Quotes about vista, page 6
A Question Mark Seldom Sums Sweet Scented Rose
A question mark: love's spark? dark thoughts stark caught?
Quest or request? What wistful vista sketch
Uncertain decks fair face? Has some base wretch
Embarked upon seduction? Is change sought?
Sweet nothings? Transatlantic ticket bought
To guarantee dream destiny, wreath etch
In smiles, not care lines' sybilline twines? Fetch
Overseas another life well wrought?
Naught offers easy answer. Last resort?
Mortar, bricks, altar? Lonesome? Two mast ketch
A-sail upon life's tide? Short haul? Long stretch?
Reward? Loss taught? Eyes tender? taut? distraught?
Knowledge alone in rhyme flows, free verse, prose,
Seldom sums soft glows, sweet scented rose.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Irreconcilable Differences...
Before the storm clouds arrived...
Before the morning tiptoed on in-
Before the truth that would break us
Before the bridge was burned, in sin;
Our flaws stood with no mercy
While doubts sabotaged our very way-
Discouraging our windows of opportunity...
When compassion had lost the day! ;
Where once grace had been a zealous brocade
Sewn in the empathy of the moon lit night-
The starless sky-emptied the sun-come dawn
Opening up our only vista's of light;
Deaf, dumb and disabled-totally
Our empty language, thus led-
Us, through valleys of shattering discord-
Casting reflections of something wrong in our heads;
By: Theodora Onken
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poem by Theodora Onken
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Twilight Vista
Twilight is unfolding with an awesome purple view,
A rare parade in shades of crimson too,
This placid scene offers one a moment of peace for a time;
While a lonesome bridge invites one to enjoy more of this grand vista so divine,
From up above where we can take in this glorious purple twilight;
That will sadly only last until the dawn's early light,
Still there's a feeling of warmth from watching the golden lights that glow off the water below;
Where it seems more like a dream.....unbelieveably so;
And for a short while, at least, we were given some reprieve,
From life's many storms, but for now it's time to take our leave.
Ravensong
Sept.28/09
poem by Jean Dament
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Butterfly Dreams
I dream what it would be like to be a Butterfly
See the wonder of their world through a thoughtful eye
Taste the fragrant flowers drink the morning dew
Play around the petals and pollinate a few
I want to witness the magic of Mother Nature’s womb
Be there at the beginning of a futures flower’s bloom
Try to pry the difference between a petal and thorn
Aiding in the arrival of seeds being born
Imagine the vista and the intimate views
The collage of colors and their heavenly hues
What would it be like to wake as something new
Awake from a silken sleep starting life anew
Some dream they’re men that ply special powers
I dream I'm a Butterfly a Fae among the flowers
poem by Ed_ Schmidt
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Piano
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Heritage
Now the dead past seems vividly alive,
And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,
Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.
And suddenly some secret spring's released,
And unawares a riddle is revealed,
And I can read like large, black-lettered print,
What seemed before a thing forever sealed.
I know the magic word, the graceful thought,
The song that fills me in my lucid hours,
The spirit's wine that thrills my body through,
And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.
I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,
I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;
But I can feel and I can write the word;
The best of me is but the least of you.
poem by Claude McKay
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Black Saturday
They say a touch of spring is in the air;
They say the wattle trees with bloom are gay;
They say each garden now begins to wear
(Not that I care)
A festal garb that waxes day by day
In loneliness. They tell, too, of blue skies
Aglow with hope . . . I laugh them all to scorn,
And gaze upon these things with listless eyes
That see nought but a vista most forlorn.
They say that bird songs come now with a rush
Of rarest melody; the ambient air
Thrills to the voice of blackbird and of thrush
(I answer 'Tush!
Let 'em go sing their heads off. I don't care.')
They say a kindly sun beams o'er the earth.
They say - Bah! Who pays heed to what they say?
Life is a sham; a mockery is mirth;
I'm making out my income tax today.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Perfect school
THE PERFECT SCHOOL
A place where a student worships his teacher as a god,
The heads of the children before their teacher nod.
The place is the school where teachers give education,
It’s a school where there is afforestation.
A school that has all the beauties,
Is a perfect school whose students have all the qualities.
A school whose students will become president and magic vista,
A school whose students will become Rabindranath Tagore and Mother Teresa.
The Perfect School is a school whose trees will always be uploaded with fruits of joy, success and happiness,
A school whose students will never have a future of darkness.
That school will conquer the world,
In that school, music will be sung by birds.
CONTRIBUTED BY:
Gautam Kumar Sharma
poem by Gautam Sharma
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A farm picture
a christian poet reading
a page of the koran
and all taken up by how god
himself could be so emotionally
worked up by the beauty
of the cattle walking in a line
on a plain, admiring, appreciating
his own creation
well men were created in his likeness
how wrong they have taken this likeness
to mean only appearances
but god fumes, curses, kills,
sometimes whole cities
all over the bibles, and if you like the koran
a christian poet lost in the lines
all about an entity, an entity
brighter than light, more eminent
than all the intelligences put together
inspired by
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Dying Rose
Once so beautiful, freshly cut, a single rose stands
encompassed by succulent green leaves and proud standing thorns
petite white gypsum surrounds this expression of love
the tall slender rose vase holds the water for life
Words of appreciation are given as eyes drink in the vista before them
scented perfume fills and stimulates heightened senses
colors of red, green and virgin white stimulate the eyes
As all things that live, so all things must die in their turn
rose petals shrivel and loose the lustre if red
succulent green leaves whither, turn brown and die
virgin petite gypsum wilts and becomes a dirty used white.
Water discolors to a slimy foul smelling green
the once beautiful is now the 'Dying Rose.'
When did it start to die?
When it was cut off from its source of life.
poem by Ruth warren
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