2010/07/26 Auric Light
An invisible string to thread my small crystal
beads, even Tiaan helping because I cannot
see to do it myself, it would take me a hundred
years at least to complete one string
I wanted to make many strings to represent my
vision of auric light shining out, but after an epic
struggle I gave up and upended the beads in
crystal glasses to enjoy the pristine shine
Without destroying my eyes, Tiaan commenting
‘After suffering for many years to string beads, I
found the solution, dumping beads everywhere’
and I laughed, Nici only shaking her head
While busy with her bead-making craft - I also love
the effect of beads in sea-shells, resembling coarse
salt but with a new shine, no more threading for me
I cannot see, it felt too much like torture
My new system brings us miniature rainbows with-
out the heartache of threading invisible strings
with translucent beads!
poem by Margaret Alice
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Related quotes
I have been thinking
I have been thinking...
I have been thinking of the difference between water
I have been thinkingI have been thinkingand the waves on it. Rising,
water's still water, falling back,
it is water, will you give me a hint
how to tell them apart?
Because someone has made up the word
'wave,' do I have to distinguish it
from water?
There is a Secret One inside us;
the planets in all the galaxies
pass through his hands like beads.
That is a string of beads one should look at with luminous eyes.
She Told Her Beads
She told her beads with down-cast eyes,
Within the ancient chapel dim;
And ever as her fingers slim
Slipt o'er th' insensate ivories,
My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise.
Ah, many were the beads she wore;
But as she told them o'er and o'er,
They did not number all my sighs.
My heart was filled with unvoiced cries
And prayers and pleadings unexpressed;
But while I burned with Love's unrest,
She told her beads with down-cast eyes.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Pour The Water Of Love
Love will pour river water into the mouth,
In a slumbering delight, the soul is sold.
By the jewellery of hell and always of devils,
The beads of love are counted by all us angels.
On the calm white skin, the great veil is lifted
And we count more beads of love to enlighten life.
We sing and the woods sing, feeling sleep
In a second, fully counting the beads of love.
poem by Naveed Akram
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He Played to the Last String
Beads of sweat rolled, gleaming backs shook and twirled
Logs of fire added, pure smoke rose
In chorus, their voices went in unison, best steps competed
The jingles punctuated, and drums went in frenzy
His fingers danced with the harp's strings that made them wild
Alas, in crescendo, strings gave way one after and after.
Jingles and a string had to make it now, his voice punctuated
Infectious, in chorus they had applauded!
He PLAYED TO THE LAST STRING beamed the headlines.
A role in movie popped, he signed!
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Overheard on a Salmarsh
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.
No.
Give them me. Give them me.
No.
Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.
Goblin, why do you love them so?
They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
Give me your beads, I want them.
No.
I will howl in the deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give thme me. Give them.
No.
poem by Harold Monro
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I like to think about stringing songs together like a string of pearls, or a string of beads, but ultimately it has to be stuff that really works with the band, and gives a spin to the older material.
quote by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mardi Grass New Orleans
Driving down highway 95,
going to New Orleans before night.
It was too late,
we went the wrong way,
we were heading east to Savanah that day.
In town we finally did arrive,
at least it wasn’t in the morning at five.
Next morning I went to downtown,
beads where being thrown all around.
Children threw me beads my way
they sparkled and shined I have to say.
Brought them back to MN state,
children I played with said they were great.
Some kept them hidden from me,
that’s o.k. they have found memories.
Now I have to visit once again,
get more beads to send to friends.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on November 3,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinapoems.com
www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies. By dropping golden beads near a snake, a crow once managed To have a passer-by kill the snake for the beads.
quote by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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These heroes of finance are like beads on a string; when one slips off, all the rest follow.
quote by Henrik Ibsen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O! Death Stop
O! Death stop, O! Time tarry, stay;
Enlarge the hours of night and day.
On the soft beach of poetry I stand,
The waves touch, caress the cold sand.
Bring they to me the colourful beads,
It is the time to fold the worldly deeds.
And to pick all the pearls scattered,
As the world seems to be shattered.
Allow me to join the beads in strings,
Let me replace with the fatal things;
That men carry them in their hands,
And straighten the entangled strands.
For I long to see humanity converse,
In a tongue but no other than verse.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Margret's Prayer
Widow Margret told her beads
on her husband's creaky porch
over 5 O'clock Coffee each morning.
That black and white photograph
of her and her husband, peered
at her from the lamp stand.
The Welcome mat outside, unworn
and the new green cushion next to her
stared at the maid in the rocker.
The string of soft beads,
let slip from her fingers,
laid down on the shag carpet.
A twitch sprouted above her eye,
below the brown penciled eyebrow;
for the first time Margret listened…
The house's heater hissed and clanked,
bagels popped from the toaster,
her breath seemed to strangle the porch.
As the last steam rose from the mug
dissipating like a ghost at dawn,
Margret still sat rocking.
poem by Jacob Bearer
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A Golden Shower! ! ! ! !
Scattered by the broken string, bent to pick the beads.
You stood with some in cupped hands, did you my thoughts read?
Led me gently to balcony, to show Laburnum bloom.
Clusters of bright yellow flowers watch them with awe, droop.
