Little dove, perched in the snow
You need not ask
For, how well, I know
How your presence speaks quietly
Of faith in the spring
When you come out of hiding
And we hear your voice sing…
Rise up, gentle fair one
For winter will pass
The flowers will spring up
And the soft, meadow grass
As the spring comes alive
And the grapevines will blossom
Little doves, sing their song
And the sun warms the skies
Coo little, dove songs,
Your voice will resound
Winter shadows will flee away
When the new morning dawns
Inspired by Sara's Contest: "Song Of Solomon"
Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day.
I only understood the words of spring and heartsore
lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient
words of the spring-day song into that French April.
You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks
of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service
you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of
love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence.
We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart.
As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative,
rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of
quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art.
Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only
fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult
practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme.
The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April
pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim
my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.
singing songs of:
Spring’s buds stringing along mine
Spring’s wisp aches for;
Cry to me
oh frozen fortress
your darkened days
have found no end
my lonesome flower dove
for memories held
through fleeting wind
I call on spring
my warming bath
of crystal dawn
and colored strands
Oh play my song
in velvet hymn's
goes Winters cry
with joyous tears
This frozen Winter
no longer cries
and sultry love
within me lies
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
Play The Radio
Get Up And Dance All Night Long
Music Heals The Soul
I recall the cool light of the shortest days,
and the darkness of the longest nights;
I shivered under a blanket and that made dreams freeze,
even snowflakes hid stars to block their fading gleams!
I'll be thinking of the warmest sunshine,
smelling flowers that are all mine!
March is warmer than February as days get longer;
I shouldn't wait any longer, but be that dancer:
leaping on scented meadows strewn with poppies, bluebells and daisies...
while my cheeks feel the warmth of the September sun mixing with breeze!
I'll be thinking of the warmest sunshine,
dreaming of sunrises to opine!
I will invite the blue jays, the mockingbirds and the lively butterflies
to watch me dance...where's that blonde-haired boy who plays the flute?
I like to feel those golden sun rays as I felt them in the prime of my happy youth,
and isn't spring the pure essence of happiness that glows on a serene face?
Ill be thinking of the warmest sunshine,
observing lilies that climb and entwine!
Once upon a time in a new day dawning
In the crack of time between night and morning
Something caught me from yarning
It was sweet but felt like a warning
That death is night to life of a new day born in
This celebration of life beginning
The song bird took up their instruments and started singing
Awakening sleepers with a joyous springing
Ending their short death with a new up bringing
So sing little song bird
Every morning as the sun comes anew
Only recognized by the few
Flapping her wings in the dew
She’s that song bird
Cracking the dawn, she’s heard
What can she say? She’s just a bird
Can’t speak but you know her word
So sing little song bird sing
With your melody bring
The wind of nature in your wing
In your serenade there’s our fling
All I am saying
Is sing little song bird sing
I spy, a feather beauty bright
With speckled blush on breast
Basking within the thicket light
Dancing round about her tiny branch
Your fluttering sight beholding
Within the snowy briar
Bathing among the warmth
Of the morning's golden glory
Its brilliance your own crown of halo
Like a sunburst that swallows
Up the end of February's sigh
As other feathers flusters zoom right by
The ginger little fellows all dappled, scramble
A merry-go-round within a flight
Threading joyous song throughout your bramble
As further flocks of scurry, hurry fly
On parade teasing wings of faerie sprites
A musical path of crisscross kites
But, you little one are the daring, bursting forth
With higher operatic songs, to startle and scold those spry
Feather beauty bravely
Upon your perch chest thrust out boldly
Nonsense rhymes and a new found might
Chase away the imps of finch and thrush
And keep yourself the sunbeams for its light
And bask yourself once more this time
Among the drops of melting dripping snow
And gather up all tis full
Feasting here, where the wild wild berries grow
But, in the end you are their kin
And soon, my fairy feathered friend you too must go
Out, onto twittering leafy stemmy stem and off...
Into the yonder of the coming spring to rove
"There is something coming over me"
Love in everything_its amazing
Must be spring has pronounced decree
Great romance aflame blazing
All the birds, crickets in song praising
Memories surfing corners of my mind
The spring of my life when we were young
The young love that we have left behind
Young love amazing, all reason to wind flung
Oh! For that spring again, our song unsung
Contest: English Quintain A Spring Day
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
February 02, 2012