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Sara Kellie Sep 2018
Starting with coverage from BBC2.

Brushing calm shadows into
pastel hills.
A rhythm paints terrain a
sugary brown.
Flicks of green create
fauliage serene.
The clean tasteless air is
cotton soft.
A effortless stream runs
cobalt clear.
Where salmon gymnastics begin
each year.
Squirrels practice dance routines a
glamorous red.
The doormice dressed and ready
for bed.

Continuing coverage on Ch4.

The perch, the tench sat together on an underwater bench.
Discussing bait and hooks whilst flicking through some fishing books.
What's he eating? Mr Mole,
it looks like cheese and ham
on a soft brown roll.
There's a chicken and a fox that
live round here.
Seriously, they've been dating each other for about a year.
Now, if you take the next left,
then over the stye.
There's a duck lives there and he's got a glass eye.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Poetry by Kaydee present what is believed to be a creative first.
One story, one habitat, one poem giving you the viewer, two different narratives.
Now here's another twist because instead of you, the reader, reading a poem in the traditional way. We handed our work straight to two television broadcasters and they have each made a program exactly as they wanted with no constraints.
Showcasing two well known broadcasters with polar opposite styles.
Poetry by Kaydee presents to you 'The Meadow'. We take up the story with BBC2 before switching over to CH4.
Will you notice a change of style as we go from the 'high brow' production of the BBC to a more laid back, social media type of production from Channel 4.
gleck Feb 5
The pleasant lingering smell of rose hips,
feels almost healing,
as we tread through the garden -
together barefoot and vulnerable.

I won’t shy away from the prickly green grass,
then in the same way,
let me tickle you with my stubble when we laugh,
together joyful and crude.

One has to be careful not to lose themselves completely
to rub your intricate fingerprint away into another's skin in patterns,
because although the body feels heavy when weak kneed -
the weight of another’s soul is too much to bear alongside your own.

I won’t hold your head underwater in the fresh lake
then in the same way,
let me breathe when we lay by its side -
together entangled and safe.

The passing time made you my involuntary complex,
feels nearly daunting
as I adore this so shamelessly -
us together - balanced and in love.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Once, the summer sun will rise in London
Like the half of the Ge meets the other half.
Like a magic by the Lamp of Aladdin
The love flame hidden in the chest lits out!

Like a blooming rose in a glowing beam of light,
Like a smiling face speaks a gentle word,
Like a beautiful sunrise colour in the first light!

The summer in London will pop and sizzle
We will see a threshold in our land.
The rose for a while is tucked away
Off the winter and is given to the sun
Winter is not forever spring is on the corner
Come back in the sun with the early bird
Before Cinderella takes on the primrose path.

Keeping an eye on a thriller is in the winter’s field
Oozy ozone misty land gets a gingerly seasoning
What on earth will it strike, will it dish out?
Ah, the sun will pop out like a river breeze.

Like a southern song singing on a dream scene.
a smooth fairy dance facing the Moon
a thrill of exposing Stonehenge once and for all
a melodious raindrop in the serene pond
a butterfly dance on the rose
a turned on tall tale of the blue peacock
Like a pure belief in heaven without a pinch of salt!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Rashika Ahuja Aug 2018
Haven't you noticed my trembling legs, when you are close enough,
The bare touch of your fingers from the very first time,
The touch never felt strange to me, you knew there have been others too.
The shiver it got through me, was something I've experienced for the first time.
The blissful kiss that made me realize , I have never been in love before.
You noticed the tears in my eyes, you noticed I was trying to find someone from the recent past through you.
You stopped and came back to me, though truthfully I never wanted you to stop.
Those hands running back and forth were bringing me back to life.
I watched you sleeping so peacefully in my arms, that moment itself made me fall in love with you.
You thought, I did not notice how carefully you wrapped me in that blanket, though you were feeling the same amount of cold.
And how I sneaked out of it, just to wrap you in the same.
Then the morning came, and I never wanted you to leave.
I wanted to confess that you are carrying a piece of me, but I decided to let you go unknowingly.
You made the day with the parting kiss on my forehead and gracefully carried a part of me with you.
Joanna May 16
Mystery Island across from me. I wish I had the tools to come and see, all the treasures and secrets within.

I wish I had the means to crossover before it grows too dim. But instead, I will just sit and wonder what mysteries you hold.

A flower, a book, and a bit room to breathe, I will sit here and let my imagination run away with me.

