Silver Series 1 Positive Energy
The goddess of white silver
On long slabs of stones
Reflection of light
From the river
Richness of green and grey
With earthen sensuality
1/2/2010
Islamabad
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Frozen Dance
The tree is without leaves
Lifting one arm in the direction of the air
The head as if to see
The dry river bed
The stones have been cut sharply
By wind
There had been some water
And the river had been in flow
This bridge is built in vain
The other tree
Had been a fisherman
The first one
The beautiful fairy
Taking a bath
And in sight of a dream
Is now a tree
In the shape of frozen dance
Islamabad
28/5/2010
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Vale To Shore Through Mother Earths Door
So breath-takingly dressed in Earthen garb--
Moss and dandelions for her hair---
A chocolate brown-evening gown--
With accessories so rare;
Earthen minerals dazzle her graceful neck...
With agate stones for her delicate ears-
Soft cotton shoes-in a cobalt blue...
Such a beautiful reflection in the rivers mirror;
Mother Earth sizzles this day--
On her way 'cross Emerald Vale--
Villagers stare-quite beguiled by her hair--
'Tis a Green-Earth Dancing Tale;
Her flaxen mane flows ever graceful--
Her dazzling eyes-a brillant blue...
With skin-a dream-of peaches and cream--
Her life- a lush verdant hue;
Mother Earth dances with joy...
Welcoming in each New Dawn--
Dressed in natures best-truly blessed...!
She embraces the glistening dew upon the green lawn;
She is so breathtaking in her Earthen garb...
With a floral bouquet for her hands-
Mother Earth 'tis filled with mirth--
As she walks 'long sea-shores alibaster sands;
Watching the tides as they ebb and flow...
Directed by the Moon upon high--
Mother Earth-'tis soon to give birth...
'Neath the shorelines Azure sky;
As she continues on ever forward...
In her spirited dazzling green array--
The Green Palms-they line-the shores of time-
Hence embellishing the Graceful Turquoise Bay;
May 23,2010
A Green Poem
Thank You God
poem by Theodora Onken
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The Beauty Of The Sky
Beauty of the sky, is the richness of the blue.
Deepness of the sky, is the richness of the red.
Darkness of the sky, is the richness of the black.
Freshness of the sky, is the richness of the rain.
Glimpses of the sky, is the richness of the stars.
Smile of the sky, is the richness of the moon.
Sparks of the sky, is the richness of the lighting.
Beauty of the sky, is the richness of the clouds...
poem by Manzoor ilahi
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Fields of Soria
Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you,
in my hearts depths, sadness,
sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
where it seems the stones have dreams,
you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks.
poem by Antonio Machado
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Unforgettable Marina! !
Marina, my darling, you are a woman,
For you change your clothes often,
White sandy silver color with light green ocean border,
You do wear the saree of Goddess of education,
When the sun raises, the gold flakes sprinkles on the sand,
Gold border taken its shape with light orange strands,
You do wear the saree of Goddess of wealth,
When the sun starts to walk in the morning,
The bright red color spreads with energy and fun,
You wear the saree of Goddess of energy.
When the sun runs to seek his concubine in the moon,
You do wear the saree of grey in the afternoon,
When the people come to the shore,
And make up the design on your clothes,
You do wear the sarees of happy women in the evening,
Various designs, vibrant colors, different patterns,
Refined textures, sometimes soft and stiff,
As a woman before she is married off,
Sometimes, tired and soaked,
As a married woman, who is tired of,
Marina, you have made me to dream,
When I was a sparrow, looking through the leaves,
When I was an eagle, came out on Saturdays,
When I was a fish, swam in your waves,
When I was the dust, that stuck,
Under your visitor's feet.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Grey Mountain River.
