She Sang The Old Songs

She sang the old songs

Songs of lilacs and shady lanes

She sang the peace songs

Songs of home and front porches

She sang the love songs

Songs of heart and Sunday walks

She sang until time and rhyme were one

Blue Pueblo

Free To Be You And Me

Every boy in this land grows to be his own man

In this land, every girl grows to be her own woman

Take my hand, come with me where the children are free

Come with me, take my hand, and we'll run

To a land where the river runs free

To a land through the green country

To a land to a shining sea

To a land where the horses run free

To a land where the children are free

And you and me are free to be

And you and me are free to be

And you and me are free to be you and me

The New Seekers

Live For Today

Live For Today

In the camellia tree sits a lone sparrow
Watching a butterfly flit among the blossoms.
Neither caring about the ‘morrow,
Just today, for today is awesome.

Barbara Baskin 2010

The Ship of Gold

The Ship of Gold

It was a great ship carved from solid gold:
Its masts touched to the skies on uncharted seas;
Venus, goddess of love, her hair streaming, her flesh bare,
Flaunted herself on the prow beneath a blazing sun.

But one night it struck the great reef
In that treacherous ocean where the Siren sang,
And the horrible shipwreck tilted its keel
Into the depths of the abyss, ineluctable coffin.

It was a ship of gold whose diaphanous sides
Revealed treasures which the profane mariners,
Loathing, Hatred, and Neurosis, disputed among themselves.

What remains of it in the brief tempest?
What has become of my heart, a deserted ship?
Alas! It has foundered in the depths of the dream!

Emile Nelligan

The Violin

The Violin

You must use the body - its curves,
its hollows, the spring of the sound, which
brings back what is absent, what has
been and is now gone, fading. Cat-gut,
fret, the busy machinery of longing,
which takes its strength from the
presence of absence, the body's darkness,
the wood carved out, thinned and
made to flex. There is a pain at the
source of it - so easily broken, this tree
without a heart, the sap dried to amber
patina. Only in the sound can you
hear it move, the veins in the blood of
the body that is no more. The bow pulled
along the taut strings, a pitch that
is all but unbearable.

Sheila Black

The Bench

The Bench

Under a Maple tree near the city park entrance,
sits a nondescript, weathered, plain old bench,

Hundreds have passed by and many to rest
Like mothers with toddlers tying up a loose lace,
Kissing scraped knees or wiping a face,

That old bench is a meeting place Tuesdays
for widows Mildred and Grace,
Who chat over lunch that they take turns to make,
discussing TV shows, world events,
pains and aches,

Then there are old Army pals Walter and Ray, who meet on Thursdays,
Checkers they'll play,
while reminiscing about those former glory days

Who would know a simple bench with such a history
of events?

A place where love began or love has ended,
Then again sometimes where hearts are mended,

But to most it will only be
An old bench near the city park entrance

Nancy Ellen Crossland

The Beast

The Beast

Its appetite is voracious,
Its manners less than gracious,
Taking, taking, never giving,
Consuming the lives of the living.

Having no conscience or remorse,
Once loosed it always stays its course,
Destroying all that is in its path,
Never considering the aftermath.

Destruction is its nature, you see,
Though it has no dislike for you or me,
It ever follows its natural bent,
Being impartial in its ravishment.

by Richard Ellis
 

Ride 'Em Cowgirl

Ride 'Em Cowgirl (lyrics)
sung by Sherrie Austin

Hey, there cowgirl Where ya going to
Has the trail you're on Caught up with you?

You've always known The dice would roll your way
If your luck ran out You could up and ride away, hey.

Chorus:
But cowgirl where's your home You always ride alone
Why don't you settle down Make a good man happy, oh
But you're always on the run Is it somethin' or someone
Or a dream you haven't found That keeps you in the saddle
Oh, ride 'em cowgirl.

You've had lovers Yeah, they still come along
But you never let Them love too long
Now it's twilight time And the sun is sinkin' low
As your heart moves on To another rodeo, oh.

Repeat Chorus

Time will always be the faster gun
So can you share the reins
Before your race is run.

Cowgirl where's your home You always ride alone
Is it a dream you haven't found That keeps you in the saddle, oh
Ride 'em cowgirl

Moonlight

Moonlight

As a pale phantom with a lamp
Ascends some ruined haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.

Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.

Until at last, serene and proud
In all the splendour of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.

I look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.

All things are changed. One mass of shade,
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
By palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.

The very ground beneath my feet
Is clothed with a diviner air;
White marble paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.

Illusion! Underneath there lies
The common life of everyday;
Only the spirit glorifies
With its own tints the sober grey.

In vain we look, in vain uplift
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind;
We see but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Summer At The Lake

SUMMER AT THE LAKE

The down of the swan’s bow dances waxen
on the soft water surface,
indulges in ease,
being unable to think of the next tempest.
Emerald dragonflies are carving jags into the cheesy air,
twitch into the small inlets,
are whirring on the spot during the next breath.
Their copper colored abdomen is laced up
as the waistline of a female motorcyclist
wrapped in leather.
The corpses of last and distant year’s leaves
rest on the muddy floor of the lake –
lost in growing old, blacking on,
bordered by dusky beechnuts.
The water crinkles on the cheeks,
plays and washes against its swimmers,
around the rushstalks ascending over, slenderly from the depth
and the precious butter balls
of the flowering nuphars.

