Quotes about swoop, page 12
A Japanese Wood-Carving
High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
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poem by Amy Lowell
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The Rat and the Owl
A rat is moving on the ground;
It searches for something to eat;
’Tis night and it must quickly find
Some food or else, it must sure starve!
A large owl stands with two large eyes;
It turns its neck to scan the ground;
It strains its eyes to catch a prey,
And sees a rat shuffling across!
Both search for food in frantic ways;
Both need to eat to stay alive;
The owl is like a ghost at night;
Its large eyes contrast rat’s small ones!
The owl is predator for rat;
The rat is prey for owl at night;
The owl is sure to pin the rat,
And death is sure for the latter!
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poem by John Celes
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(Inspiration Poem) Broken Chariot
Cherish the sympathetic.
Revel in the misguided fools.
Lead and they shall follow.
Walk on water.
Split the red sea.
Just to show the world how things can be.
Do you need me when I'm so hard to find.
Another hypnosis to put me asleep by the words you keep beneath it all.
The chariot has broken.
The horses will not move.
There not listening to you.
For the devil has took the reins.
Carrying the insane.
Were all in trance.
So stoned with the drugs.
So stunned were losing our balance.
An unexpected love from the great distances of skies above.
Helping without the slightest clue who you really are.
How does this change things?
Will it bring an end to some suffering?
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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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It's Almost Sunday Morning
In the summer of 1956,
any Saturday at midnight
when the moon was full
and the stars were bright,
you would see Grandma Groth
on her front-porch swing
waiting for her son, Clarence,
still a bachelor at 53,
to make it home
from the Blind Man's Pub
after another evening quaffing
steins of Heineken's.
Many times when I was young,
I'd be coming home at midnight
from another pub just steps behind
staggering Clarence.
I'd always let him walk ahead
and listen to him hum
'The Yellow Rose of Texas.'
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Nile
Out of the unknown South,
Through the dark lands of drouth,
Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding:
Clear-mirrored in his dream
The deeds that haunt his stream
Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding.
Long since, before the life of man
Rose from among the lives that creep,
With Time's own tide began
That still mysterious sleep,
Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.
From out his vision vast
The early gods have passed,
They waned and perished with the faith that made them;
The long phantasmal line
Of Pharaohs crowned divine
Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them.
Their land is one mute burial mound,
Save when across the drifted years
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poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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An Indian Summer of My Childhood
The sun would volley
Live coals on bodies
In threadbare clothes
The sun would blink
Through the meager waters
That’s left of a river
Sand dunes with scanty vegetation
Scattered all over
The small raft wouldn’t move
On thin layer of water
Where did the fish disappear?
Bedrooms shifted to isolated
Shades under trees
Leaves perspiring and choking
Under the smarting sun
The fires set ablaze to settle scores
Around the town increased
The mercury in the thermometer
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Song Of A Mad Girl, Whose Lover Has Died At Sea
Under the green white blue of this and that and the other,
That and the other, and that and the other, for ever and ever,
Under the up and down and the swaying ships swingswonging,
There they flung him to sleep who will never come back to my longing.
The Father comes back to his child and the son comes back to his Mother,
But neither by land or sea
Will he ever come back to me,
Never, never, never
Will he come back to me.
All day I run by the Cliff, all night I stand in the sand,
All day I furrow and burrow the holmes and the heights.
But whether by night or day
There's never a trace or a track,
Never a word or a breath,
In the swill and the swoop and the flash and the foam and the wind,
Never a fleck or a speck
Coming, coming my way.
The mew comes back to the strand and the ship comes back to the land,
But he will never come back
To all the prayers that I pray thro' the scorching black of the day
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poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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As I Sat On My Hospital Bed
As I sat on my hospital bed, many things went around in my head. They had told me that I had suffered several mini strokes. They were not real strokes, but just enough to make me alter some things in my lifestyle. I couldn’t drive my car for at least a month or more. That wasn’t going to be a great loss. I was going to be off work for a couple of weeks or more. That would give me time to relax.
My diet was going to have to change, which was any thing that big. I had to eat less fatty foods and more vegetables. I could on occasions treat myself, but treating myself didn’t mean everyday. When it came to cream and sweet cakes, they did not really bother me.
The biggest crunch and my biggest crime is that I smoke, that would have to go. They realise that it won’t be easy going, I agree with that, but when I think of all the things I’ve got, family, friends and everything. The chances of losing all of them in one gigantic swoop. The smoking can go if it will help. It won’t be any great loss. It may not be easy for me to do it.. The support for me to do it will be there from my family and friends. Let’s hope my will power will stand the test of time.
This has been a warning sign, and believe me I’m taking heed. You only get one chance at life, and you have to give it all you’ve got. If you see a danger in front of you, you eradicate it and carry on. So here, I am sitting on my hospital bed, with all these things buzzing around my head. I am listening to every word said now. Life is too precious to me, to want to throw it all away. Therefore, when I leave the hospital, a new life will beckon that day.
5 October 2007
PS
To all my friends up here a PH. If you don’t find my name appearing in the comments of your poems over the next few weeks. Don’t think I’ve deserted you. I’m not ignoring you, but I’ve been ordered to take a total rest. Therefore, I’m following the doctors orders and resting big time along with getting lots and lots of fresh air. So until near the end of the month when hopefully I will be fit and well enough to come back again. I will simply say Good Luck and God Bless to everyone. I am going to miss you all my friends.
DVH
poem by David Harris
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Why the Jackass Laughs
The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack
Were telling tales of the outer back:
"I've just been travelling far and wide,
At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side;
There isn't a bird in the bush can go
As far as me," said the old black crow.
"There isn't a bird in the bush can fly
A course as straight or a course as high.
Higher than human eyesight goes.
There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows,
Drifting along for a scent of blood
Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood.
For never a bird or a beast has been
With a sight as strong or a scent as keen.
At fires and floods I'm the first about,
For then the lizards and mice run out:
And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know --
I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow.
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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An Ode
I
NOT with slow, funereal sound
Come we to this sacred ground;
Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,
Bringing a cypress wreath
To lay, with bended knee,
On the cold brows of Death—
Not so, dear God, we come,
But with the trumpets’ blare
And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,
As for a victory!
Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,
The music and the murmurs of the street!
No bugle breathes this day
Disaster and retreat!—
Hark, how the iron lips
Of the great battle-ships
Salute the City from her azure Bay!
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poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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