A beautiful poem about A Leaf.

Poem by Eve Merriam from Rainbow Writing.

Take the leaf of a tree

Trace it exact shape

The outside edges

The inside lines.

Memorise the way it is fastened to the twig

How the twig arches from the branch

How it springs forth in April

How it panoplied in June

By late August crumple it in your hand

So that you smell its end of summer sadness

Chew its woody stem

Listen to its autumn rattle

Watch it atomise in the November air

Then in winter

There is no leaf left.

Invent one.

A thought for the day...

Thought for today - for a Poet.

LIVE like a poet

SPEAK like a poet

LOVE like a poet

THINK like a poet

DREAM like a poet

ACT like a poet.

Will it make you into a poet? You can only try it and see!

You do need to actually DO SOMETHING as well…….

WRITE A POEM!!

We woke up this morning to see:

Snow.

The sun on the snow

makes the world glow.

The dark bare leaved trees

are hung with diamonds

for all to see.

Beauty lies, in unlovely places,

covered by the white surprise.

Happy, laughing children play

digging, sledging, snowballs.

A finger tingling day.

Pensioner people, warm indoors,

Watch the children with wistful eyes.

My dreams

In my sleep, my dreams are not nice.

Not of my choosing, I pay the price!

Things, bears big and lumbering, chase me.

My parked car, hide from me, I search but cannot see.

Always running and always searching.

Why, oh! why? can I not dream of happiness?

Of pleasant countryside, blue skies, white daisies.

Gambolling sheep, singing birds, grass whispering.

Maybe swishing seas, waving palms, me sleeping.

Waking feeling refreshed in the morning,

7 x Haiku Colours of the Rainbow.

Rainbow Haiku.

Red.

The colour of blood

Dressing for power? - Wear red

Midsummer  - poppies.

Orange.

Colour of sunrise.

A fruit grown in Spain’s sun

Carnival colour.

Yellow.

Bright dandelions

Pretty golden buttercups

Colour of Lemons.

Green.

Forty-nine shades

Trees, grass, leafy vegetables

A Christmas colour.

Blue.

Baby and sky blue

Flowers too, bluebells, blue iris

Sometimes, blue moods.

Indigo.

Deep, dark and so rich

Colour of uniforms, Jeans

Thundery skies.

Violet.

A flower colour

Of heather, and dainty violets

Shrinking violets - shy.

Trade Winds by John Masefield.

• Trade Winds

• IN the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
• Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees,
• And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze
• Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
• There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,
• The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt's tale,
• The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail
• Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
• And o' nights there's fire-flies and the yellow moon,
• And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
• Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
• Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
• John Masefield
• Note: I heard this poem mentioned on the Chef Rick Steins' T.V., programme Weekend Away to Cadiz. I did a google search and found it. It reminds me of holidays in Spain.

Patience by Mary Oliver.

The oak tree

loves patience,

the mountain is

still looking,

as it has for centuries,

for a word to say about

the gradual way it

slides itself

back to the

world below

to begin again,

in another life,

to be fertile.

When the wind blows

the grass

whistles and whispers

in myths and riddles

and not in our language

but one far older.

The sea is the sea is

always the sea.

These things

you can count on

as you walk about the world

happy or sad,

talky or silent, making

weapons, love, poems.

The briefest of fires.

Mary Oliver, Patience

Rachel Kelly and the Charity SANE, Day 7 of the 12 Days of Christmas.

Life’s a Journey (Eskimo prayer)

Traditional

And I think over again

My small adventures

When with a shore wind I drifted out

In my kayak

And thought I was in danger.

My fears,

Those small ones

That I thought so big,

For all the vital things

I had to get and had to reach.

And yet there is only

One great thing.

The only thing,

To live to see in buts and journeys

The great day that dawns

And the light that fills the world.

From Rachel Kellys’  Day 7 of 12 days of Christmas.

2 poems about Clouds.

Clouds.      Anon.

C is for cloud

Crumpled

And Crying

Cumulus

Cirrus

Coverings

                                                                                                      

                                                                               

Clouds by Christina Rossetti.                             

White Sheep, White Sheep                                 

on a blue hill,

When the wind stops

you stand still.

When the wind blows

you walk away slow.

White Sheep, White Sheep.

Where do you go?

My West Yorkshire Passion - DIVERSITY.

Luscious green dales fields, bounded by the jigsaw puzzle of

dry stone walls. Rivers, coming from tiny springs in the hills,

emerging as torrents of racing water power, taking your breath away.