Owi Ivar Nandi

Remember

REMEMBER

Rose of crimson red
A vibrant hue
Petals soft
With drops of dew,

Plucked, admired
Fragrance inhaled
Within a vase it's quickly placed,

Beauty of this lovely flower
Seemed to linger only hours
Too soon faded color seen
With petals limp and dry,

But long after memory of its beauty first gazed
Its fragrance still inspires

Nancy Ellen Crossland

On The Wind

On the Wind

Freedom whispers
on the wind...
Lo! The wild horses
run!

Born unto vast
prairies,
And stabled 'neath
the sun.

Bathed in cloud borne
waters,
Summer's storm their
symphony;

Brethren to the
Zephyr,
Starlit night their
canopy.

In the cadence
of their hoof beats
One hears
Mother Nature sing!

Freedom whispers
on the wind...
Wild horses
are awing!

© 1998, 2003 by Barbara Anne Dunn

Dawn

Dawn

Dawn blushed; betrayed her waking sky
To gently break another morrow fine.
Night waned – the black receding – highland
Reaching for the early morning wine.

The chorus rendered frantic caws and
Chirps and other avian song,
Mapping out the 'mine and yours, ' and
Goading more to sing along!

Quiescent water – deep of lake –
Reflected out the hazy red, but
Through the glass, a flick, a break:
An urgent tail from hidden bed!

And in the meadow, waking faces
Calmly spread a coloured veil;
The dew disclosing spider laces –
Oft with once a fly’s travail!

Dawn blushed; revealed her inner peace;
She handed on another blissful day.
Night ebbed, relenting to release of
Warming blood that gives to her display.


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

What Have We Done?

What Have We Done?

Lying dormant underground a thief of life is waiting
To steal the breath from those unaware
Unknown to man until this time when care has not been taken
To save our souls from what is lying there

Now who is to say what can be done to stop the devastation
That spreads like fire among us one and all
As we discover that which we have done to live
Is now the very thing that heralds our own ending call

To live the lives that bring our ease we care not what we take
As we remove every resource from the ground
Then stand in shame when all goes wrong
When the sun goes down

We have burned a path among the trees and vines that protect us
Stolen the very air from our skies
And now we stand among the ruins of our own creation
Watching the Earth as we know it say goodbye

Copyright *Neva Flores @2010

Struttin' the Peacock Rag

Struttin' the Peacock Rag
(Just a note. The males lose their long tail feathers in autumn
- not that it stops them struttin' the peacock rag)

Flash the blue high stepper
Doffing the green fedora
Sparkle the blades
Down the legs
And strut the peacock rag

Wink your wings to the ladies
Croon that old siren song
Hop with the rest
Show her your best
And strut the peacock rag

Spring is your casino royale
Summer is Reno and Vegas
Swooning the hens
Mooning the wrens
And strutting the peacock rag

But alas it is now coming winter
The tail is tattered and bare
Lost the last feather
Damn this weather
And strutting the peacock rag

You waggle your tail boldly
And furl your pinions up high
Sadly only stubs
No eyes, only nubs
Trying to peacock rag.

And the ladies are all a twitter
Giggling in a dither
At their silly peacock rag.

Lynn Kincade 

White Eagle

White Eagle (excerpt)

The white eagle searches the sky
For the hope of the awakening below
In circles of light
The ever-reaching eye of truth
Pierces it way into you

For the purity of its flight
Will surely bless you
In the inner peace of internal bliss
To an ever increasing world of creativity

The white eagles wings covers your way
In the protection from the spirits
That has chosen you to follow
And then to lead
Among the difficult paths
To effect humanity’s plight

David Lester Young 11-24-01

Great Oak

Great Oak

Ancient, yet steeped in wisdom;
Massive, yet enlightening;
Never tired of growing or vexed by seasons,
You stand glorious in summer;
Monumental in winter.

And as you overlook your forest
With sagacious governance,
They all defer to you - dependence in hand:
Children of the undergrowth;
Arboreal underlings.

Veneration earned, you now command
The awe that few can.

Ever graceful, your evangelistic branches
Cast their serene shadow
Of reassuring calm.

Mark R Slaughter

Enjoy A Cup OF Tea

You must be completely awake in the present to enjoy the tea.

Only in the awareness of the present,
can your hands feel the pleasant warmth of the cup.

Only in the present, can you savor the aroma,
taste the sweetness,
appreciate the delicacy.

If you are ruminating about the past,
or worrying about the future,
you will completely miss the experience of enjoying the cup of tea.

You will look down at the cup,
and the tea will be gone.

Life is like that.

If you are not fully present,
you will look around and it will be gone.

You will have missed the feel,
the aroma,
the delicacy and beauty of life.

It will seem to be speeding past you.

The past is finished. Learn from it and let it go.

The future is not even here yet.
Plan for it,
but do not waste your time worrying about it.

Worrying is worthless.

When you stop ruminating about what has already happened,
when you stop worrying about what might never happen,
then you will be in the present moment.

Then you will begin to experience joy in life.

Vietnamese Buddhist monk and philosopher,
Thich Nhat Hanh

Leaves of Silver

LEAVES OF SILVER

Leaves
Shimmering, silvery
Illuminated by the sunlight
Glistening now with each breeze
Cascades swaying, turning
As a few have been caught by the wind
They twirl and tumble then;
Standing upright
They are soldiers marching
Marching in a joyous parade of nature

Nancy Ellen Crossland

Bird in a Gilded Cage

Bird in a Gilded Cage (Excerpt)

"She's only a bird in a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see.
You may think she's happy and free from care,
She's not, though she seems to be.
'Tis sad when you think of her wasted life
For youth cannot mate with age;
And her beauty was sold
for an old man's gold,
She's a bird in a gilded cage."

Arthur J. Lamb