Tag Archives: outdoors
As we celebrate bonfire night
Let us remember when it all began
Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament
The government of the day was not a fan
His attempt to destroy failed
For his treachery he was hung
Today we all celebrate bonfire night
With everyone having lots of fun
With fireworks and sparklers
Jumping jacks, bangers and mushy peas
The fire burning lightening up the sky
See the rockets flying over the trees
The smell of bonfire toffee
Fireworks displaying so bright
The fire well alight now
Lightning up the darkest night
Remember to be careful
For fireworks can burn and maim
Let your parents light them all
Keeping all away from hurt and pain
Malcolm G Bradshaw
to go on
by tracing back
among hills and backfields
along muddy streets
beneath electric wires
spun like spider webs
coated with bird dropping
to be and become again
in that moment
before our eyes
locked each other
shoreline and sea
with crashing ocean waves
countless leaves have fallen,
even the year already changed her names
since our journey began
from those long seasons of waiting
for armors and chains
to be softened and broken
casted off and replaced
with warmth rivaled
only by first fire
forged from long sad ages
those pieces are still there
buried, and waiting
i have to find them
even as i no longer
remember their finals forms
but what remains of their shape
eaten by the delicious mouth
of when you first arrived
might ignite certain memories
allow me to smith them
to new forms
stronger, sharper edges
to serve as shelter and home
from what howls and roams
even under the light of day
from those with silent feet
arriving in the night and cold
held off at bay before
by your own arms
is a shorter journey, as they say:
long this road may be
but i know the bends
their twist and turns
even dark alleys
no longer hide fear
under the light of memories
coming even without my call
and in their worthy company
i could take my time
—it was here, on this
wide field where hunger
of the flesh enjoyed the feast
of siomai, lumpia, pancakes;
where the thirst of my soul
drank from the cup filled
with the intoxicating wine
of your smiles…
—there, on that very spot
where we abruptly stopped
to look up and gaze
upon the moon and stars
deep in the belly of the city
we laughed when others
curiously followed our eyes
and yet nothing
of what we did see…
the memories are many…
…but they are all that i have.
and yet i will go on
with my face and my shadow
even as i wonder
where are you now?!
i know we share the same sky
but not the same clouds.
in between rest stops
after I close my eyes
but before I go to sleep
i will delve and seek out
for that secret province
in the country of my soul
where stands a simple house
an ordinary wooden box
within whose halls
waits a simple map
that charts the path
not for me nor for you
The Month of April
“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.”
– Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926
“And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.”
– Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant
“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly–and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
– Omar Khayyám
“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.”
– Mark Twain
Note: This webpage is now updated and maintained at a new location.
“Spring would not be spring without bird songs.”
– Francis M. Chapman
“That God once loved a garden we learn in Holy writ.
And seeing gardens in the Spring I well can credit it.”
– Winifred Mary Letts
“O Day after day we can’t help growing older.
Year after year spring can’t help seeming younger.
Come let’s enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen.”
– Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring
“The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.”
– Mathilde Blind, April Rain
“Keep your faith in all beautiful things; in the sun when it is hidden, in the Spring when it is gone.”
– Roy R. Gilson
“Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,
Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,
Through all the moaning chimneys, and ‘thwart all the hollows and angles
Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.
But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow
Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibers that lift
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,
Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.
Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire
(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes–
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect–as if in the brier,
Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.”
– William Dean Howell, Earliest Spring
“When the time is ripe for certain things,
these things appear in different places in the manner
of violets coming to light in the early spring.”
– Farkas Bolyai
“April’s rare capricious loveliness.”
– Julia Dorr
“You start in April and cross to the time of May
One has you as it leaves, one as it comes
Since the edges of these months are yours and defer
To you, either of them suits your praises.
The Circus continues and the theatre’s lauded palm,
Let this song, too, join the Circus spectacle.”
– Ovid, Fasti (V.185-190, CE)
“Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night–
And I love the rain.”
– Langston Hughes, 1902-1967, April Rain Song
“Sweet April showers
Do spring May flowers.”
– Thomas Tusser, A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry, 1557
“Every spring is the only spring – a perpetual astonishment.”
– Ellis Peters
“I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, or June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the bridal cakes.”
– Robert Herrick, Hesperides, 1648
“Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful spring.”
