Where No Bells Toll
There is a wood
where we played as children
and bluebells grow
When you came home
after seeing the rape of Zimbabwe
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the killing fields of Iraq
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the poppy fields of Afghanistan
we picked bluebells
When you came home
telling of monks beaten in Tibet
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the line of fire on the Gaza Strip
it was in a coffin
There is a wood
where history plays tricks on us
and bluebells grow
poem by Roger Taber
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Belles of Blue
The Scent of Bluebells brush the soul
And melt your tears away,
A gentle breeze through leafy trees
Gives purpose to your day.
The Shape of Bluebells cheers the heart
And lifts your spirit up,
Pure bells of joy sweet bells of cheer
To drain the bitter cup
The Smile of Bluebells clears the mind
And turns your fears to joy,
A smile to lighten all mankind
And every Girl and Boy.
The Sight of Bluebells in the wood
Confirms that Spring is here,
A carpet of the purest blue
To fill our lives with cheer.
The Strength of Bluebells is their 'Blue'
A colour so divine,
A lovely bright and heavenly hue
Sent from God's heart to mine.
The Source of Bluebells is the LORD
They grow at His command,
For by His own creative power
Each tree and flower was planned.
The Secret of the Blubells power
Lies in the joy it brings,
Inside the heart of every flower
The 'Joy of Heaven' rings.
Dedicated to all the lovely Belles in the PH Family
(John Knight - Colchester - October 2009)
poem by John Knight
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My Four Seasons
I gaze out through my window to the colours of the leaves,
Reds and browns and yellows floating like fairies from the trees.
I follow the as they burst alive and dance among the breeze,
And my smile is echoed effortlessly in the colours of the leaves.
I peer out through my curtains to the snow upon the ground,
Dreaming of the diamonds drowsily fluttering from the clouds,
Strewn across the hedgerows and the fields and all around,
The snow lies peacefully sleeping, a jewel upon the ground.
And look! - all of a sudden grow the bluebells in the wood!
Swaying happily to and fro, just like they always should.
And as the spring awakens, rusty from the flood,
The sun begins to shine upon the bluebells in the wood.
At last, through my curtains I see the flowers of July,
Their beauty almost mirrored in the sunshine in the sky,
And I see the tuplips grinning as a bright blue butterfly
Lands upon the petals of the flowers in July.
poem by Twilight Whispers
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To One Dead
A blackbird singing
On a moss-upholstered stone,
Bluebells swinging,
Shadows wildly blown,
A song in the wood,
A ship on the sea.
The song was for you
and the ship was for me.
A blackbird singing
I hear in my troubled mind,
Bluebells swinging,
I see in a distant wind.
But sorrow and silence,
Are the wood's threnody,
The silence for you
and the sorrow for me.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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Too Soon (Dedicated To Mrs Tham My El Lit Teacher, hi PUALINA
The bluebells of June have finally been lost,
back to the earth that bore them,
throughout my life I will dread their flowering
for they scar a time of yearning.
Their coming fills me with the happiness
of memories of you, but they still gave me suffering
with the time of mourning for you
But yet these could still
Reveal the secret garden of my heart.
The forest floor, full of purple glory
scented gently of you,
one March we strolled its peaceful path
a meadow beneath our feet.
A year passed in a blink of an eye,
And then you were gone
Later in the month of June,
came the anguish of my soul -
you left me far too soon,
Like the bluebells of June
If only I could hear your voice,
the calming things you would say,
the earth itself would bow to my grief.
Like the bluebells every June,
You came and-
Gone too soon.
12/07/12
poem by Skylar Stamon Silver Salvatore
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When The Bluebells Bloom
There is so much beauty in Nature but as lovely a thing as I've seen
Is in May when the bluebells are blooming on the ditch along the old bohreen
The wild hyacinths of Mother Nature so lovely and bell like and blue
When the bohreen is lit by bright sunlight they sparkle in the morning dew.
Of the beautiful bluebells of Nature the memory with me remain
On the damp and shady ditch of the bohreem they bloom in the wind and the rain
Surrounded by Nature's leafy greenery where nesting birds whistle and sing
In fancy I can visualize the beauty of the Northern Spring.
In May when the bluebells are blooming birds whistle on the hedgerows and trees
And the wildflowers blooming amongst the long grass are dancing in the freshening breeze
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their fragile blossoms of white
Than the natural beauty of Nature there's not a more beautiful sight.
When the bluebells bloom by the bohreen the little brown lark upwards fly
And pleasant the sound of his carolling this tiny speck in the Spring sky
And though I now live far from the bohreen in distance almost a World away
I fancy I hear the birds singing in the leafy woodlands of May.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Within The April Woodland Grow
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Upon the breeze they softly sing.
