"See, the grass is full of stars,
Fallen in their brightness;
Hearts they have of shining gold,
Rays of shining whiteness.
Buttercups have honeyed hearts,
Bees they love the clover,
But I love the daisies' dance
All the meadow over.
Blow, O blow, you happy winds,
Singing summer's praises,
Up the field and down the field
A-dancing with the daisies."
--Daisy Time, Marjorie Pickthall
It is Daisy Time here, too!
3 notes
·
View notes
2 notes
·
View notes
sons of sleep
you're my early morning
soap soft sprite
sweet mattress fairie
i rub my cheek against yours
to get your scent on me
to feel our blood beat two-in-time
i love you like nothing else
like holy gardens
spilling over with creeping vines
white jasmine and violets
c'mere, touch me
tell me about your dreams
i dreamt of you cooking
in our little cottage kitchen
swaying with the radio
you bend over the counter
to put an orange in my palm
you tell me you dreamt
of hot baths, you and i
wrapped in each other
joined hands floating between
soft lotus flowers
our mouths slow in steam
sun over marble and
pomegranates in blue bowls
you're always in my dreams.
36 notes
·
View notes
Dance with an Angel
Feel the warmth and loving graces,
my angel makes me cry
Colours of the
rainbow
dance upon
your eyes, so
warm, indulging
smiles loving, hold
onto my attentions
for
together...
we will fly
~
Our austerity
so, fleeting
never say
goodbye
this night
will last
forever...
my Lord,
you make me
cry
~
Moonlit stars
ignite as
pleasured graces
falling, falling
forms of
Heaven, sent
in measure
gently do they
humanize
~
Wings will…
View On WordPress
2 notes
·
View notes
3 notes
·
View notes
A poem by Nelson Ball
A Form of Grief
In memory of Barbara
and our friend bpNichol
Barbara and I
when we learned
of the death
of our friend
engaged in passionate
prolonged lovemaking
desperately
clinging to each other
asserting life
clinging to it
Nelson Ball
(1942-2019)
2 notes
·
View notes
"time..." ©2024 John Sturtz
Time-speech, slip/
Drop-leaf words FORM.
*from the micropoetry project entitled, "the 11th" ©2024 John Sturtz
0 notes
Moon Dance
When I was 17, I took immense
comfort in the way that, in the
face of it all, the Sun stirs itself
for its predictable journey every
morning. The Sun possessed an
unflinching reliability that not one
person, least of all myself, could
deliver. Lately, I have felt a shift
in awareness. I have found joy
not in the consistency of the Sun's
ascent, but in the variability of
the journey we take around it, the
holding on and releasing that
comes to fruition again and again
and again, so many endings and
beginnings we choke on them.
I have begun to fall in love with
the Sun from every angle.
Change is the only consistency
on this nauseating revolving
stage, and I have spent so much
precious time with my eyes
scrunched shut, praying into
oblivion that the willpower of
a teenage girl was weighty enough
to change the constitution of
reality. I could not stop to embrace
the one unchangeable thing. After
all, change and growth are star-
crossed lovers, and to dance with
the one is to dance with them
both, in tandem.
The Moon looks different every
night and it is so full of hope,
it vibrates with the desperate
energy of potential. We only
climb up when there is nowhere
left to go. The Moon didn't change,
only the pattern of light refracted
onto it, only the perspective I
view it from. I have started introducing
myself every time I catch a glimpse of
a mirror, because who is this evasive
woman, who is this container of
the Universe's paradox! Satisfaction
is the mother of indifference, but
mine gave Passion as my middle
name and raised me in a howling
pack of silver-skinned wolves.
--- Bri McNamara
1 note
·
View note
5 posts! yahoo and yipee! celebrating with this poem...
0 notes
Ian Iqbal Rashid
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Gay
DOB: Born 1968
Ethnicity: Indian
Nationality: Tanzanian / Canadian
Occupation: Poet, writer, screenwriter, journalist, producer, director
67 notes
·
View notes
"Let us put awhile away
All the cares of work-a-day,
For a golden time forget,
Task and worry, toil and fret,
Let us take a day to dream
In the meadow by the stream.
We may lie in grasses cool
Fringing a pellucid pool,
We may learn the gay brook-runes
Sung on amber afternoons,
And the keen wind-rhyme that fills
Mossy hollows of the hills.
Where the wild-wood whisper stirs
We may talk with lisping firs,
We may gather honeyed blooms
In the dappled forest glooms,
We may eat of berries red
O'er the emerald upland spread.
We may linger as we will
In the sunset valleys still,
Till the gypsy shadows creep
From the starlit land of sleep,
And the mist of evening gray
Girdles round our pilgrim way.
We may bring to work again
Courage from the tasselled glen,
Bring a strength unfailing won
From the paths of cloud and sun,
And the wholesome zest that springs
From all happy, growing things."
--A Day Off, Lucy Maud Montgomery.
Any day spent with my girl feels like a day off, even when I must leave her for a few hours to work. But travelling with her around North Island these past few days, proper days off, has been sheer bliss!
3 notes
·
View notes
Leonard Cohen
43 notes
·
View notes
perhaps one day i might find myself
amongst the québécois,
should my brother follow through
with plans to see montreal
and if my friend wishes for
a weekend or two spent with her;
i might find myself thinking of you then,
perhaps just a distant ache
or a fond winter memory,
walking the cobblestone of the vieux
and admiring the flora in the jardin;
how popular is parc du mont-royal?
how beautiful is the notre-dame,
and how sweet the produce of jean-talon?
would we have affaired within the city's sights,
in its days and its nights?
i know the thought might come, and
i know it will likely pass, but i know—
not without the heart heavy with regret;
perhaps i might wonder of another life,
perhaps i might hope it was true,
but perhaps one day i might find myself
amongst the québécois,
and perhaps i might think of you.
12 notes
·
View notes
Dream of You
Know that when love seems so illusive, it will happen, wait and see!
dreamy image of a plant with hazy backlight
photo by Tessa Terrus on UnSplash.com
Life of aloneness
empty, seclusion
voiceless companion
at times so clear
yet seeming
illusioned
I walk, void of
intension
~
Sadness lingers
a cloud of
anxiety
veiled with
uncertainty
no hope
no promise
no one there
~
Knowing as I
want, need
impressions
feelings
swayed by
curiosity
allured…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Nicolas Delort
Ozymandias. 2023
"I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
P. B. Shelley, 1817
27 notes
·
View notes
A poem by Alexandra Oliver
The Gulls
The gulls come down to oversee the lake;
Their wings splay out like halves of open books.
The beach is filling up and, by the looks
Of things, we've made a vague mistake.
There's little room for us to spread our towels
Among the penguin men, the girls with rooks'
Eyes all alert, the timid matron owls.
My smiling, pale son goes off to play.
A truck is parked beside the ice cream shack
And, from a falcon's wing, big knuckles crack
Against a woman's jaw. I hear him say,
You keep your smart mouth shut. I take the fries,
Try not to watch the bruised flight of her back.
The gulls beg off now, swallowed in soft cries.
Alexandra Oliver
More poems by Alexandra Oliver are available on the Mezzo Cammin site.
0 notes