Yellow petals formed a carpet, underneath the tree
You said its called golden shower, from far one can see.
The breeze carries the flowers, away from the loose bunch,
Just like my beads got separated, and I sat hunched.
I forgot about my rosary, as we stepped in the avenue.
Your nearness and fragrant air, tears blurred the view.
Careful not to crush the blossoms, lying on the grass
We strolled hand in hand, exchanging a glance…
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Lamerica
Yeeeaahh
I took a trip down to lamerica
To trade some beads for a pint of gold
I took a trip down to lamerica
To trade some beads for a pint of gold
Lamerica, lamerica, lamerica x2
Cmon people, dont ya look so down
You know the rain mans comin ta town
Change the weather, change your luck
And then hell teach ya how ta...find yourself
Lamerica
Friendly strangers came to town
All the people put them down
But, the women loved their ways
Come again some other day
Like the gentle rain
Like the gentle rain that falls
I took a trip down to lamerica
To trade some beads for a pint of gold
I took a trip down to lamerica
To trade some beads for a pint of gold
Lamerica, lamerica, lamerica
Lamerica, lamerica, lamerica, lamerica
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black Knots
[Moodpomes: Calendar of Correlatives]
At twilight scrawny starlings screech
like harpies hunting empty streets,
braid trees and ledges in high-pitched fuss,
knotting in rows at hollow dusk
like charcoal beads tightly queued
entreating night's protective hood,
unless a hawk-cry snaps their thread
and black beads scatter, half unsaid.
(Pub. in Descant, Texas Christian Literary Journal,
Vol.25, No.2.)
poem by William F Dougherty
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Invisible Strings
(ian hunter)
One, two, three
Well I woke up this morning - theres a girl in my bed.
How did she get there? was it something I said?
I dont understand it but somehow it seems
She visits me in invisible dreams.
Over and over I try to explain
How did that girl get into my veins?
Did somebody send her - was it my velvet wings?
And how does she touch my invisible strings?
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Now its all over when the fat lady sings
Ill still be playing my invisible strings
Well maybe she dont have a world of her own
Maybe shes using me just like a phone
And sometimes shes cool and sometimes she stings
And Im all tangled up in invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
When youre wearing black and Im wearing wings,
Well still be playing those invisible strings
Well she never leaves - Im never alone
I aint in the book but shes still calling home
I tried to lose her - watch the tv
But that womans always picking on me
Well, theres strings round my body, strings round my heart
Id like to know where the string-pulling starts
Id give anything to meet the angel who sends
Invisible ink to my invisible pen
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
When youre wearing black and Im wearing wings,
Well still be playing our invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Now its all over when the fat lady sings
Well still be playing our invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
Oh yeah
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After Rain
Today
I'd like to be a nun
And go and say
My rosary beneath the trees out there.
In this shy sun
The raindrops look like silver beads of prayer.
So blest
Am I, I'd like to tell
God and the rest
Of heaven-dwellers in the garden there
All that befell
Last week. Such gossip is as good as prayer.
Ah well!
I have, since I'm no nun,
No beads to tell,
And being happy must be all my prayer.
Yet 'twould be fun
To walk with God 'neath the wet trees out there.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Lament
To the memory of my mother
And now she has over her head brown clouds of roots
a slim lily of salt on the temples beads of sand
while she sails on the bottom of a boat through foaming nebulas
a mile beyond us where the river turns
visible-invisible as the light on a wave
truly she isn't different-abandoned like all of us
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Early Works - Where Are The Days
What happened to the days of Bangor,
Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, flowers and beads?
What happen to the roads we took
with smiling faces blank on grass?
What happened to the sunshine
we thought would never set?
What happened?
Where are the days of loving youth
of flowers, beads and banners high?
Where are the days of cartoon Beatles
when all you needed was love?
Where are the days?
Where have they gone?
26,27,28 February 1980
poem by David Harris
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These Things.
These things are sent to try us,
Gran said, her thumb
Moving itself over
The well-worn beads
Of her dark wood rosary;
Her eyes taking in the crucifix
On the wall above her bed.
You sat watching her thumb
Moving its way back and forth
Over the round black beads,
Her arthritic fingers clutching
Blue blankets and white sheet.
Never tries us beyond our strength,
She added, the strained features
Mingling with the yellow taint
Of wrinkled skin. You wondered
Who sent the things to try her,
Whose bounty of gifts left
Small tears wedged in the corners
Of her eyes, pushed out words
Between harsh sighs.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Statues And The Tear
All night a fountain pleads,
Telling her beads,
Her tinkling beads monotonous 'neath the moon;
And where she springs atween,
Two statues lean--
Two Kings, their marble beards with moonlight strewn.
Till hate had frozen speech,
Each hated each,
Hated and died, and went unto his place:
And still inveterate
They lean and hate
With glare of stone implacable, face to face.
One, who bade set them here
In stone austere,
To both was dear, and did not guess at all:
Yet with her new-wed lord
Walking the sward
Paused, and for two dead friends a tear let all.
She turn'd and went her way.
Yet in the spray
The shining tear attempts, but cannot lie.
Night-long the fountain drips,
But even slips
Untold that one bead of her rosary:
While they, who know it would
Lie if it could,
Lean on and hate, watching it, eye to eye.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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