"piping" poems
Dope, money, and hoes [x9]
[Verse 1: Da$h]
Ain't write it, thought of this when I was drunk driving
Like I had a license, been swerving through the intersect
Just to make the ******* wet, breakfast: yac and cigarettes
Feds about the only threat, spit nasty like my throat is strep
She working at the pyramid, shake her **** for some bucks from Tut
Pharaoh to the marrow, Cleopatra roll my dutch
Dour blunts they double stuffed, got a ***** stupid chopped
Used to squad these faggots' wives, the ******* that I used to pop
Wear the **** I used to cop, respect your elders lil *****
Ain't even of age to drink, I get your ** to buy me liquor
'Linquent **** I live for it, they tryin but might die for it
These drugs got my brain, money got my mind finding fun in crime
******* love my rhymes, to be honest I love their mouth at campuses
Looking for talents just like I'm a college scout
Ask her what she shout, I’m ashin' her on the ******* couch
[Verse 2: Da$h]
Dope, money, and hoes, getting dope money from shows
She sniff her coke then she blow, **** it, I don’t judge it though
Sugar free, no love for sure, just put 'em on Sepulveda
Benefits and bank rolls, all a ***** really want from her
And when she bring it back, call my brother hit the trap
Invested in a couple packs, will probably see a couple stacks from what he talkin
Money hulking like Bruce Banner
Panarama day dreaming, While she downin' my ***** on camera
Life's in action, piping, smashing whatever you call it
Smoke a 'Port and I'm off but they ******* think I lost it
And my dog facing blunts while I feed my pups bath salts
Infiltrate my castle, take your face like it's a mask boss
Pass raw flesh and bone, money long like small intestines
Homes I'm taking breakfast, long as getting checks involved H´z *****
Cause if you ain't know, AraabMuzik
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
In the blue sky just a few specks of gray
In the evening of a beautiful day
Though last night it rained and more rain on the way
And that more rain is needed 'twould be fair to say
On a gum tree in the park the white backed magpie sing
He sings all year round from the Summer to Spring
But in late Winter and Spring he even sings at night
So nice to hear him piping in the moonlight
Spring it is with us and Summer is near
And beautiful weather for the time of year
Such beauty the poets and the artists inspire
Of talking of Nature could one ever tire
Her green of September Mother Nature wear
And the perfumes of blossoms in the evening air.
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 5:54 PM UTC
Arsiero, Asiago,
Half a hundred more,
Little border villages,
Back before the war,
Monte Grappa, Monte Corno,
Twice a dozen such,
In the piping times of peace
Didn't come to much.
8.4k
(To Sarah Bernhardt)
How vain and dull this common world must seem
To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream
For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played
With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.
8.1k
how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept
neither rest nor return
are purpose
neither love nor hate
are purpose
neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question
perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain
it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god
and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent
but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
My mother groand! my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mother’s breast.
3.7k
(spot the Carol)
These three kings of orient are
unfairly competing with one little drummer boy,
all dashing through the snow for the last boughs of holly
to lay them before the King.
Meanwhile three ships come sailing in
and certain poor shepherds leave their hot chestnuts,
each keen to hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace.
Later,
in Royal David’s city,
there are ladies leaping, pipers piping
and drummers …
drumming, apparently.
The restless cattle are lowing big-time;
no wonder the baby’s awake.
All have come to proclaim the Messiah’s birth;
the king-of-angels baby who out-shines any wondrous star.
A child born of Mary, on this most holy of nights;
born to give us second birth:
This is the Saviour who is Christ the Lord,
come to redeem us all.
‘Come – receive – your - king.’
Merry Christmas.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
Lukewarm food
on a piping hot plastic plate.
Dinner for one;
again I indulge.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Everyone dismisses me as insane,
But I am a prophet,
Profiting,
On the inane.
When I get lost in stargazing
My cup of cardamom chai
Configuring constellations of cream,
I pocket piping hot horoscopes
Right out of the tea kettle.