Grey Mountain River
Chasing high Alps of verdant pasture
Left flower bright by migrating snows
That tarried for a wile in the hallow shadows
Of sharp stone scars that perch falcon
Before flurrying to rejoin the ever wondering winter
Grey Mountain River
Rejoicing over the ruminations of reticent boulders
Who grumble as they split the race
For white crest waves that fold apart
As underneath lesser stones give way with ill grace
And wild banks look on with slow curiosity
Grey Mountain River
Leaping young from stern walls and glowering faces
Before falling in light carved mists
Overlooked by those that weal above the high places
All to escape the machinations of ancient ice
Their thoughts old and grim as they ponder their mountain
poem by William Reed O'Connor
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Glistening Stones (From,134 Picture Poems)
glistening stones
flashing their beauty
silver pink and grey
against the blossom green
and wings of yellow
sunlight
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Dilemma of Wit
She says modernity goes
Literature is a collage earthen
New names brought to the village
Hundred years in amnesia
Goodies invent genres
Red peppers the Portuguese brought
British sign posts elongated
A girl was once hired by the company
To rob the miners of their money
Who were caving the longest tunnel in Asia
Vulgarity is the name other of wit
Humor of the sycophant
Freedom of expression espoused well
How we learn languages afar
Islamabad
24/3/2010
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Colour Studies {At Dieppe}
The grey-green stretch of sandy grass,
Indefinitely desolate;
A sea of lead, a sky of slate;
Already autumn in the air, alas!
One stark monotony of stone,
The long hotel, acutely white,
Against the after-sunset light
Withers grey-green, and takes the grass's tone.
Listless and endless it outlies,
And means, to you and me, no more
Than any pebble on the shore,
Or this indifferent moment as it dies.
poem by Arthur Symons
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At Dieppe
The grey-green stretch of sandy grass,
Indefinitely desolate;
A sea of lead, a sky of slate;
Already autumn in the air, alas!
One stark monotony of stone,
The long hotel, acutely white,
Against the after-sunset light
Withers grey-green, and takes the grass's tone.
Listless and endless it outlies,
And means, to you and me, no more
Than any pebble on the shore,
Or this indifferent moment as it dies.
poem by Arthur Symons
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To Him and Her
Swimming across was taking me
Those hills beyond has much hope there
The silver was like the Mediterranean cloud
From the sunset in the west the line was gold
I might have wept for the weak shoulder of him
Her fortune I would read on the lines of her lips
The silver lining had the truth revealed
To all is their share of happiness bestowed
My blessings would for them never end
Gold would be the simple ceremony of love
We may see the saga of life in symphony sung
Some drum beats to repeat the song again
Islamabad
12/4/2010
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Green Sky
One time, I asked the shooting stars
So that they swam in the green sky
So that no one can contaminated them
Like what just happened in the blue sky
That cotton cloud was taste so sweet
When they flew in the green sky
When birds still can ate them
Like when that didn't happen in the blue sky
I saw my reflection on the river flow
So beautiful when the green sky is behind me
So bright the reflection is
Like used in the blue sky
I don't know when we would meet
It may be never
But I want to try to see you
I don't want they regret what they have done
Because they never have meet you, green sky
poem by Renaisan Esaeliem
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Silver
There are clouds that hang
silver-grey in the air,
before the winter sun
gives its first rays
of a drawling day.
Silver-grey the Monday starts
and while the day’s hours
pass much to slowly,
I am summoned to the old chief
with his silver-grey hair.
One of the women clerks
who wants to be boss,
wants to push a silver knife
into a colleges back.
I leave them alone to count their silver pounds
and wash my hands in the bathroom,
with a silver ray of water that squirts out of the tap.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Thompson’s Lunch Room—Grand Central Station
STUDY IN WHITES
Wax-white—
Floor, ceiling, walls.
Ivory shadows
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By constant sweeping.
The big room is coloured like the petals
Of a great magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Under the electric lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
Waiting fulfilment.
The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall—
Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow
Thru the wavering uncertainty of steam.
Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections,
Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water.
Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors
Of grey pepper and grey-white salt.
Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters”:
Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines.
Dropping on the white counter like horn notes
Through a web of violins,
The flat yellow lights of oranges,
The cube-red splashes of apples,
In high plated épergnes.
