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BBC Proms

To be a part of the BBC Proms season,
There are several extremely good reasons.
The majestic building: London’s Royal Albert Hall,
Is one of the greatest concert venues of them all.

Each Season, people flock through its many doors.
Different types of music they have come to explore.
The BBC Proms season attracts audiences young and old.
For this great music festival, a shining torch people always hold.

It gives musicians the chance to showcase the amazing art
Of talented composers from Mahler through to Mozart.
People get the chance to hear works old and new.
By the famous works, especially, the fans are wooed.

Singers and musicians from all over the world,
Come together to take part in this musical pearl.
For nearly two whole months, there are concerts every day.
It really is the world’s greatest celebration of classical music. Yay!

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Palace

In deepest dream towards Rosemonde's palace
My barefoot brain inclined for the evening
Like a naked king the walls are waking
Beaten flesh and fresh-cut roses

You can see my thoughts immersed in roses
Smiling at the concert of the toads
They are in the mood for cypress bedposts
The sun is a broken mirror of the rose

What badly wounded bowman opened
Stigmata of palms on the windowpane
At the white lamb's love-feast I have tasted
Resins that bitter the Cyprian wine

On the jagged lap of the lascivious king
In the May-time of her age and finest frock
Mysterious Madame Rosemonde rolls
Her little round eyes like a Hun

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poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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Mirage

Is it a will-o'-the-wisp, or is dawn breaking,
That our horizon wears so strange a hue?
Is it but one more dream, or are we waking
To find that dreams, at last, are coming true?

Aye, surely, in that golden glimmer streaking
The cloudy sky-line of the life of man,
We see the blessed day he has been seeking
In all directions since the world began.

Sign to each struggling and exhausted nation
Of hope fulfilled, redemption and release;
Sign of the end of needless tribulation,
And the beginning of the reign of Peace.

Country with country, brother with his brother,
Content to share, and not to grab and steal;
Ceasing the wild-beast battle, each with other,
To work in concert for the common weal.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Screw all those Facebook groups, heres everything I hate and love in one list.

I hate when you climb so far up, and the smallest mistake has you falling to your death. Again.
I hate when the who person means s*** to you makes you cry.
I hate when your happy and your best friends sad, and you sad and your best friends happy.
I hate watching people cry over some stupid b****.
I hate when you miss the sunrise.
I hate when the person you love ignores you.
I hate when it comes to the point that you don't even feel like explaining why your sad anymore.
I hate when your tinniest wishes don't come true.
I hate watching my friends go through the same pain as me.
I hate making the same mistake twice.
I hate insults.
I hate people who pick on one kid who never did anything, when they should be picking on each other.
I hate when the a**hole gets away with it.
I hate how I cry whenever I'm trying to say something important.
I hate when someone pity's you.
I hate when people flip out over stupid stuff.
I hate when girls cause drama just cause.
I hate when people fight.
I hate when you lose the one you love.
I hate when you regret doing something really big.

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poem by Gabriella Mantone
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A love for flower

It was not going well
There was nothing more to think or tell
We did nothing except allowing axe to fall
It was disseverance to nature’s call

I passed through the same sand desert
The wing was slowing blowing with concert
It did touch my cheeks with no warmth
Some thoughts entered to remind me forth

I had no love for rising sun
It was about ugly or bad turn
I had to miss her for whole tenure
She may hunt for complete future

You were there as natural flower
Grown out of hot wind in rainy shower
With all beautiful features in your arsenal
It reminded me of spring’s arrival

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sunset By The Sea

I'm unable to visit a seaside town, and not see the mighty ocean;
I find myself being pulled there, with a sense of magnetic motion.
I sit surveying the sea, for a while, with a completely rested mind;
Moments like these, in everyday life, can be so very hard to find.

The lamps which line both sides of the long, wooden panelled pier,
Shine brightly, through the gathering gloom, bringing some cheer.
Despite the bitterly cold weather, and the now fast fading daylight,
Dozens of joggers disappear down the prom, running into the night.

Between the sea and sky, there is usually a distinct horizon to see,
But the sight which I see before my eyes, seems very strange to me:
The sea and sky seem to appear as one: both a shade of light grey;
To onlookers, only the foam crested waves, give the game away.

Waves rapidly rush towards the beach, and they furiously foam.
Along the water's edge, only the odd few stragglers still do roam.
On the shining, sodden sand, I see a young couple's reflection;
Looking relaxed, they stroll, hand in hand, in the sea's direction.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Corn-Stalk Fiddle

WHEN the corn's all cut and the bright stalks shine
Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
Then it's heigh-ho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.
And when you take a stalk that is straight and long,
With an expert eye to its worthy points,
And you think of the bubbling strains of song
That are bound between its pithy joints —
Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.
Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
O'er the yielding strings with a practiced hand!
And the music's flow never loud but low
Is the concert note of a fairy band.
Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
To the simple sweets of a corn-stalk fiddle.
When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
And the sun drops down with a tender glance,

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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Billy Was A Picker

Billy was a picker on Saturday nights.
He’d lose himself in the neon lights.
He’d travel places he’d never been.
Even leave his body now and again.
He’d leave behind
The weekday grind
And soar.

You’re oh so cool, the folks’d say
You’re gonna be a star some day
And we’ll all say we knew you when.
And act like we’re your long lost friend.
And when you’re on TV
We’ll all get to be
There too.

And Billy began to believe the praise
He began to plan his life for the days
When every one would know his name
A life of glamour, fortune, and fame

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poem by Gerry Leopard
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Funnel

The family story tells, and it was told true,
of my great-grandfather who begat eight
genius children and bought twelve almost-new
grand pianos. He left a considerable estate
when he died. The children honored their
separate arts; two became moderately famous,
three married and fattened their delicate share
of wealth and brilliance. The sixth one was
a concert pianist. She had a notable career
and wore cropped hair and walked like a man,
or so I heard when prying a childhood car
into the hushed talk of the straight Maine clan.
One died a pinafore child, she stays her five
years forever. And here is one that wrote-
I sort his odd books and wonder his once alive
words and scratch out my short marginal notes
and finger my accounts.
back from that great-grandfather I have come
to tidy a country graveyard for his sake,
to chat with the custodian under a yearly sun

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poem by Anne Sexton
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This Child Within The Man {When Crossroads Connect}

Crossroads splitting 'neath July's late sun,
like a silent tremor,
four streets meet,
and it's time for decision-
where to go now.
Looking for alternate roads,
sun dying fast,
narrowing paths and options.

I see a bridge beyond and 'neath
a backdrape of golden
trimmed burgandy;
high sunset bleeding
into evenings mergence,
like a virgin falling,
falling-
falling to her knees
slowly, softly-
to her knees.

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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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