– Thomas Carew, The Spring, 1630
“This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.”
– D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring
“When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.”
– Dallas Lore Sharp, 1870-1929
“If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.”
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!”
– Wallace Stevens
“Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.
Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays.
Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.”
– Lucy Maud Montgomery, Spring Song
Holding hands with someone special
Such electricity flowing between both
Creating memories that last much longer.
We hold hands with many as we grow
There comes a time when we have more
Holding hands with someone special.
Thoughts return to bring us even closer
Remember a touch or a smell that excites
Creating memories that last much longer.
Feelings grow and we just seem to know
When fingers lace together without thought
Holding hands with someone special.
For some it is might last only a day
Occasionally we find someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.
A lifetime can seem to be summed up
Looking back at all those moments shared
Holding hands with someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.
by Gray Poet
And the place that he was camped in
Was a rusty Jone’s jam-tin
In a paddock by the showground
Near him lay a shearer snoring
He’d been on beer and boozing
All through the night
And all the previous day.
And the rookin’ of the fookers
And the noise of showtime spruikers
Failed to wake him from the trance in which he lay.
Then a dainty little sheila
Wit a slimy looking spieler
Came along collecting wood to make a fire
Said the spieler, He’s a boozer,
He’s gonna be a looser,
If he isn;t you can christen me a liar.
Hustle round and keep nit honney
While I fan the mug for money
We’ll have some little luxuries for tea
But she said no don;t be silly
Ho home and boil the billy,
You can safely leave the mug to little me.
She circled ever nearer
Closer to that dopey shearer
Who was lying there all fast asleep and snug
But she did not see the spider
Who was ringin’ close beside her
For her mind was on the money and the mug.
The spider sighted dinner
He’d been daily growin’ thinner
He’d been fasting and was hollow as a drum.
As she eyed that bulging pocket
He darted like a rocket
And bit that rookin’ sheila on the bum.
The sheila started squealing,
Her clothes she was unpeelin’
To hear her cries would make you feel forlorn.
One hand the bite was pressin’
The other was undressin’
And she reached the camp the same as she was born.
Then the shearer pale and haggard
Woke and back to town he staggered
Where he caught the train and gave the booze a rest.
But he’ll never know the spider
That was camped beside the Gwydir
Had saved him sixty smakkers of the best.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU
I woke early in the morning and nothing could be heard
But as I listened carefully I could hear the singing of a bird
It was the early morning chorus bidding welcome to the day
And listening to its singing that bird was heard to say
Wake up, wake up everybody the sun is on its way
Daylight will soon be breaking, prepare to meet the day
Don’t lie in bed a’sleepnig, when there is so much to do
Rise early in the morning, take the opportunities life gives to you
They won’t last forever, they will quickly pass away
The time is ripe to take them at the beginning of the day
If you miss these opportunities it could bring sadness to your heart
So take example from the birds and make an early start
A tongue of wine curls in slow-motion against the side of a cup.
Aldrin has checked with Armstrong; there is time, time enough
for Communion. He reads from the book of John.
They start to suit up.
“Locks are checked. Blue locks
checked. Lock-locks, red locks, purge locks.”
Oxygen circulates in the tubes of their suits.
There’s silence in a barroom, the flickering screen
a window on a dream. One of six hundred million
Jim holds a cold Bud,
thinks of Nevada desert painted white
as the roof-fan spins and the door of the module swings open.
Diane the waitress rests her chin in her hand
as the snowman climbs onto the ladder.
Wisps of Eagle’s atmosphere rush into the vacuum,
become particles of ice.
Janice and Kris cook up in a spoon.
They’ll come down tomorrow
when it’s done, when rocks and dust
are bagged and tagged.
Kids crayoned rockets are stuck
to classroom walls. Gold-plated visors
reflect unfiltered rays
while Bob is running to a grocery store.
Marie’s says she’s out of diapers
and B.J needs a change.
He buys a pack of Oreos and some Lucky Strikes
as Armstrong bounces on the last rung,
testing to see if he can get back up.
Amphetamine sweat on Nixon’s lip.
In Harpersville a fly is landing
on the back of grandma’s cotton-roughened hand.
Beyond a roll of chicken wire
and a Dodge truck on blocks
a little girl stands on tip-toe
to peer at white ghosts.