Remember --
I drink in the universe,
Sanctimoniously symbiotic.
So the next time I offer,
To read your tea leaves,
Left dried at the bottom of the cup,
Don't scoff me off,
Because what I do,
Is translate the universe's art.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Pagmasdan mo ako.
Damhin mo ang magaspang kong palad na bagamat ay nangulubot ay syang humahalik sa putikang sakahang pinaghihirapan.
Titigan mo ang mga mata kong hapung-hapo sa pagtanggap sa bagsak-presyong palay na katumbas ng presyo ng isang tsitsirya.
Ngunit, pakikinggan mo ba sila sa sasabihin nilang wag kaming papamarisan?
Sa bawat hakbang ko papalayo sa lupang sakahan
ay sya namang hakbang ko papalapit sa mataas na antas ng pakikibaka.
Kakalabanin ang pasistang gobyernong pilit yumuyurak sa katulad naming mga dukha.
–
Isa ako sa may pinakamaliliit na tinig sa lipunan.
Isa ako sa hindi maintindihan ng nakararami na isa sa mga nagtatanim ngunit ngayon ay walang makain.
Patawarin mo ako sa paglisan ko’t pagsama sa mga pagpupulong at sa pakikidigma para sa natatanging kilusan.
Dahil ako ang bumabagtas sa estrangherong lugar na kung tawagin ay Maynila.
Ako ngayon ang mukha ng mga magbubukid, ng mga inapi at ng mga pinagkaitan ng karapatan sa ilalim ng berdugong administrasyon ng bayan kong hindi na nakalaya.
Ako ang estrangherong kumilala sa bawat sulok at lagusan ng Mendiola na piping-saksi sa mga panaghoy naming kailanma’y hindi pakikinggan ng nakatataas.
Ako at ng aking mga kasama, ang bagong dugong isasalin sa sistemang ninanais naming patakbuhin.
Patawarin mo ako sa pagpili kong matangay sa agos ng mabilisang kamatayan tungo sa pulang kulay ng rebolusyon.
Ngunit, kailanman ay hindi nyo maiintindihan,
na hindi naging mali na ipaglaban ko ang aking bayan.
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 10:15 PM UTC
Half of a stale croissant,
A cupcake with no icing,
Partially consumed slice of cold pizza,
A special computer file,
Called old and cold,
Some files nothing more
Than titles on a snowy screen.
A smorgasbord of delicacies,
A mason jar with a lidded hole
To keep the prisoners alive but in,
The insides of my refrigerator brain.
Where the partial poem pastries reside.
Some jots and dashes get microwaved,
Served up instantly, hot n' piping,
Read me read me now for I am
Ready to be served.
Ah, the others, miserable creatures in a
Special Victims Unit,
In a ward where the doctor has no more
Release forms to sign,
Dream on, awaiting a super nova,
A comet tail, a torn screen window corner,
To engineer an escape.
Kitty, my kitty,
Give me your tired, poor scraps of prose
Yearning to be free,
I have a place for them, where
They will reside unhappy, but free,
In good company,
Waiting for the day they get to see the
Statue of Liberty.
Until that day, when,
Your happy love poems yearning to be whole,
Say, "now I have the ending,"
To let them breathe...
Now I have the closure,
That is the opening,
I will guard them closely,
As if they were fragments of mine own
Blood, sweat and tears.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
3k
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
So I piped with merry cheer.
‘Piper, pipe that song again;’
So I piped: he wept to hear.
‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
‘Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.’