Weaving a picture of what is within. I see it as a castle built from the outside-in.
I wrote this about a small Island in the center of Greenlake.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Haply but Sweetly, Serene Volumes mix
And Summer's Fornication took its toll
Please don't React. I am not here to fix
Those very Clouds you hard-worked to install
My name is Supporter; Though it sounds strange
To write this Foreword which read too extreme
Trust me this fully; I am well within range
To lend you my Honest and Golden Ring
Indeed Family does matter; Much on Sport
An Athlete like you needs Supplement Prime
This I can assure: They Love you formore
Never to betray your Sensitive Time.
Much grateful am I to scribble this Verse
Now win your Medal; Let Nike converse.
#rachel_bugg
Äŧül Apr 2013
Come to a garden of roses with me,
Serene it is fuller with roses to see,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.

We shall not try to pluck any roses,
For the thorns dissuade any poses,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.

We can't sit guarding the flowers,
Very busy in our mini lives we're,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.

I'll set-up a flaming ring of fire,
Seeking fine protection for them,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.


Let's care for the roses as if our,
As if our little & young children,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.

To help us get them blue & red,
Give them all suitable nutrition,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.

Their presence is eye-pleasing,
We let them be in our garden,
They are here,
For you & me,
But just to see.
***************************************
My HP Poem #178
© Atul Kaushal
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2018
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Cause amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern!
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise.

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart at the end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
Cress Rosario May 2014
Morning sunlight
Summer breeze
Warm wind
Makes me smile

Strong coffee
Tasty breads
Sweet aroma
Makes me smile

Calm music
Quiet tunes
Serene melody
Makes me smile

Little things
Lovely mornings
Peaceful mind
Makes me smile
CK Baker Apr 2017
i had a dream
i was flying
in the arms
of this grande old kite
and we drifted through canyons
and across flowered fields
over endless pastures
and restless seas

i looked down
somewhere near
the haldimand half-point
and saw friends
and patrons
smiling
while the busy keepers
of oasis
were singing
and loosening their vowels

familiar faces
were everywhere
and it was warm
and serene
they were charting courses
and building dreams
laying praise
untarnished by imposing views
and as much as i tried
i couldn’t express my gratitude

when i woke
i was lying
with an angel
at my back
whose eyes
were wide
and blue
and her words came crystal clear;
kindness will not be sold

and as i turned
to reach her hand
the rain had gathered
and washed away
a stain
For Jack and May
Mygreatestescape Sep 2018
In the morning when
I have spent myself,
I am serene like
a hurricane,
--(I will call myself
Katrina)
a giant conspiracy
of lovers,
I took a step
without any feet,
the preacher
speaks of god,
of a childhood innocence
that was lost before
it begun,
the stillness of
the soul,
living in the
abyss of
my loneliness,
I cannot believe in
a god that lets
the world rot,
that lets flies die on windowsills,
but yet I believe in
a beloved that
makes me sweep
the ground,
stoop till my back aches,
who looks at me
without any eyes,
and brings tears
to mine,
everything that I ever
loved grows like
flowers
when I see this beloved,
if I know of love
--like a child,
I only know through
my beloved,


and yet,

yet  

    yet


god is a tattered
coat that my grandmother
wears,

to have you listen
to me -- that is my beloved,

spilling my tears onto
ginseng leaves,
dust gathers
like grime,
a second layer of skin,
watching Aphrodite rise
from homes riddled
by lust,

this whole nation cursed,
and yet here is mecca (Medina)
here is Bethlehem
where apples grow freely,
and Eden lies north,
where money rains onto
nudists,

here lives the prowling
sphinx,
here Thebes rises
from the gold dust of
the Sahara ,
her salivating tongue
licks up our dissent,
and our leaders
drags Artemis by
her hair,
the sinners of
earthly lust,
Lucifer wears
armani suits
and defiles cherubs,

they have lit our
children on fire,
and have called
it a sacrifice,
we watched kindness
fall into the deep marrows
of the Styx,

living in a nation
of free will,
undressed free
will and
ravished her against her
will,

my beloved
who wears my anger
like furs,
and milks the world
like a daunting king.
suis-je en train de mourir? - Am I dying?
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2018
Low tide,
at morning’s first light,
gently washing
sea jewels clean.

Fibonacci spirals,
surf waves in to shore,
giving proof
of masterful perfection.

Foaming surf,
hushed by dawn’s calming hand,
offers up its treasure
of scallops, whelks, and conchs.