One takes off on a slow jog, each stride
launching him into black, suspended on a ballistic arc.
The war is not suspended. Death is not
suspended. GI’s are listening in the jungle.
On death row they listen to the radio.
The little girl’s brother listens in Vietnam
where death is not suspended
as Aldrin hangs mid-stride and lands,
his boot sending a spray of powder
into the Sea of Tranquillity.
by Roy Marshall
Sheltering in a doorway from
Diagonal machine-gun rain
Bullets that riddled the church;
Hallowed windows remained stained.
A man, revered, spoke of community
Spirit, occasionally in a Latin tongue
I listened via an agnostic ear
Who was I to say he was wrong?
Sitting at the back drying out
With people who queued for wine
And solace, much more else:
Seeking words from that divine.
As wine turned back to holy water
The heavens opened up
I walked amongst the gathered people
And drank from cherished cup.
The door was shut, as doors should be,
Before you went to bed last night;
Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,
And left your window silver white.
He must have waited till you slept;
And not a single word he spoke,
But pencilled o’er the panes and crept
Away again before you woke.
And now you cannot see the hills
Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;
But there are fairer things than these
His fingers traced on every pane.
Rocks and castles towering high;
Hills and dales, and streams and fields;
And knights in armor riding by,
With nodding plumes and shining shields.
And here are little boats, and there
Big ships with sails spread to the breeze;
And yonder, palm trees waving fair
On islands set in silver seas,
And butterflies with gauzy wings;
And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;
And fruit and flowers and all the things
You see when you are sound asleep.
For, creeping softly underneath
The door when all the lights are out,
Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe,
And knows the things you think about.
He paints them on the window-pane
In fairy lines with frozen steam;
And when you wake you see again
The lovely things you saw in dream.
which is always there with me
There is absolutely no gain
In pretending what others want you to be
May be the pain will fizzle out
but I will miss its presence
Among all these self doubts
Constant pain is my life’s essence
Gaurab Country : India
About : I like travelling and photography. I’m an avid reader, I also write,mostly about my experiences and journeys. 🙂
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
BY JOHN MASEFIELD
Everything in this world is not color correspondent.
Pink does not always mean female,
Blue does not always mean male.
Rainbows are not enslaved to queer folk.
This trinary only applies to things that are not complex enough for spectrums or intersectionalities.
Contrary to popular belief, gender is not pink or blue or vice versa.
Gender is a spectrum, mixed with complimentary colors.
Not a grey scale from light femininity to darkened masculinity.
New colors are made everyday by mixing, and extracting personal characteristics.
THE ARTIST IS THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN NAME THEIR COLOR.
Although too many people think they’ve discovered all of the colors, just because they’ve looked in their medicine cabinets.
Just because they’ve seen the outside world, they think they know the colors.
If I ever decided to have off-spring, their nursery will be painted in all custom colors:
To my queer child
Darling, do not allow your mind to dictate you.
Inside influences will tell you that you aren’t allow to exist.
Do not listen to them like I almost did.
Ignore the colors around you.
Instead of a gun, take a pen to your hand, and let your heart pour bullets to the page.
Write the synopia red-morbid things, write about the black olive world around you, write what goes through your minds.
Never conform to the point of dysphoria.
It only results in displaced self-loathing.
I feel that it’s only a matter of time before your Carolina-blue tears waterfall over your pillow.
Your rapids will sweep you away into a world of shades you’ve never seen before.
Don’t stop here, you will find your self stuck cycling somewhere that makes you feel like a stranger.
But just remember to find the colors that make you feel good.
Also, I have more poems at bucketsaurusrex.wordpress.com
Time may seem long but it will come to end,
so show what you’ve got while there’s time to spend;
Don’t just think, don’t just dream, don’t just say-
Turn them into reality and find a way.
lt is not too early, it is not too late;
Make a way as long as there’s to create;
You’ll never know unless you try,
seize the moment and don’t be shy.
It might be hard to climb the top,
but keep on moving and never stop;
there could be things that you might drop,
but don’t lose hope and don’t look down.
With great determination, you’ll shine like a star;
When we see a constellation, you’ll be the one too far;
In the sky of success, you’ll never fall;
As long as you’re with Him, you’ll have it all.
A narrow fellow in the grass
You may have met him,–did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,–
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature’s people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun
by: W.B. Yeats