The electric clock jerks every half-minute:
“Coming!—Past!”
“Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,”
Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily.
A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair.
Two rice puddings and a salmon salad
Are pushed over the counter;
The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them.
A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone,
And the sound throws across the room
Sharp, invisible zigzags
Of silver.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Deepest Cut
Deep downside of The River--
Near the cliffed ravine---
Lays a silver feather...
Left behind by the Graven Queen;
Her heart bloodied...
Sliced chambers-no longer whole...
Running free into the canyons of yesterday...
Taking all of her soul;
For it 'tis the deepest cut--
That slice of malicious mean...
That stormed the raging river of blood--
And took the life of the Graven Queen;
Once romanced and filled with lust...
She lived in desires hand...
Courted by her King of Disaster--
In a long dying land;
Fate would be their witness...
As Providence most always has its way...
The deepest cut has at last surrendered...
Itself- into the Earthen Clay;
The buriel of the two Disasters...
'Tis atop a virtual funeral pyre...
Lost forever in the bloodied canyon...
Burned in the flames of Lost Desire!
Underneath The Umbrella
1974-2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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Fog
Old movie morning...
The sun barely breathes, silver & grey colours.
Black & white grass heads, crying dew tears.
The land wakes with mugs of stemming smoke.
Revealing absorbing true shapes
Of tree grey morning bones
Wet tongue on my ears.
Whisper shadow from the lamp light.
Blind eyes draw, unintelligible figures.
Not much to see, on the walls' house.
Trapped in mimic cage.
The fog tricks silver and grey hats.
Of smoking breaths.
poem by Luca Menin
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Paint
Don't paint me red,
Red is for bold women that use cheap scent
Don't paint me blue
Blue is for sadness and regret
Don't paint me green
Green is for envy and not to be seen
Don't paint me black
black is for the night and I love the light
Don't paint me white
White is for virgins and me, I love a flirtin'
Don't paint me orange
Orange is vile and I have some style
Don't paint me brown or grey or cream
these colours are boring and really not me.
Paint me in silver, platinum or gold
so I remain precious as I grow old.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Green River Valley
Your face 'tis mirrored in the river-
Along its banks where moss and algae grow-
Shadows of the dark forests unfold slowly-
'Neath the lemon moon- your reflection- simply glows;
Evening has locked its ebony blanket in-
'Cross the rivers green-gardened theme-
Fireflies flutter their brillance and gossemer wings-
While the river unfolds unfathomnable things;
In the valley under the mountains spires-
The zenith touches the skies broken white clouds-
And the fireflies- now even in daylight-
Mirror your reflection- in the river so proud;
Oh such divine whispers you share with me-
Cupping my chin in your most loving of hands-
Moving one in a caressed sweep 'cross my cheek-
Oh 'tis magical-this green gardened river land;
Where love n'er can e'er perish...
As 'tis strong water-'tis strong as death-
Reflections carry on our love song-
That seeps from your fervant and longing breath;
143
poem by Theodora Onken
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December Flower
Towards the rich archaic heavens
Towards the lack diorama
You are the artist and the texture
That plays with mantle of the earth
When the bleakest of powders
Lie rooted to the starched stones
And the roots that feed the peaking trees
embrace the sleeping stones
Archaic pearls of sleep and death
The voice of December losing its breath
As the floweryard of white and grey is haunted, is haunted
White as the down of flaking snow
The heroic emblems of life
Green is the colour of my death
As in winter-guise I swoop towards the ground
Green is the landscape of my sorrowfilled passing
Archaic pearls of sleep and death
The voice of December losing its breath
As the floweryard of white and grey is haunted, is haunted
White as the down of flaking snow
The heroic emblems of life
We Are In Flames
Towards the dead archaic heavens
We Are The Mantle and The Texture
The alters, the mantle of the earth
Archaic pearls of sleep and death
The voice of December losing its breath
As the floweryard of white and grey is haunted, is haunted
White as the down of flaking snow
The heroic emblems of life
song performed by by In Flames
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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