My seaside beach,
awash in earth’s riches,
misty and serene awaits,
as dawn’s stars fall from the heavens.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
How can I see you yet never go Blind
As Tradition and Heart seek to acclaim?
I carry no Surveys; But keep in mind
A Friend such as you has naught to explain
Sweet and Sour Words not; Joy discovers Joy
And Celebration does reward the Humble
Your Grin is shy by your arms; As a Toy
Compare a Fattened Bee to a Bumble
Trust is falling in love with Pockets. True,
Digging deep you reach Wisdom by the Card
I suggest you shuffle; Then Five Trinkets
Spell out the Sum of who you really are:
Simple. ***. Serene. Trustsworthy. Beauty.
All locked in your Chest to open when ready.
#hrushby
It can be Frustrating to look so mean
When Success presents your Certificate
And Honest Fans some to most turn so Green
When their Tangent Voices are celibate
Now my only Say to unsoak the Blame
Is when that Sponge within Speaks without Words
You know it as HEART; That Character sane,
Serene discharge of Flavoured Bees and Birds
Even when Flowers rebel and Worms spit
Still your Compassion can embrace them all
Believe this: In, to Out, Around and Fit
Past the Royal Egg survive a Great Fall.
It's been there in you; And all of this Time
My Lesson to learn from Wise Owls behind.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
wordvango Sep 2018
Honey of the autumn moon
where in sweetest nectar
Flows
Golden on the ivy leaves
Through all of Eden's
Garden shows
A bud on stem
Reaching high
Content to wait among
vanilla stars  
And chocolate skys
In dew wet grass
Gazing a lover's eyes
A minted bath of
Sky ice cream
Looks like she
Must taste
Serene
sophia Jun 2017
it wasn’t chaotic.
it was calm and serene,
like the ocean.
the soft pitter patter
of the rain on the roof,
and the cool air it brought.
it was a sip
of freshly brewed coffee,
natural with no additives,
whatsoever.
the gut feeling
of knowing where home was.
and that is how
you came into my life.


the star that shines the brightest
amongst the pitch black sky.
it’s the white cloud that outshines
all the gray and gloomy ones.
the perfect fit of the last piece
to the unfinished puzzle.
it's the warm, fuzzy feeling
of getting into bed
early on a Friday night.
and that is how it was
when I started loving you.


it’s like a deeply cut wound,
one that’s inundating
with crimson colored blood,
having a tinge of maroon.
it induces pain
with every inbreathe
and exhalation.
it manages to have
the appearance of a scar,
yet it still feels so fresh
like a bruise.
and that is how it felt
when you left.


it was filled with haze
and suffocation.
the uncontrollable fast paced beat
of your heart.
Mona Lisa's enigmatic smile,
one that is hardly understood
by majority of the world.
a bite of dark chocolate,
bitter and sweet.
and this is my survival.
stuck in the third season,
but i'll make it to the fourth
Emma Jul 2018
She was never sure it was what she wanted,
arguing with a man who wanted her to carry a piece of them both.
But sure enough a small bump formed,
and from the first heartbeat she fell in love.

Everything from then on was tiny socks in tiny shoes,
fluffy cribs in shades of pink and blue.
Excitement and worry and fierce protection,
arms curling on top of her belly in intense affection.

But when the time came, something went horribly wrong,
when there was no screeching and crying to break the calm.
A child, still, unusually peaceful and serene,
she held the tiny shell where her baby should have been.

Everything in her life reminded her of her pain,
and nothing inside her could ever be the same.
Not even he could understand,
how she was stranded in her ****** wasteland.

Clothes and toys quickly packed in a box,
her body still creating milk for a being that would never grow.
she'd have to find a way to move on, living with the constant ache,
of the loss of a person she would never know.
ryn Dec 2014
Blades of grass shivered
As the fingers of the wind strum
A hum ever soft and hauntingly serene
Sweetest song my heart reluctantly would welcome

I stare into the minuscule expanse of land
The horizon does not exist far here...
But still my eyes would stretch
To see the obscured very clear

All alone save for the company of a lone tree
And the jovial chirps of annoying birds
On this island with very little space
Trying to find comfort in ill-arranged words

My eyes do see but my heart remains obstinate
Beauty of the universe would always invite
I could just jump and join in its merriment
But... I am just a tethered kite

I'd want to rise to the highest skies
To be one with the nature's song, composed and tuned
Alas bound to a string, I can only go so far
I am my own island,
                      *helpless and marooned...
Rich Hues Jan 26
Straight backed, expressionless and completely serene,
Somewhat wooden and as black as her queen,
He knew she was trouble, he'd met her type before,
She moved to c5 after he'd moved **** to e4.
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