"meadowland" poems
Step into the sunshine my friend,
let it kiss your face and refine your spirit into a golden bar.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
come out of the shadows of your past,
emerge as a saintly being clothed in angelic white.
Step into the sunshine my friend;
let the great sun inflame your soul
with magnificent grace and transformative power.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
wipe the darkness from your eyes
see what miracles the new day brings.
Believe in all the light you see.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
let radiant beams of love ignite your passions;
your heart will bust forth like an exploding star
washing the galaxy with positive energy.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
receive the fantastic glories the day brings to you
and revel in them all.
Step into the sunshine my friend;
bathe yourself in the warm river of humanity.
Recognize yourself for the first time in its watery mirror.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
witness the delicate flower break through the hard crust of earth,
marvel as its fragrant bud blooms.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
experience the wonder in a child’s face,
let them lead you to the next 10,000 sunrises.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
feel the soft rays touch your wounds;
know how the daylight can heal.
Step into the sunshine my friend,
smell the ocean heave against the climbing sun
listen to the wisps of the meadowland's verdant fragrance.
Step into the sunshine my friend;
see the sparrow take flight toward the light,
watch its tireless wings glide on a blanket of rising thermal air.
Step into the sunshine my friend.
Music Selection: Ramsey Lewis
Sun Goddess
Oakland
122698
jbm
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
Spleen
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The roses were so very red;
The ivy, impossibly black.
Dear, with a mere a turn of your head,
My despair’s flooded back!
The sky was too gentle, too blue;
The sea, far too windswept and green.
Yet I always imagined―or knew―
I’d again feel your spleen.
Now I'm tired of the glossy waxed holly,
Of the shimmering boxwood too,
Of the meadowland’s endless folly,
When all things, alas, lead to you!
Paul-Marie Verlaine (1844-1896) was a French poet and a prominent figure in the Symbolist and Decadent poetry movements. Verlaine has been called "one of the most purely lyrical of French poets." Keywords/Tags: Verlaine, French, translation, spleen, roses, ivy, despair, sky, sea, blue, green, red, black, holly, boxwood, Arthur Rimbaud
Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 2:17 AM UTC
Some think this world a vale of tears, or worry and of sighs;
That Life's a great big lottery, in which few win a prize.
I read some hopeless verses once that don't deserve to last,
They told how the mill can never grind with water that is past.
I'd like to change that fallacy which has caused so many a tear,
And by transposing make it bear a message of good cheer
And point the way of winds of hope, like pennant on a mast,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.
A mountain stream comes trickling in the sunlight down the hill,
And gathers volume until it has strength to run the mill;
It happily continues then, upon its useful way,
Turns other mills still further down, until it joins the bay.
Its temporary mission o'er, it sweeps out to the sea
With other useful waters bearing it company;
And there all peacefully they rest, beneath the shining sun,
Who seems to think their mission is scarcely yet begun.
With gentle force He lifts them up in vapors to the sky,
And gathers them in fleecy clouds in His domain so high,
Where kindly winds then waft them back to that mountain home,
From which a few short hours before we saw them start to roam.
The cooling night then causes them to fall in gentle showers,
A blessing to that mountainside, to grass and trees and flowers;
And in the dawn of early morn we find them back once more
In that same little mountainside, but stronger than before.
They gather volume as they come a-tumbling down the hill,
And then with added vigor again they turn the mill;
And then in play they rush away, through meadowland and town,
And every mill again is turned as they go dancing down.
The brightest day is no more useful than the darkest night,--
Our troubles soon would disappear if we'd view them aright.
Good fortune may be holding back her best things to the last,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.
And that same little mountain stream
Has always been to me
But one of Nature's many proofs
Of Immortality.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Walking again
in evening dusk
it is a must
walking through immense wonders
poetrysites, poetryhomes and all that wonders
need to walk this evening bright
see the afterglow in the ditch alright
greet Hello Poetry and Hello Friend
walking through this immense land
who will I meet, who shall I greet?
where, what and when I'll tweet
all poetryhomes I have been
not really many sites I have seen
sad sound, mad sound, all insane
hellooooo oh no not that again!
walking through this endless land
looking for the right poetryman
afraid I must give up this time
no not again poetry sublime
the evening dusk lasts nightless long
what was that song, what had gone wrong
must I not do this walk or not...?
irgendwo I have a friend, but forgot
in this endless meadowland
just see a tippy-bit of gland
where is that ditch from far a stitch
with enough water and which
this is the source of health
finding it, oh what a wealth!
the afterglow is still the same
where is that source, is this a game?
oh, there at quite a distance
I can see with no resistance
oh so sorry, that man has run away
so, no poetryman this way
but where is the source now
clear chrystal water with that glow
oh look, the source...wow!
surely I'll find that bestimmt now
approaching the ditch that clear water
I hope it shall not alter
anymore into red water
bow myself into deepness
and see the beauty of clearness
wow, clear chrystal source
I see someone, please don't force
oh...hello....no one.....is it?
oh hello....feel so stupid
there is someone, it is Sylvie
now you know it, it's Hello me...
© Sylvia Frances Chan
saturday 13-04-13
@22.31 hrs p.m.- W.E.Time
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Have you ever woke with the illusion?
Today you fuse the fusion?
Thus everything is sweet
But ….
By the time
The sun goes down
Into your cage
You will retreat
Moments of lucidity
Plague the true validity
Of a mind maligned and broke
Quick …
Catch the Keeper of the Key
Omniscience for all to see
For this here life is NOT a joke
I
Poke
I
Choke
I sometimes Stroke
But all to no avail
The monkey chatter's constantly
In his universal veil
What to do?