So he vanish’d from my sight;
And I pluck’d a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
2.7k
You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
You know how when
You put a kettle on a stove,
Maybe for tea
Or something else maybe
You get the kettle
To put on the stove
And you put water in it
From the tap
Or if you're in
The inner city
Then maybe from
A jug
From cvs
Or rite aid
I don't know which is closer
To your kettle
That you're putting the
Water in
To put on the stove
But the tap smells funny
And tastes like minerals
And artificiality
So if you have a bit of money, Maybe an on-tap
Filter or brita
You turn the little
**** on the front
Of the oven
And you hear
The distressed, hurried
Sound of a component
Desperately trying
To do its job
It seems like forever
But it's just a couple
Seconds
The spark catches
The gas
And glorious blue
Energy leaps out
And causes
Instant condensation
On the side of the
Kettle you've filled
With water
And put on the stove
And then
Primordial chemistry
As old as old
Changes ****
Around inside
No time
For a chem lesson
Just listen
And then after a few minutes
A blast of
Piping hot
Shrill
Pure energy
Explodes out of the top
In an earsplitting
Harried call
To you to let you
Know the kettle
You put on the stove
Is now ready
For you.
All that pressure,
From so much activity,
Before you even
Turned the heat on
You walked around
Gathering materials
And moving about
And all the calories
You burn thinking
About it
And then the
Thermal activity
Which is breathtaking
In its simple
But ever so complicated
Perfect order
And predictability
And all of this simply
Amazing process
Culminates
In one constant,
High energy geyser
Of released pressure.
This is equivalent
To the results
Of one thought
About you.
What a life
As a kettle.
Yea.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
What are all these disturbed fallacies
That taunt and tease at my ear drums
They dance around my brain
Piping little golden trumpets
Playing songs that move my body
In unknown wicked ways
They are never ceasing
Always hanging 'bout
I wish they would stop screaming
I wish they wouldn't shout
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
Soft, knit sweaters
And piping-hot tea
Make for very toasty weathers
And cozy times for me.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
A mechanized millennium
studded
with silver rivets hammered from
the once glorious dreams of the populace
They are now all identical.
cylindrical
instruments that pierce the flesh of progress
conformity:
the price paid to advance across the toll bridge
that is "the betterment of society"
But bland and boring can hardly be better
than stark and standoffish rants of individual pipe dreams
They took those too-
the pipe dreams are now piping in the plumbing that runs beneath the streets
we walk all over them.
only half realizing they exist and not half caring
anymore
with spirits that lack luster our
low lackluster dreams are dying
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
my reincarnation is that of a treasured cup
i’m almost entirely certain that my death will play a role in the cup’s creation
whether it be the clay I molded my alien hitch hiking signs into
or its maker lays back and reads in a hammock the same hours I do
just half way around the world
once my soul has leaked and drained through hell’s piping system
and what’s left escapes through condensation
the clouds will carry me to a bazaar
where the ceramic painting class is struggling to use oils
with rainy weather
in ******* up the work of most attendees
several of them will hide me in backs of cupboards
until they move or my soul dies of dust
one, if god allow two
painted mugs
are repeatedly stacked with layers of sediment
coffee, *****
tea, *****
coffee
tea with *****
a cigarette accidentally
my father should feel proud to know
his son’s vices followed him through the afterlife
that i got a nice home
that i accepted leaving parts of my soul in old cupboards
(Dad), i didn’t mean to contact the aliens so recklessly,
and i feel like I have to get off my *** if i read too much
i’m sorry i thought smoking was non-conformist
you’re right, i lied a couple of times
it cost just as much integrity as you said it would
i know i will do much better as a treasured cup
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me.
Pipe a song about a Lamb:
So I piped with merry chear,
Piper, pipe that song again—
So I piped, he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
Sing thy songs of happy chear,
So I sung the same again
While he wept with joy to hear
Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
So he vanished from my sight
And I pluck’d a hollow reed.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
2.2k
Like sugar from a shaker, snow falls on Saul the baker
delivering steamy biscuits from the shop he calls his home
to a drafty run down mansion where the princess on her pension
can be testy with her tension, hence she's living on her own.
Today he took her order, "One fresh bagel, for a quarter
'cause I haven't seen the likes of one since I left my childhood home".
Well he'd never baked a bagel, but he's not one to finagle
and wanting just to please her, finds a recipe from Rome.
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind~
no woman's gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So to win her deep affection he packs up his best confection
takes his chances on the back roads, now iced over in the storm.
Finds her waiting in the foyer with her thrifty 5 cent lawyer
complaining 'bout the day old bread and... "this bagel isn't warm!"
So..... he heats it on the fire, 'cause her heart is his desire
but she won't accept the bagel for it's not quite the right form
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind
no woman gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So he runs back to his bagel board and pounds the dough and rolls a cord
and shapes the perfect circle to a bagel lovers dream,
He boils and then he bakes it and to her mansion then he takes it
piping hot but now she wants it with churned butter from fresh cream!
Well he's starting to get antsy but he knows the farmer, Clancy
whose butter is fresh-churned and known by counties far and wide.
He heads out to the pasture and he buys what he is after
and returns to find, 'tis so unkind, the princess, she had died.
The baker in his stricken state swallows the bagel off the plate
he calls the cops, pulls out the stops and serves the day old bread.
He gives the details more than once of how he ate the evidence
and though he thought his story bought, they arrested him instead.
"Tis a likely story", was the only thing he heard
although they'd bought his baked goods, they could not buy his word.
"The Baker is a Butcher", is what the tabloid said,
"better to take your bagel cold than take it in the head."
But all was not as it appears, she owed the butcher in arrears
and when they went to check her craw they found a hunk of mutton.
It ended all without a trial, the butcher he did reconcile
and posted "Pay the butcher now and do not to be a glutton."
And Saul was thinking to himself, " I must be way out of mind",
no woman's gonna want a baker's life",
but he carried deep inside his heart the will to be a friend
and it turned rather nicely as she willed him in the end.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
I can see you with your wings
That the Angels gave to you
I can see you with the scars
in a crimson shaded hue
I can see you have your wings
I think I always could
You always were an angel
I thought you understood
I can see you flying high
soaring eagle scout from God
gliding past my house
with a fluted piping nod
Soar out to the glaciers
to the highest angel nest
you've earned your lovely wings
just like Michael and the rest
I see you have my wings
They're waiting in your hand
a song for me you sing
so glorious and grand
it's almost like you planned
your hourglass of sand
was running out
you see I have my ring
my angel from above
and while you have your wings
My finger wears your love
One day I'll take wing too
to heavens gate I will fly
no longer burning pain
no longer tears to cry
until then
we have this love
those wings will have to wait
I already tried to ask
no answer came from Fate
shaded feathers my love basks
I hope you take your wings
and fly places you want to go
So when I get my wings
those places you can show
our destiny you'll know
until then....prepare a place for me.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Sparkling gusts of silver wind
drive howling through the vale,
the skies are grey and somber
and the air grows foul and stale.
The barren trees stretch overhead,
guarding dark and light
against the winter nightmares,
and the dangers of the night.
The people huddle closely,
stoking fires to keep them warm,
as the snowflakes fall in silence
for a coming winter storm.
Thier frozen hands, thier tired eyes
remember ice and snow,
instead of grass and sunshine
when all things start to grow;
the laughing steps of children,
the hills that called and bade,
the dancing windy flowers
in a thousand different shades.
There in the long cold shadows,
a solemn vow is made-
that green grass will soon awaken,
and offer boughy shade.
For winter's time is ending,
the sounds of life, more than words;
when the piping call of feathers
in the branches high were heard.
Listen now, sad people;
all is not so dark-
the summer's breath's returning,
in the humble voice of larks.
So do not fear the weeks ahead,
the long, capricious cold-
for we are made a promise,
from days long dead and old.
Ice will give way to water,
and water will give us Spring;
Soon, it will be naught but mem'ries
as we celebrate new things.
So, cheer your hearts, my sisters-
soon dark will become light-
Our hearts will ease, our peace be real,
we will be alright.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC