Fields Of Stone....
there were feilds of carnations here once
pink, orange, gold buds
bobbing prettily in the cool breeze
there were birds of vibrant hues
chirping songs of sweet lithe melodies..
now, there are no carnation heads
just grey jagged unnamed stones
no birds, no songs, just laments
and distant booms of terror and bombs
no hand left to lovingly carve
names or epitaphs upon dead stone
no names even conceived yet
for those birthed to be doomed
no seperate graves to mourne those
who breathed longer than their wombs
O Humanity there is no way to grieve
befitting a holocaust this cruel
O Murderers of the human soul
at least these martyrs
in the earth are cloaked
You i fear the earth too will scorn...
No room be for your carcasses repose! ! ! !
poem by Wardha Jawdat
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Related quotes
Grass is easier?
Up on a windy hill a tree is
a grassy field wind is the breeze
birds and bee's play and play
long lost lovers sign there names
in the tree
a tire swing sways and sways
on this tree
children songs and voices
filled the air at the time
now and days the grass is dead
tree is bare and the birds and the bees
play else ware
long lost lovers are lost
the names wore and decay
on this tree
a tire swing once swayed
on this tree children played
now on this tree smoke and ash lay
songs and voices now all gone
for this is the tree we once plaid on
poem by Cody Lee Jones
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Friends of stones
It is not a paradise
although the sing of birds
It is not the Hell
although the song of birds
although the sound of waves
it is only our world
with many songs in the sky
with many birds in the dream
with many birds in really
It ‘s here that we are living
we are little, very little
we are old, very old
we are wandering,
wandering and loving
this space
we are also
friends of stones
friends of rocks
Fear is with us
But what fear?
A fear sweet
A fear black
or another fear?
Where is the fire of the fear?
Where is the fear of the fear?
Into our World
in a deep of monster
nobody know this
in this world of the words
in this words of the world
but what fear screechs
here and now
without your hands
of red sun?
poem by Jean Francois Le Goff
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Walt Whitman
The master-songs are ended, and the man
That sang them is a name. And so is God
A name; and so is love, and life, and death,
And everything. But we, who are too blind
To read what we have written, or what faith
Has written for us, do not understand:
We only blink, and wonder.
Last night it was the song that was the man,
But now it is the man that is the song.
We do not hear him very much to-day:
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us --- too powerfully pure,
Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.
The master-songs are ended? Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no names are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Industrialization
an early morning treat
to the chirping sounds of the birds
the engines arrive in the form of the bus
the tractors and the caterpillars
the birds fly away carrying their songs
the chirping sounds fade
the buzz of the day is in the machine
paving, drilling, cementing, screaming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pretty In Pink
The setting sun spreads a pearly pink glow
Over the headland and the sea down below.
Stood amongst flowers of yellow and mauve,
I look down to where there's a secluded cove.
Rivulets of sea water run away down the beach:
The silvery sea, these streamlets very soon reach.
The sun sits in the sky, like a white ball of fire.
Birds sing out their songs like a heavenly choir.
The cliff top yonder, is a patchwork of green.
The atmosphere here is so peaceful and serene.
Along the soft sands, a few stragglers still roam.
Around the jagged rocks, water jumps and foams.
Like metal to a magnet, I am drawn to this place;
I love seeing the scenery; I love the laid-back pace.
The hues on the horizon are pink, purple, and grey,
Signalling that tomorrow will be another fine day.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Power Of Nature
Let the sunshine fall on you
Let the breeze flow through you
The sound of rain penetrates within you
And the birds sing with you.
The hot sun
The cool breeze
The wet rain
The melodious chirping.
Let the sunshine lead you
Let the breeze make your way
The sound of rain is your voice
The song of birds is your choice.
It’s the magic of nature
That is your signature
Throw away all your fear
You have the power of nature.
poem by Prachi Agrawal
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Voices
our love is spillt
onto winter's dead earth.
amid the rubble of
decaying leaves, and
unnamed frost...
only an echo
of living remains;
and the promise
born in memory
is not enough.
the arms and legs
of our passion
cut up as firewood
and left to dry.
our cries of hunger
diminished, fade
into the sounds of the wind
freezing the panes
of windows locked in death.
epitaphs scratched in stone
and children that took wing...
now voices no longer familier
speak of nothing, or
dont speak at all.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Abstraction Fo The Word Chirp....
i hear birds chirping
early morning
on those trees
clouds arrive, light
spreads,
green becomes too green
in the fields of
life,
i hear birds chirping
sweet to my ear
i give it priority
abstract. delet morning
move out clouds from the picture
double click green fields
focus on life
delet birds
add volume to chirping
it is all chirping now
just chirping
chirping chirping
the essence of chirp.
i have abstracted it from
everything else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Redemption, Revival, Or Epitaphs
rain swept morning...
and all the sins of yesterday
roll down the face of humanity.
redemption, or revival?
the hand finds the heart,
the eyes see the soul,
fear washes away unnamed.
cities built of shadows,
great smokestacks, vacant shrines.
and it's always the voices,
and the faces, struggling,
to be heard and seen!
man imprisoned himself by nations,
sold too cheaply on the block.
murders his mother beneath the wheels,
never hearing her cry.
sacrificing the children
to feed the inner beast.
now we stand naked in the rain...
redemption, revival, or epitaphs,
left by the children's graves!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Song of The Stream-Drops
By silent forest and field and mossy stone,
We come from the wooden hill, and we go to the sea.
We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan,
For our mother, the sea, is calling us cheerily.
We have heard her calling us many and many a day
From the cool grey stones and the white sands far away.
The way is long, and winding and slow is the track,
The sharp rocks fret us, the eddies bring us delay,
But we sing sweet songs to our mother, and answer her back;
Gladly we answer our mother, sweetly repay.
Oh, we hear, we hear her singing wherever we roam,
Far, far away in the silence, calling us home.
Poor mortal, your ears are dull, and you cannot hear;
But we, we hear it, the breast of our mother abeat;
Low, far away, sweet and solemn and clear,
Under the hush of the night, under the noon-tide heat:
And we sing sweet songs to our mother, for so we shall please her best,
Songs of beauty and peace, freedom and infinite rest.
We sing, and sing, through the grass and the stones and the reeds,
And we never grow tired, though we journey ever and aye,
Dreaming, and dreaming, wherever the long way leads,
Of the far cool rocks and the rush of the wind and the spray.
Under the sun and the stars we murmur and dance and are free,
And we dream and dream of our mother, the width of the sheltering sea.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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It Is A Lovely Day
The parks and paddocks lush and green wildflowers bloom by the roadway
And birds are singing in the wood it is a lovely day
A forecast low of nineteen and a high of twenty three
And pink flowers in large clusters on the rhododendron tree,
Were I a poet I'd write a sonnet for today that would live on in time
But good poets are few or so 'twould seem in blank verse or in rhyme
For to be able to pen a sonnet to this day joy to others would bring
When Mother Nature is in bloom in the prime of the Spring,
The wattle birds are calling on the sunlit banksia trees
And there is a cool freshness in the freshening coastal breeze
And dark winged welcome swallows chirping as above the park they fly
All through the day they circle to and fro across the sky
And willy wagtail with his wagging tail is chasing flies and bees
And the sunlit park sounds happy with the songs of the pee wees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sand Island
The crisp cool wind is blowing in my face
Kenny G blowing “forever in love”
In my ears while trying to keep a pace
The blue, cloudless sky looming high above
Me only enhance my recurrent ride
To Sand Island, a very special place
Where all worldly problems are set aside
Awhile and “I” is the objective case
Yes! It’s all about me during this ride:
Pedaling, sightseeing and elation
These of which can not at all be denied
Me. Upon reaching my island mission
I’m Inspired enough for one more sonnet
About a special day I’ll not forget.
The meandering beaten path in front
Of me guides my way through a host of trees.
Some I identify but most I don’t
Have a clue as to their names. Just the breeze
In my face, the earth-colored foliage,
The fauna scampering in front of me,
And birds singing from branches, all upstage
My intruding presence. My mp3
Playing Kenny G songs along the way:
Love songs mostly but it doesn’t matter
I’m in love everyday, more so today.
I love god, wife and nature, all concur
And reciprocate. This is my heaven
In a very special place: Sand Island.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Sonnet: Man Must Do The Will Of God
When clouds give rain and Sun gives warmth and light,
When trees give shade and flowers, fruits, perfume,
When God gives sleep and food gives muscle-might,
Why can't men sweat at work; not fret and fume?
When birds sing songs to glorify Nature,
When wind blows cool from sea to land as breeze,
When air gives breath and skies at night rapture;
Why men curse God and dwell on earth sans peace?
When God gave time so precious and fleeting,
When things of worth all men can surely do,
When brain works well, heart always keeps beating,
Why should most souls on earth the demons woo?
When Nature works as per the Will of God;
Why can't all human beings, made from clod?
poem by John Celes
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Love And Life
LOVE only sings when Love is young,
When Love is young and still at play,
How shall we count the sweet songs sung
When Love and Joy kept holiday?
But now Love has to earn his bread
By lifelong stress and toil of tears,
He finds his nest of song-birds dead
That sang so sweet in other years.
For Love's a man now, strong and brave,
To fight for you, for you to live,
And Love, that once such bright songs gave,
Has better things than songs to give;
He gives you now a lifelong faith,
A hand to help in joy or pain,
And he will sing no more, till Death
Shall come to make him young again!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Paradise Bars No Race Embrace Humanity
even when life low ebbs
muddied exhausted drained
by a flu wonder awaits
in words soft still spoken
universal life chime spoken
haunting in stillness carried
on a breeze sparkling across
winds of time grace gift
of incredible verse may await
on line posted by a friend
who sings causes close embedded
in mine own heart soul that must
ever sing for all life embodied
upon this time tortured planet
earth that must bear witness
to divine angelic and beast
holocaust in nature of conflicted
global civilization humanity
then when tired weary cast
down from burden of voice
to ghost souls who cannot
voice injustices speak crimes
committed against their humanity
rises up sings clear voice
of a poet friend who shares
this burden life distilled chosen
carry a torch aflame in memory
hope to lives lost lives we yet
may save quiet listen to voice
of Eric Cockrell as ‘Sounds
Of The Earth' plead your soul
with conscience birthed immortal
breath breathed into humanity
knowing well concepts noble
uphold righteousness denounce evil
embrace bless all humanity
incredibly beautiful hymns
celebrating pride strength
in nature before the contrasted
turn in life cities civilizations
are written now await readers
who will read wisdom's words
who will transcend sing songs
gift blessing each unique portion
celebrating diversity in humanity
who will denounce crime of greed
excess hoarding precious life blood
of humanities victims hope stripped
dispossessed all life is an exceptional
poem occasionally our soul transcends
into words we write come sing 'Sounds
Of The Earth' raise up equalities dreams
into verse vibrating forth salvation played
upon instrument of orchestra humanity
our soul singing each harmonic chord
complete incorporated into sympathy life
paradise bars no race embrace humanity
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Dawn Chorus
Dawn is the time when darkness becomes light;
A time when darkness disappears from sight.
The ashen veil slowly fades away,
To reveal another brand new day.
Up in the trees, the little birds awake,
And a pretty chorus, they now do make.
There is no other music on earth, quite as sweet,
As their cheerful chorus of twitters and tweets.
To the birds' pretty chorus, I lend an ear,
And am filled inside with joy and cheer.
The little birds are so jolly when they sing;
I wonder if they know of the joy they bring?
It is a treat to hear the birds trilling in the trees;
The sound is carried to my ears, upon the breeze.
Their symphony is carried aloft to where I lay;
Such sweet music, no instrument can ever play.
I do not often wake that early in the morn;
To witness another new day being born.
It is a magical time of the day, I think,
But, I am often still having forty winks.
So, for me, to hear their music is very rare,
But, I consider it beautiful, beyond compare.
Maybe, I should make a date, and set my alarm,
So as, more often, by their songs, I am charmed.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Life Is What You Make It!
What you feel
What you think
i know that i don't know...
What you like
What you dislike...
i confess that i can't guess...
Yet i find
your stony heart
is rocky hard
To fairies' hymns
And mermaids' songs;
chirping birds;
To gardens' charms and smiling buds;
but i know
this life is tough
And full of pains n spiky thorns...
so close your eyes
And do realize
To make this life:
soft and rosy,
sweet and cozy,,
you should change
your frame of mind,
And be at once
So nice and kind...! ! !
poem by Shahzia Batool
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Birds of Spring
Birds of spring they
bring on so many things
sounds they send
to each other,
that only they
can understand
in their sweet
cheerful harmony.
Sweet smell in
the air this
beautiful april day
listening to these creatures.
Taking in the warmth
of the sun that
is so overdue, blue
skies beauty to the eye.
Birds in flight
from one tree
to the other, getting
ready to produce life.
Cool breezes this
day so fine to hear
birds of spring echoing
music to my ear.
Birds of spring
to many to mention you all,
Robbins, Wrens and Cardinals
or a few I see, oh so beautiful.
To hear their chirping
wondering what they're saying
at this moment
will sit here for awhile.
Sounds this day
so relaxing is it
to listen to these
birds of spring.
wrote 4-3-07
In Vita Minerva
VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,--
She will not hear thy call;
She steals upon thee unawares,
Or seeks thee not at all.
Soft as the moonbeams when they sought
Endymion's fragrant bower,
She parts the whispering leaves of thought
To show her full-blown flower.
For thee her wooing hour has passed,
The singing birds have flown,
And winter comes with icy blast
To chill thy buds unblown.
Yet, though the woods no longer thrill
As once their arches rung,
Sweet echoes hover round thee still
Of songs thy summer sung.
Live in thy past; await no more
The rush of heaven-sent wings;
Earth still has music left in store
While Memory sighs and sings.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Ode To Orange Chgicken
Orange chicken, oh orange chicken,
how much I love you.
You're sweet, sticky, and tangy, all at the same time,
you go great wi th soy sauce, but never with lime.
ode to orange chicken, which I love to devour,
it's been in my mouth so often, it knows that i have power.
It knows the names of my taste buds, Jill, Lil, and Bill,
sometimes the orange chicken is happy, but sometimes it's held against it's will.
Whenever I eat orange chicken, it goes CRUNCH, CRUNCH,
and I have to have chow mein, and that goes MUCH, MUNCH!
Ode to orange chicken, it is always in a bowl,
but did I mention, i also love eggrolls.
poem by Aubrey Harmel
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