Where to go?
How to fight his hold?
Maybe …
In another life
My existence will be told
I know you see my weakness
As a blanket
Safe and warm
But…
Have YOU been in monkey’s meadow?
When the bees begin to swarm?
**H u m m i n g
B u z z i n g
H u m m i n g**
Bedlam in my brain
Frantic and frenetic to board this Honey Train
Traversing peeling papers
Unconnected on the floor
I now accept what fate beholds me
I am but a prisoner of war
Please ….
Take my hand
Please …
Soothe my soul
Please …
Keep ME safe from ME
And when I live my brand new life
I will be your devoted devotee
I will pick you flowers every day
Born of wild stock
We will live and love so merrily
Souls will interlock
And if you feel a little down
I will gently take your hand
Soothe your soul
Keep you safe
In my silken meadowland
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 7:28 AM UTC
The best armor is a mirror.
Paint it on your bare skin.
People will see things clearer
when they begin to stare in.
They will see themselves in you.
Show each your empty hand.
Walk together, pas-de-deux,
like lambs in any meadowland.
Share your armor with the world,
till all egos disappear.
A love will bloom and unfurl,
and the hatred that sows fear
can finally be thrown aside.
No single life will have to hide.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
the wind embraces her
and sends her embroidered hair
to streaming like wild creatures dancing on spring breeze
she runs her fingertips along my cheek
and with the measured and carefully tender kiss of her smile
she releases me to wander the sunlight
and seek the turns of phrase
seek the true words that entice the day
to its beautiful paths
she leans over to show
and with such seductive pose
she is like a winterbird
warmth wrapped in brilliant plumage
winterbird perched on summer shore
brilliance feather and song so sweet
her voice is like spring come to the soul's heart
warm flow of such tender thought
that even the darkest must surely embrace with joys
winterbird with her embroidery hair loose
to catch sparkles of sunlight on the beads
to catch the beauty of springs day
winterbird come to sing in dreams
some song to devilish delight dance in wild freedoms
by enchanters firelight
winterbird how would you unlock me
with simple gestures you open the heart
with the ease of magics hand you unearth edens gates
and with simple pure girlish giggles
run dancing across timeless meadowland
she is eden breathing
she the the quiet magic that the world spins upon
like a ring of earthy fires in dreamscapes tale
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
He speaks beneath the concrete
and roots intertwine his voice.
He is fire on the sidewalk
nobody sees him erupt,
silence takes him
to the room of truth
litters him with the lead
You can't face.
He will take off Liberty's blindfold
hold her naked against the mirror,
make her touch the icy ribs of December Skyscrapers,
force her to admit the truth.
She will try to censor him,
his fire will expand and crash
The Meadowland.
Revolution will blaze the haunted maze of butterfly wings and curious eyes will rise when they decide to lift from electric Delphiniums.
He spits out rivers into office buildings, floods the lie with panic,
nobody is safe from drowning.
His sunrise peaks the unholy alliance of Governments,
exposes the superstructure as the fat rich camel denied at needles eye.
He takes off the mask of the executioner, puts him on trial for hypocrisy.
He lands in the middle of conscience, let's it run loose
while everybody hides, petrified behind their denial.
He is smooth jade rising from the bottom of a hidden city dancing in the corner of your peripheral,
his gem holds the secret to your soul.
Wear it and become a Sorcerer
in the Meadowland-
speak his name
and thunder
will answer you.
My name is Henry Miller.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Sun breaks out of the clouds
And all is lit up
Like a wildfire lights up
A meadowland, burns it down
To bring life anew.
Snow melts, and
The world bursts alive.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
*I’ll walk up to her
seek her hand
one September
in the far meadowland!
Where the grass grows tall
the sky is low
dreams are small
hearts aglow!
I’ll walk up to her
taste her lip
one September
love her deep!
Where the winds don’t cease
in their song
just one kiss
grows love long!
I’ll walk up to her
to read her eyes’
shining star
she can’t disguise!
Where the needs are small
in reach is sky
giving easy is all
in love to die!*
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Three climb the hill behind the house:
my master with the yearling cow and
me. The dawn-light
glinting sidelong off the heifer's glossy
hide is a memory of the morning star
reflecting its own shadow. As we
walk out past the fence gate posts
into the winter pasture (now in bloom), the gray
grass swells in the fickle breeze.
I hear the sea swells move across the grain
and splash against my side unrhythmically.
The man, who walks with purpose in his stride,
holds limply wood and steel there at his side
or shifts the load to point into the sky.
The quiet beast, chewing, climbs the hill
from sunrise-side toward its falling down.
I guess she thinks this Eden, (this meadowland
unspoiled) and she the sole inheritor
of a paradise of grain.
But here where we can see the earth
stretch out beyond itself, we pause and tie
the yearling cow to some eternal oak.
The dawn-light in crescendo
echoes off her onyx hide. A crimson sky
offsets a gem of silver on the rise. Now
wood and steel rise coldly through
the chilled mid-morning air. Chewing she
stares down at me her sombre bovine stare.
He raises up his single arm and heavily exhales.
Her stare now without object falls
beside the hallowed tree in rippling
peals of thunder that vibrate
through the dew. She lies where she
belongs upon the earth, black
hide and life-blood mingle with the dirt.
Now two descend the hill into the yard.
My master's path is to the barn
to finish what's been done while I
wrack my mind for how
she might have sinned.
I don't think I will climb that hill again.
I don't think I will climb that hill again...
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC