En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Dawn Notes

Through a window pane in Worcester,
a scene Cezanne might have have painted,
sky of cornflower blue, Pyrenees replaced
by pale violet band of Malvern hills.

Trees, fifteen shades of green, surround
higgedly piggedly, sugar cube houses,
burnt sienna rooves jostle with
sun smeared, off white walls.

Emerald swarth of a rugby pitch
(this is not a football town)
draws the panorama to the
sleep kissed morning eye.

poem by Neil Crawford
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The Wild Hills

Fly me across the wild hills in autumn,
With soft amber shades, brown, russet and brick,
Peach, copper and bronze all blending together,
A carpet of sadness, in this sight so tragic.

Fly me across the wild hills in winter,
With amethyst shades, puce, purple and grey,
Blue, ebony and pewter, all fusing together,
A carpet of starkness, in this scene of decay.

Fly me across the wild hills in springtime,
With pale emerald shades, sage, olive and lime,
White, yellow and silver, all mingling together,
A carpet of lushness, in this new view sublime.

Fly me across the wild hills in summer,
With magenta bright shades, pink, dark mauve and red,
Lemon, orange and gold all in harmony together,
A carpet of richness, in this panorama spread.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Tea Plucking Girl

While morning sunbeam
Evaporated my dreams
Journey through green
Tea gardens and serene scene
A cup of green tea should be a rejoinder
Romantic morning reminder
I kissed fervently hot
Little tea plucking girl with her sun burnt face
Appeared in window sill
Looking at my steam struck eyes
“Dear poet
Wish you were not kissing on my blood and sweat”

(Copyright reserved by the author)

poem by Abhinav Baruah
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You’re in another country called Cape Town

I peer at a city
while the rain is pouring down
and see blue-white thunder
falling from the sky
while dark clouds are milling up high
blown by storm winds
and the smell of rain
rises fresh from the earth
and my thoughts loiter
and I know where I am
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.

Below me I see the zoo
and a city stretched out
in clear squares,
great buildings among statues
and gardens,
and on a hill
the sacred place of a nation
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.

The houses in the suburb
are build for the summer heat
with verandas and big rooms,
with yellowwood floors,
with fans in the ceilings
and yards as big as parks
and trees with purple blue blossoms
lining every street
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.

I hear a crowd roaring
in the stadium near to the university
for their rugby team to win
and everywhere blue flags are waving
and some faces are painted blue
and some heads have caps
with horns thrusting into the air
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.

On the other side of the mountain
avocado and some tropical trees grow
and here I stand in the hero’s acre
among the fallen great
and to Andries Pretorius
I offer my salute
and in church square
my eyes stare
at the statue of uncle Paul
who still faces north
now turning green
and you’re in another country called Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.

[Reference: To -. Composed at Rotterdam by Thomas Hood.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Window

She looks out in the blue morning
and sees a whole wonderful world
she looks out in the morning
and sees a whole world

she leans out of the window
and this is what she sees
a wet rose singing to the sun
with a chorus of red bees

she leans out of the window
and laughs for the window is high
she is in it like a bird on a perch
and they scoop the blue sky

she and the window scooping
the morning as if it were air
scooping a green wave of leaves
above a stone stair

and an urn hung with leaden garlands
and girls holding hands in a ring
and raindrops on an iron railing
shining like a harp string

an old man draws with his ferrule
in wet sand a map of Spain
the marble soldier on his pedestal
draws a stiff diagram of pain

but the walls around her tremble
with the speed of the earth the floor
curves to the terrestrial center
and behind her the door

opens darkly down to the beginning
far down to the first simple cry
and the animal waking in water
and the opening of the eye

she looks out in the blue morning
and sees a whole wonderful world
she looks out in the morning
and sees a whole world.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Sky's New DayDress

Almost everything is turning pink now,
Under the light of the rising sun.
The sky which was cloaked in its evening gown
Is now changing for its morning dress
Made of blue, white and gold.

In doing so, the sky shifts colors,
As if he waves to us his majestic cape.
The walls of the buildings start to lighten,
which means the sun was coming
To embrace the sky with its golden, shining warmth.

And now the sky's dress sways along
With his dance of grace
In such slow, yet exhilarating tempo.

Black turns Navy Blue.
Navy steps down to Indigo.
Indigo swirls around to Violet Sky.
Violet Sky waltzes into Periwinkle.

And now I wait for that final bow,
Wherein the greatest spectacle is shown.
When Periwinkle bows and leaves the dance floor,
Cornflower Blue shall enter to dance
With the sun
And the clouds,
All on the Sky's daydress.

poem by Armmina Liberté Maclang
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In Flanders

I'm homesick for my hills again -
My hills again!
To see above the Severn plain,
Unscabbarded against the sky,
The blue high blade of Cotswold lie;
The giant clouds go royally
By jagged Malvern with a train
Of shadows. Where the land is low
Like a huge imprisoning O
I hear a heart that's sound and high,
I hear the heart within me cry:
'I'm homesick for my hills again -
My hills again!
Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain!
My hills again!'

poem by Frederick William Harvey
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From A Train

Green and green; and evergreen
in my all, and scurrying
in flickered films
of glimpses, painted green...
and a car in the lane silently shimmers,
as I hear the morning swaying past trees that,
green over green,
silently guard the wet summer sadness,
where cattle stare at the hopping rooks
and do not know
of the things that have been...
or care.

