Quotes about tune, page 7
To Ellen, At The South
The green grass is growing,
The morning wind is in it,
'Tis a tune worth the knowing,
Though it change every minute.
'Tis a tune of the spring,
Every year plays it over,
To the robin on the wing,
To the pausing lover.
O'er ten thousand thousand acres
Goes light the nimble zephyr,
The flowers, tiny feet of shakers,
Worship him ever.
Hark to the winning sound!
They summon thee, dearest,
Saying; "We have drest for thee the ground,
Nor yet thou appearest.
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poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Desprately want
How does it matter and where does it land?
An honest voice is always heard from dear friend
It is the tune. Melody and fortune
How does it matter whether in tune or out of tune
Real pulses are always realized and felt
Fragrance is from far even smelt
Making head to shake in awareness
To think of making one in fineness
Someone may clumsy and black
That may not really speak
Heart may long even with body language
How to think otherwise and guess?
Love has no bound or language
Neither it is restricted nor disallowed with age
How fine imprint can be made on page?
Love should excel and not burn with rage
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Happy And Sad Journey Of The River
calm was the river,
meandering with serenity,
adorned with grace of lapping
on its own inbankment.
crossing, rocky catchments,
and elsewhere a sand bed
rising, and falling, in rhythmic
tune, barely audible,
yet to the boatman, with oars,
a feeling of harmony and joy.
singing to the tune of
flowing water, the lost tune
of yesterday!
also the creatures of water,
had seen endless joy filled days,
when the sun shined on water,
and they frolicked in glee,
the shining bodies of fish,
catching the sun,
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poem by Ritty Patnaik
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Campaspe
Turn from the ways of this Woman! Campaspe we call her by name -
She is fairer than flowers of the fire -
she is brighter than brightness of flame.
As a song that strikes swift to the heart
with the beat of the blood of the South,
And a light and a leap and a smart, is the play of her perilous mouth.
Her eyes are as splendours that break in the rain at the set of the sun,
But turn from the steps of Campaspe - a Woman to look at and shun!
Dost thou know of the cunning of Beauty? Take heed to thyself and beware
Of the trap in the droop in the raiment - the snare in the folds of the hair!
She is fulgent in flashes of pearl, the breeze with her breathing is sweet,
But fly from the face of the girl - there is death in the fall of her feet!
Is she maiden or marvel of marble? Oh, rather a tigress at wait
To pounce on thy soul for her pastime - a leopard for love or for hate.
Woman of shadow and furnace! She biteth her lips to restrain
Speech that springs out when she sleepeth,
by the stirs and the starts of her pain.
As music half-shapen of sorrow, with its wants and its infinite wail,
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poem by Henry Kendall
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The love For a Nephew
(His smile wide his teeth shining
as he stood with the bright guitar in his hand.)
As he lays in the casket some month later
all fancy and nice, he looks up to the stained glass windows
(The guitar so nice so strong
with its all mesmerizing sound)
the tears from the family friends and children
fall to the ground without a sound
(he looks into his uncles eyes
with joy with pride in his guitar)
the minister stands and reads the script
and he bows his head to the uncle who shall play
(He takes his pick from the case,
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poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Grandma Dances
It's not that I don't know how;
it's not that I don't know why;
it's just that you're leaving me
and it don't matter no how.
It's not just that love is lost
it's just that I have
a music call-
for me that's enough.
You and me were not
what we seemed.
It's not just that I was joy-prone
It's that I was never seen,
and won't be missed at all.
No one will pitch no fits
'cause I was nice as I was,
no impact
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Two Sisters
There was twa sisters in a bowr,
Edinburgh, Edinburgh
There was twa sisters in a bowr,
Stirling for ay
There was twa sisters in a bowr,
There came a knight to be their wooer.
Bonny Saint Johnston stands upon Tay.
He courted the eldest wi glove an ring,
But he lovd the youngest above a' thing.
He courted the eldest wi brotch an knife,
But lovd the youngest as his life.
The eldest she was vexed sair,
An much envi'd her sister fair.
Into her bowr she could not rest,
Wi grief an spite she almos brast.
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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Richard Coeur de Lion
Richard the First, Coeur-de-Lion,
Is a name that we speak of with pride,
Though he only lived six months in England
From his birth to the day that he died.
He spent all his time fighting battles,
Dressed up in most rigid attire,
For he had his suits made by the Blacksmith,
And his underwear knitted of wire.
He married a lady from Flanders,
Berengaria's what they called her;
She turned out a good wife to Richard,
In spite of a name like that there.
For when he came home from his fighting
She'd bandage the wounds in his sconce,
And every time a snake bit him
She'd suck out the poison at once.
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poem by Marriott Edgar
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Cusps
CUSPS
Cusps convergent redivide
Unexpectedly, conceal
Spiel links. Cause, Effect, reveal
Pre-destination never. None inside
Subtle riddles read, none ride
COherently around rune wheel,
None key, tune into, Future’s weal.
Vainly humankind has tried
Explaining karma to provide
‘Real’ explanations for Life’s reel –
Gu[s]t gest jest conundrum sealed,
Ephemeral both ebb and tide.
Connections karmic can’t collide,
Unerringly rule, school, unreel
Silk threads slippery as eel,
Prepare tomorrows far and wide,
Synchronicity complied.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Spring In Canada
SEASON of life's renewal, love's rebirth,
And all hope's young espousals; in your dream,
I feel once more the ancient stirrings of Earth.
Now in your moods benign of sun and wind,
The worn and aged, winter-wrinkled Earth,
Forgetting sorrow, sleep and iced snows,
Turns joyful to the glad sun bland and kind,
And in his kiss forgets her ancient woes.
Men scorn thy name in song in these late days
When life is sordid, crude, material, grim,
And love a laughter unto brutish minds,
Song a weariness or an idle whim,
The scoff of herds of this world's soulless hinds,
Deaf to the melody of your brooks and winds,
Blind to the beauty of your splendid dream.
Because earth's hounds and jackals bay the moon,
Must then poor Philomel forbear to sing,
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poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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