
And so I paid the price in loss,
My children, left to count the cost.
But I stuck with you, thick and thin
I picked you up at each weekend,
I gave you all the love I had
And cried at night, when things were bad.
Those nights of empty cupboards, bare
With pockets full of plain, fresh air,
We'd cook up damper in the pan
And top it off with strawberry jam.
We'd play our games, sit in the gloom
Tell ghostly stories in our room,
Jump out in shadows, squeal in fright
And laugh and laugh 'til past midnight.
But you have grown, and judge me now
Say that I didn't care, somehow,
You never saw me when you slept
The nights that I just sat and wept.
I did my best, but now you say
That I lost touch along the way,
You moved, where I could not forsee
Both interstate, and overseas.
So now I'm just that sad old man
You left to shift, as best I can,
And though you still sit in my heart
The scars you left, tear me apart.
17 March 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Listen to me sweetie!
Listen to me sweetie!
She looked at me and asked:
We have been struggling hard,
When will this struggle end?
I raised my eyes and said,
Sweetie, this will all end.
And then we shall all be free,
Like birds flying from tree to tree.
Our children will laugh and dance,
Their friends will sing with a prance.
No more injustice shall be done.
We will smile again and have fun.
It was past dawn with a new day.
That gave us hope with the first ray.
We knew the struggle was over.
We knew it made us even braver.
No day, no night lasts for ever,
poem by Omar Jabak
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Dance at the Water's Edge
Dance at the Water's edge,
Ev'ry day and ev'ry hour,
Even when the Sun is high
You bring an angry show'r.
Dance at the Water's edge,
While the Children laugh and play,
Laughing as their kites go high,
But nothing will You say.
Dance at the Water's edge
Now and evermore,
You are here and ev'rywhere,
Dancing at the Shore.
Dance at the Water's edge,
As happy as can be;
When I dance into Your arms,
Dear Wind, remember me.
poem by Phillip Hoffeld
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Child of the Dawn
In the small hours of the morning, I sat alone, outside
on a bench that smelled of wood and the old women
that sat there Sunday afternoons to watch the children
playing at the park. I ran my hand against
the smooth wood, a splinter lodging itself into my palm.
I winced and looked into the trees at just the right
instant. The sun was rising behind the branches
like a fish rising through seaweed. Hesitant.
As if afraid of what the water will do to it.
My friend broke into a smile as it was greeted by the pink
and soft orange sky around it, soon giving way to perfect blue.
A pure, motionless blue that went on forever, never
faltering, never ashamed to be the 'sad color'
that was simply a mistake of the People. It knew itself
to mean happiness and beauty. The beauty of the world.
The day dragged on, but it was a nice blue sky day
as the Child of the Dawn traveled across it.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Now Playing
Sitting alone on a park bench surrounded by a natural beauty that only I can appreciate at this moment in time. Oh, there are occasional intruders in this beautiful place, a few joggers with their MP3’s hanging from their ears, lost in a world of music and running on automatic pilot. They pass through this wonderland in a flash and miss the performance only a sojourner like me perceives: The shifting breeze that blows through the surrounding trees. I watch them slow-dance to a score that was written on the wind and only they can hear the composition they dance to.
A long-eared rodent enters the green dance floor and does his version of the bunny hop, stops to see if anyone is watching and continues his dance unabated.
A chorus of unseen red-breast thrushes singing their familiar early morning rendition of “It’s a beautiful morning” while two male cardinals fly by warbling their version.
A house sparrow alight the bench and looked at me and cocked its head left, and then right, As if to say, what are you doing here? then flies off into the trees behind me.
A squirrel scampers onto the scene and becomes aware of my presence and decides to head back whence it came. Taking that cue, I realized that I had overstayed my visit and it was time to leave.
“Natural Beauty”
Now playing, Act one, scene one
One brief performance
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Your Eyes
The night sky is not a place,
Where I could lost while watching.
That time I would only remember ur face,
But still moons n stars try attracting
I wonder why they are so beautiful!
I could watch them for hour's n hours,
Those two eyes of yours and I give
Damn to those moon n stars.
Stars are millions n your eyes are two
But your eyes are the one to win.
Dear, It's the same mistake they always do
Every night, come to sky n compare with you
Or maybe that's not what they are doing,
They must have known you would be sleeping
In night, so they are taking their chance
Being happy, twinkling in sky and doing dance.
Many would fall in the beauty of the stars
Watching them from roofs, window, street and
Stopping bike and looking through the window of cars
Lost in its beauty and never ending night that's what they demand.
But sorry dear, I also look to the sky.
Laugh at them because I know they are shy
I don't want to see its beauty,
I have a thing to do and I call it my duty.
I ask them not to come to sky ever again
Remember this or else u (stars) would be in a great pain.
I wish if I could destroy then all,
Blast them in pieces with the strongest cannon ball.
Let's leave this and them in their own world.
I know your eyes are too beautiful.
So let me see your eyes until the day is over
I want to lost in its deepness for forever.
Don't try to hide those from me
They are to beautiful so let me see,
Or don't block with your hands or move your head
If I don't see it, still I would be breathing but a man like dead.
So please don't stop me dear,
I can't see it every day,
I am happy, smiling, inside I am dancing
It's all because u came to meet me today…
End
poem by Sushanta Rokka
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Monsieur Qui Passe
A purple blot against the dead white door
In my friend's rooms, bathed in their vile pink light,
I had not noticed her before
She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me:
She did not speak till we came out into the night,
Paused at this bench beside the klosk on the quay.
God knows precisely what she said--
I left to her the twisted skein,
Though here and there I caught a thread,--
Something, at first, about "the lamps along the Seine,
And Paris, with that witching card of Spring
Kept up her sleeve,--why you could see
The trick done on these freezing winter nights!
While half the kisses of the Quay--
Youth, hope,-the whole enchanted string
Of dreams hung on the Seine's long line of lights."
Then suddenly she stripped, the very skin
Came off her soul,-a mere girl clings
Longer to some last rag, however thin,
When she has shown you-well-all sorts of things:
"If it were daylight-oh! one keeps one's head--
But fourteen years!--No one has ever guessed--
The whole thing starts when one gets to bed--
Death?-If the dead would tell us they had rest!
But your eyes held it as I stood there by the door--
One speaks to Christ-one tries to catch His garment's hem--
One hardly says as much to Him--no more:
It was not you, it was your eyes--I spoke to them."
She stopped like a shot bird that flutters still,
And drops, and tries to run again, and swerves.
The tale should end in some walled house upon a hill.
My eyes, at least, won't play such havoc there,--
Or hers--But she had hair!--blood dipped in gold;
And there she left me throwing back the first odd stare.
Some sort of beauty once, but turning yellow, getting old.
Pouah! These women and their nerves!
God! but the night is cold!
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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