Cloudly and bright:
passing the green.
Where, in my remembrance of once long ago,
I felt the mist
rising unseen from the grass
that was green between green
when we kissed.

So I hum a small phrase
that carries my thoughts
ever and onwards,
listlessly flowing
like the world that is passing
the window beside me
all behind all, so totally green
and all in my knowing
and all in my all
and all in my green.

poem by Peter Jones
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Morning Song Of Senlin

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea. . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me. . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains. . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor. . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know. . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Cockatoo Twelve Years On '1995

It's been more than twelve years so they tell me since the flames of death passed through
Since the fire that caused destruction burnt it's way through Cockatoo
Lives were lost and houses burnt down blackened miles of countryside
And people wept for lost possessions for their life time work destroyed.

Tears for houses burnt to ashes, tears for lives lost in fierce flame
Tears for trees and paddocks blackened some say 'fire bug '
was to blame
Cockatoo a place of mourning only blackness to be seen
Only smell of smoke and burn out not one sign of Nature's green.

Twelve years on things seem so different Cockatoo looks green today
And who'd believe if you had not known that huge fire had burnt this way
Some still talk of their great losses and the hardships they'd been through
But they recovered built new houses and still live in Cockatoo.

Nature is her own best healer, Nature the true friend of man
Blackness caused by fire and burn out only last for a brief span
Cockatoo is one example what a change twelve years can bring
On green gum tree by the rail track i can hear the shrike thrush sing.

Here in cockatoo this morning fresh and pure the mountain air
Green the trees and green the paddocks green as i've seen anywhere
Twelve years back a blackened wasteland see how green she looks today
Nature is her own best healer and nature always has her way.

poem by Francis Duggan
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One for Sorrow; Two for Joy

Good morning Mr Magpie
alone again, like me
I greet you then I bless myself
and hope that I shall see
your lady busy in the trees
up here in Jagger Green.

The wind is soft and urgent
on the pale green Yorkshire hills
rooks fuss in high bare branches
looking down on silent mills
and the magpie is a single bird
up here in Jagger Green.

I watched him as he rested
in the Mayday morning light
then hard and low and straight there came
another flash of black and white
and the sun is like a woman's kiss
up here in Jagger Green.

poem by Hugh Mitchell
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Sugar Spun Sister (Chorlton Manchester 12 December 1986)

Her hair
Soft drifted snow
Death white
I aint going to know
Why she hates
All that she does
And she gives
It all that she's got
Until the sky turns green
The grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
Until the sky turns green
And the grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
It takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
It'll take all these things and oh much more
I've paid
For fifteen or more
But my guts
Can't take any more
My hands are stuck to my cheeks
And she knows
What this must mean
She wakes up with the sun
I think what have I done
As she gives me more than she thought she should
She wakes up with the sun
She asks me what is all the fuss?
As I gave her more than I thought I would
It takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
It'll take all these things and oh much more
Yeah
Yeah
Yeah
The candy floss girl
The sticky fingered boy
Oh that sister of mine
Yeah

song performed by by Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(Song For My) Sugar Spun Sister

Her hair
Soft drifted snow
Death white
I aint going to know
Why she hates
All that she does
And she gives
It all that she's got

Until the sky turns green
The grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
Until the sky turns green
And the grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue

It takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
It'll take all these things and oh much more

I've paid
For fifteen or more
But my guts
Can't take any more
My hands are stuck to my cheeks
And she knows
What this must mean

She wakes up with the sun
I think what have I done
As she gives me more than she thought she should

She wakes up with the sun
She asks me what is all the fuss?
As I gave her more than I thought I would

It takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
It'll take all these things and oh much more

Yeah
Yeah
Yeah

The candy floss girl
The sticky fingered boy
Oh that sister of mine
Yeah

song performed by by The Stone Roses from The Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sugar Spun Sister

Her hair
Soft drifted snow
Death white
I'd like to know
Why she hates
All that she does
But she gives
It all that she's got
Until the sky turns green
The grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
Until the sky turns green
And the grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
T takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
It'll take all these things and oh much more
I've paid
For fifteen or more
But my guts
Can't take many more
My hands are stuck
To my jeans
And she knows she knows
What this must mean
She wakes up with the sun
She asked me what is all the fuss
As she gave me more than she thought she should
She wakes up with the sun
I think what have i done
As i gave her more than i thought i would, ohhh
At takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
Yeah yeah yeah
The candy floss girl
The sticky fingered boy
Oh that sister of mine
Yeah

song performed by by Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(Song For My) Sugar Spun Sister