Man’s feats of skill and back-breaking labour to build stupendous

Cathedrals, Minsters and castles. These equal the natural features

the Pennines’ crowning glories of Pen-y-Ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough.

The Vale of York’s rich farmlands and pretty villages give way to the

Wolds. They roll onwards to meet wild coastline. Some threatened by coastal erosion, by the pounding of the sea against soft cliffs

Scarborough and Bridlington, offer traditional ‘bucket and spade’

holidays, complete with donkeys. Whitby, whose old Town is separated,

by the River from the Gothic Church and ruined Abbey on the hill.

Yorkshire, once England’s power base and home of heavy Industry.

Which withstood a political battering, causing heavy industries to

give way to, incoming businesses of Distribution and Logistics.

Our strength now, is the diversity of peoples, from friendly natives,

to many nationalities making Yorkshire their home. Working as taxi and bus

drivers or hospital staff. Some opened 'Take Away' shops, causing our

beloved Yorkshire Pudding, to be overtaken by new favourite, the Indian Curry, Chicken Tikka Masala.

Thought for the Day.

Charles Causley.

His Introduction to the Puffin Book of Magic Verse, an Anthology chosen by Charles.

“All poetry is magic. It is a spell against, failure of imagination, ignorance and barbarism. The way that a good poem works on a reader is mysterious, as hard to explain, as the possible working of a charm or pell. A poem is much more than a mere arrangement of words on paper, or on the tongue. Its hints, suggestions, the echoes it sets off in the  mind, and its omissions (what a poet decides to leave out is often just as important as to what he puts in)). All join in   with the readers thoughts and feelings  to make a kind of magical union.”

I am the Song.

I am the song that sings the bird.

I am the leaf that grows the land.

I am the tide that moves the moon.

I am the stream that halts the sand.

I am the cloud that drives the storm.

I am the earth that light the sun.

I am the fire that strikes the stone.

I am the clay that shapes the hand.

I am the word that speaks to man.

The Recruiting Drive.

Under the willow the willow

I heard the butcher bird sing.

Come out you fine young fellow

From under your mother’s wing…

You must take your clothes off for the doctor

And stand straight as a pin,

Hisss hand of stone on your white breastbone

Where the bullets all go in.

SEEN                                                     

“C”,   Sea,   See,   Seen and  Scene.

“C” is the third letter of the alphabet,

Curly C   not,   kicking K.

Or,  you could say to the burglar -

O. I. C. U !!         (Oh! I see you.)

“Sea” is what we ‘Oh I do

Like to be beside’

Paddling!, bucket and spade

Donkey riding!!.

“See”, as in

“I can see you there, behind that chair”.

“Seen” as in

“Children should be seen but not heard”.

Or, “Have you seen the  ****  on that?”

“Scene” is what we want to see

When we are on holiday.

Or, we could have a ride on the Scenic Railway

on a spectacular Steam Train.

Or, “You’re making a scene, be quiet’

“C”,  Sea,  See,  Seen and Scene.

There is of course, obscene - but we won’t mention that!!

My West Yorkshire Passion - DIVERSITY.

Luscious green dales fields, bounded by the jigsaw puzzle of

dry stone walls. Rivers, coming from tiny springs in the hills,

emerging as torrents of racing water power, taking your breath away.

Man’s feats of skill and back-breaking labour to build stupendous

Cathedrals, Minsters and castles. These equal the natural features

the Pennines’ crowning glories of Pen-y-Ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough.

The Vale of York’s rich farmlands and pretty villages give way to the

Wolds. They roll onwards to meet wild coastline. Some threatened by coastal erosion, 

Scarborough and Bridlington, offer traditional ‘bucket and spade’

holidays, complete with donkey’s. Whitby, whose old Town is separated,

by the River from the Gothic Church and ruined Abbey on the hill. The town has links to Bram Stoker's’ book Dracula.

Yorkshire, once England’s power base and home of heavy Industry.

Which withstood a political battering, causing heavy industries to

give way to, incoming businesses of Distribution and Logistics.

Our strength now, is the diversity of peoples, from friendly natives,

to many nationalities making Yorkshire their home. Working as taxi and

bus drivers or hospital staff. Some opened ‘Take Away’ shops, causing

our beloved Yorkshire Pudding, to be overtaken by new favorite,

Indian Curries and Chicken Tikka Masala.