As now the boughs begin to leaf
The sun does shine with gentle beam,
To light the flowers there beneath
And glisten on the restful stream.
That through the woodland winds its way
And follows me where'er I tread,
For love has come to me this day
As to this land I now am wed.
My heart is filled with gladdened cheer
To see the sight and hear the sound,
To me the greatest time of year
When they adorn the barren ground.
Each one to me a lover's kiss
Upon my lips that waited long,
For now I feel a sense of bliss
That lifts me like the throstle's song.
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Unto the shore they softly sing.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
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Home Is Not Where The Heart Lies
Home is not where the heart lies.
Home is where there are too many sins to name.
Home is where I cry too many times.
Home has no meaning.
Home is where all of my woes lie.
Home has no love for me.
Home makes me sad.
Home I cannot stand.
Home is where I get picked on most.
Home is where I hate most.
Home I wish would disappear.
Home is only adding to more of my troubles.
Home is where all my family hates me.
Home is where my sister won’t leave me alone.
Home is where my step father won’t stop picking on me.
Home is where my mum won’t stop babying me.
Home is no longer home.
Home has too many things to think about.
Home has too many too many troubles.
Home is where I do secrets no-one knows about.
Home is where everyone lies.
Home is not where the heart lies.
poem by Ellie Parker
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The Blackbird's Song
The blackbird's song it takes me far away
To northern Land and to a distant day
His kin birds sang all day until sundown
In leafy groves just out of Millstreet Town.
A blackbird piping on a blackwood tree
Awake the nostalgic memories in me
Again I walk the lush green fields in Spring
And hear the wild birds on the hedgerows sing.
Bluebells bloom by the hedge by the bohreen
And cock pheasant often heard though seldom seen
In the knee high rushes clap his wings and crow
By their calls and songs the birds you get to know.
The distance from the home fields may be long
But whenever the migrant hear the blackbird's song
He or she will see the lushness brought by rain
And walk through fields where wild flowers bloom again.
To it the blackbird's song has a nostalgic ring
It takes the migrant to a distant Spring
And though far distant the Homeland near 'twould seem
And the dipper's song is echoing in the stream.
I thought this thing nostalgia I'd outgrown
But the blackbird's song it carries me back home
And I walk the high fields where I walked before
Up to the hill through the wood at Claramore
poem by Francis Duggan
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Windflowers
When I was little and good
I walked in the dappled wood
Where light white windflowers grew,
And hyacinths heavy and blue.
The windflowers fluttered light,
Like butterflies white and bright;
The bluebells tremulous stood
Deep in the heart of the wood.
I gathered the white and the blue,
The wild wet woodland through,
With hands too silly and small
To clasp and carry them all.
Some dropped from my hands and died
By the home-road's grassy side;
And those that my fond hands pressed
Died even before the rest.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Dearest Mother
When I was a child, you showed me a meadow of flowers.
You told me their names and we stayed there for hours.
Buttercups glistened as they drank the sun's rays
Amongst bluebells that glowed in their majestic ways.
I played in the meadow, but loved holding your hand.
You taught me about life and helped me understand
That love, like these flowers, though silent, can voice
A splendiferous message when it's my choice,
To express love with actions like forgive and forget;
To greet all with a smile and be glad that we've met;
To lead a colorful, bountiful life and have fun,
Praising the heavens as do flowers the sun.
This selfless love that you've forever shown me
Has opened my eyes so that I'll always see
The softness that buttercups and bluebells display
With their colors and scents that can lighten life's way.
Thank you, dearest mother, for your hand from the start.
Though flowers will fade, your love lives deep in my heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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To Mommio
When I was a child, you showed me a meadow of flowers.
You told me their names and we stayed there for hours.
Buttercups glistened as they drank the sun’s rays
Amongst bluebells that glowed in their majestic ways.
I played in the meadow, but loved holding your hand.
You taught me about life and helped me understand
That love, like these flowers, though silent, can voice
A splendiferous message when it’s my choice,
To express love with actions like forgive and forget;
To greet all with a smile and be glad that we’ve met;
To lead a colorful, bountiful life and have fun,
Praising the heavens as do flowers the sun.
This selfless love that you’ve forever shown me
Has opened my eyes so that I’ll always see
The softness that buttercups and bluebells display
With their colors and scents that can lighten life’s way.
Thank you, dearest mother, for your hand from the start.
Though flowers will fade, your love lives deep in my heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mommio
When I was a child, you showed me a meadow of flowers.
You told me their names and we stayed there for hours.
Buttercups glistened as they drank the sun’s rays
Amongst bluebells that glowed in their majestic ways.
I played in the meadow, but loved holding your hand.
You taught me about life and helped me understand
That love, like these flowers, though silent, can voice
A splendiferous message when it’s my choice,
To express love with actions like forgive and forget;
To greet all with a smile and be glad that we’ve met;
To lead a colorful, bountiful life and have fun,
Praising the heavens as do flowers the sun.
This selfless love that you’ve forever shown me
Has opened my eyes so that I’ll always see
The softness that buttercups and bluebells display
With their colors and scents that can lighten life’s way.
Thank you, dearest mother, for your hand from the start.
Though flowers will fade, your love lives deep in my heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home Away From Home
I walk down the small path
bordered either side by bluebells.
As I walk down the path
which I have done hundreds of times before.
There is a stirring in the trees,
which prompts my memories,
of faces that have come and gone
over the passing years.
Also comes back the laughter
that never seems to subside
and all the jokes
we’ve played on one another.
I smiled as I stopped for a moment
to look around at everything there.
It seems like only yesterday
that I came along here,
but in reality, the years have flown by.
Some faces I remember
will never be coming back to visit,
while the others I might see someday.
Even when the sad day comes
when I can’t come anymore.
I will leave with many photographs
in my memory store.
A few more steps I take
and the town comes into view
along with friendly faces
on the boardwalks there.
There are a few whose names I forget,
but the faces I know so well
in this little town
I call my home away from home.
15 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Ballad Of Jingle Jangle Jim (Fun Poem 32)
This is the ballad of Jingle Jangle Jim,
the bravest man there has ever been.
Jingle Jangle was walking through a wooded jungle one day,
when from a bush he heard a maiden call out in distress.
‘Oooh there is a snake in the grass.’
Jingle Jangle being the brave sort,
just jumped over the bush to save the young lass.
He grabbed hold of the six-inch snake in the grass.
The biggest grass snake he ever saw.
He wrassled that snake here and there,
even got it in a scissor grip.
He grabbed it with both hands
and waved it about a bit more,
and then rolled repeatedly on the wooded jungle floor.
The poor little snake looked cross-eyed
at this Jingle Jangle twit.
‘Hey, you idiot, you could have killed me.
Now just what do you think you were doing? ’
Jingle Jangle looked at the snake for a minute.
‘Wait just a minute, snakes don’t talk.’
‘This one can and if you don’t put me down I’ll arrest you,
I‘m an undercover pygmy policeman you see.
I’m on a stake out to catch the thief
who has been stealing Farmer Giles,
beautiful, award winning blue-belles.
Now put me down you Jingle Jangle idiot,
or Ill arrest you for the said crime.’
Jingle Jangle dropped him right there.
The grass snake was as dizzy as hell.
He looked up at Jingle Jangle,
shook his little head.
’Farmer Giles can look after
his own precious bluebells
’cause I quite.
The story is not over just yet,
for Jingle Jangle Jim and the snake
did a moonlight flit
with all of Farmer Giles precious bluebells.
The moral of the story
is never ask a snake in the grass
to look after your precious bluebells.
poem by David Harris
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My morning began
Taking bluebells to Mother
Maybe the last time
However ~ the less I come
The closer our next meeting
tanka by Res John Burman
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Roses
Roses grow on prickly vines,
most of the roses I have known
have been picked,
and in another’s garden grow.
Their perfume scents another’s home
to mature as time flows
bringing happiness as they grow
though summer’s sun
and winter’s snows.
My rose lives within my home
and still warms this heart of mine.
3 October 2009
poem by David Harris
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Ragged and Wise.
I Looked into my garden,
At the bluebells.
And thought of a wood,
Far away and long ago.
I could never return to (anymore) .
Ragged and wise.
I never, ever saw your lies.
Why is love so unwise?
I`ve loved my garden,
It`s every new growth and nuance.
But never as much as
I longed for
Your smiling eyes.
Once more,
Ragged and unwise.
poem by Peter Vealey
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5. My Bitten Finger
Much bolder than a lion
As crafty as a fox
That little furry hamster
I took home in a box
In the pet shop looking cuddly
Picked quickly didn’t linger
I should have seen the warning signs
When it bit my middle finger
I picked it for its cuteness
Dark brown with bright red eyes
I pointed out the one I’d picked
Imagine my surprise
It reared up where I pointed
Its whiskers started twitching
Then bit into my finger
For sure it needed stitching
The owner thought it funny
I tried to shake it free
This furry little ball of fluff
Had certainly picked me
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Her Eyes Are Bluebells Now
Her eyes are bluebells now, her voice a bird,
And the long sighing grass her elegy;
She who a woman was is now a star
In the high heaven shining down on me.
poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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A Lover's Vow To Spring
Love, there's an ancient quarry where bluebells grow
Like sapphires in the melting snow
Like quartz-clocks they tell the time is spring
If ‘ere you'd listen, you might just here them ring
Like a mountain Elysian blue spring,
Oh darling do you hear an after-ring!
And if so take mine own!
For now I've loved all summers are postpone.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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