Her hair
Soft drifted snow
Death white
I'd like to know
Why she hates
All that she does
But she gives
It all that she's got
Until the sky turns green
The grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
Until the sky turns green
And the grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
t takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
It'll take all these things and oh much more
I've paid
For fifteen or more
But my guts
Can't take many more
My hands are stuck
To my jeans
And she knows she knows
What this must mean
She wakes up with the sun
She asked me what is all the fuss
As she gave me more than she thought she should
She wakes up with the sun
I think what have I done
As I gave her more than I thought I would, ohhh
At takes all these things and all that time
Till my sugar spun sister's happy
With this love of mine
Yeah yeah yeah
The candy floss girl
The sticky fingered boy
Oh that sister of mine
Yeah

song performed by by Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Captivating Sight

The artist's brush scoops up the shades of green,
and creates a scene.
Trees, banks, deep valleys, fields and gentle hills,
how the picture fills.
Some vivid yellows in the sunshine's rays,
on his canvas, blaze.
Rich blue envisaged in the summer sky,
is the perfect dye.
Such subtle shadows to be applied in black,
require the knack.
The whole portrayal is a captivating sight,
with highlights, white.
Then somewhere you'll find a signature in grey,
inscribed - Manet.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Lahijan on my mind

Hills of tea
Sheitan Koh
Three trees on the corner of
The pool
Dubliners
Waste land
Ziba restaurant
Justice and freedom
Shimmering in the eyes of green frogs
Pitter patter of rain
On the pots of the houses
Tramping in the allies
With tall brick walls
Balcony and old man
Green city
Green girls
Green dreams
Put me under lashes!

poem by Framarz Bagheri
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Irises, a painting by Vincent van Gogh (Ekphrastic Poetry)

There is an explosion of green life in the light,
This life extrapolates all its emerald green.
This life needs its eternity to be as tight
And as deep as an icy queen needs her own sheen.

And all the colors of the rainbow may be seen
In different amounts to the different shades.
Blue iris is placed in a complex world of green.
Into the flowers’ bed, these flowers are like spades.

They need to reassure, as Pantone may suggest,
This world of mystery, which no longer excites.
With pale neutral yellow tongs, they're in great request,
With neutral yellow thoughts, they please the Queen of White.

Alongside darker colors, neutral things sustain
The balance of thoughts serving as background to pray.
The warm cadmium yellow may exigently drain
The bad spirits and irises keep them away.

Van Gogh used such a small amount of indigo,
While this indigo conveys truthfulness and trust,
But his emerald green was like a piccolo,
And through this emerald his world was readjust.

Using the bright head against the rich blue background,
Van Gogh sent messages writing with his colors.
In ochre's religious fight, he lost his ear's sound
To purify this world, where the thought discolors.

MCN: C7YFX-N68R2-2YAHJ

© copyright Tue Jan 31 UTC 2012 - All Rights Reserved

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Night and Day

When the golden day is done,
Through the closing portal,
Child and garden, Flower and sun,
Vanish all things mortal.

As the blinding shadows fall
As the rays diminish,
Under evening's cloak they all
Roll away and vanish.

Garden darkened, daisy shut,
Child in bed, they slumber--
Glow-worm in the hallway rut,
Mice among the lumber.

In the darkness houses shine,
Parents move the candles;
Till on all the night divine
Turns the bedroom handles.

Till at last the day begins
In the east a-breaking,
In the hedges and the whins
Sleeping birds a-waking.

In the darkness shapes of things,
Houses, trees and hedges,
Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings
Beat on window ledges.

These shall wake the yawning maid;
She the door shall open--
Finding dew on garden glade
And the morning broken.

There my garden grows again
Green and rosy painted,
As at eve behind the pane
From my eyes it fainted.

Just as it was shut away,
Toy-like, in the even,
Here I see it glow with day
Under glowing heaven.

Every path and every plot,
Every blush of roses,
Every blue forget-me-not
Where the dew reposes,

"Up!" they cry, "the day is come
On the smiling valleys:
We have beat the morning drum;
Playmate, join your allies!"

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Rivers Edge

While drifting on these ebony waves of silk,
the air is cooler here,
where my feet aren't touching the ground

A dreary archway of trees surround,
the entrance to the woods upon me.

My sight has seemed to wake the leaves,
slightly shaking the trees.
Waking the birds,
but not a sound I can hear.
And with every passing cloud.
I feel as if time has been sealed on this scene.
For a moment,
this light feels serene.
And this picture,
is oh so crystal clear.
And the sky,
so divine in color,
a dark blue,
so distinct,
this perfect hue.
Has captured the breeze,
the open air,
the contrast of the trees.
The oh so green,
and violet flowers
line the ridge.
This distinct feeling
of my soul releasing
into this sight
off the rivers
edge.

poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
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Living

it is the moment
when the sun breaks through
early morning mist
and touches your face

the sight of white
wispy gossamer threads
scurrying over
a high cornflower
blue sky

a green parakeet
in an English garden

the pull of cool water

and the feel of your
hand in mine

poem by Diana Rosser
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