( Homage to Emily Bronte “Spellbound”)
Although I feel the night is wrapped around me
And the tyrant descends to let in the cold
Although the pines no longer block the glare
And malignant beams enter into Morpheus’ cave
Although everything is bowed down with ice and snow
And clouds stand stationary above the waste below
Although near voices speak with insane passion
And even the cats cover their ears and run away
Although I have endured much and have overcome
And the arrogant and ignorant still reign in their fashion
Although we wait with patience for our authority
And the last farthing will soon be paid
I cannot move, I will not move, I cannot go
I cannot rise above and be no more and here.
"Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
fluttering from the autumn tree."
Emily Bronte
I wish the summer would last forever.
But it is half past summer already.
Some parts of my garden are decaying.
But there is still beauty in those withered plants.
I pause to contemplate.
Yes, divine will be the colours of fall.
The red, yellow, and orange leaves will be dancing.
Just two months till fall, and I am dreaming of the sublime.
"Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
fluttering from the autumn tree."
Quote by _ Emily Bronte
Autumn brings enchanting dapples and hues,
with each tremble and each fluttering breeze;
I love a walk to look at all the views,
the bright red, yellow, gold, and orange trees !
It makes me feel like God has been painting,
with strokes of color created for me;
all the trees with sweet vibrant paints staining,
I am in a lovely dream filigree !
The smell of decay a sweet divine scent,
it drifts and is quite intoxicating;
that smell of fermenting I will lament,
the odor of Autumn captivating !
Oh, it only stays for a few short weeks;
but, is magical with its sublime streaks !
"Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from an autumn tree."
Quote by _ Emily Bronte
All the trees are changing their summer gowns,
the winds whispers- trees it is time to fall;
and stained glass leaves drop in golds, reds, and browns,
taking their time to fly they often crawl.
And drifting are sweet bird rhapsody songs,
the tweets, the chirps, twittering and the twangs;
all of autumn is quiet and mellow,
I am holding a leaf veined and yellow.
The rain falls in a pitter-patter dance,
there is a splendor in the scenery;
and the leaves with a madness spin and prance,
a beauty where once there was greenery.
The wind is wailings like a violin,
oh God has painted his beautiful art;
all around painted leaves whirl, swirl and spin,
his voice whispers in the trees and my heart.
Emily Bronte makes her mark
speaking of the sweet bluebell
in its power shows its blossom
one can't help but go and tell
Springtime in the UK brings them out
the bluebell has a lovely scent
which hangs in the air so heavily
from bell-shaped flowers heavenly sent
The bluebell symbolises something great
humility, gratitude, constancy and everlasting love
this was loved by the Victorians so much
to them it was a language never enough
Folklore showed about bluebell woods
fairies there we're told would ring
so the fairies would be gathered
whether believing this what would it bring
In the UK there's over half that's in the world
recently the bluebell voted UK's favourite wildflower
so colourful with a lovely shade of blue
feeding on the moisture receives in the morning hour
( have written this piece about the lovely Bluebell that blooms in spring here in the UK.)
Mild the mist upon the hill
As this in dreams I see
What sadness this within me fills while
The night is darkening around me
My dreamscape changes to a meadow, but
I see around me tombstones grey
No butterflies will flutter by
Where once I used to play
Oh for the time when I shall sleep
Without the sadness my dreams now spawn
But now they keep me where tombstones rise
Far far away is mirth withdrawn
- -
The lines in bold are titles from Emily Bronte's poems.
Emily Bronte
recently observed in delicto flagronte
said practice i must
that scene with Chipper as Heathcliff was a total bust.
She loved the poetry
of Emily Bronte and Shakespeare
She brought back the words to my eyes
and their beauty to my ears.
Never will I doubt their woe
as I feel their anguish in my heart
and rue the fate of mortal beings
as from their friends they part.
Never again will time go by
without casting awhile a backward glance
On those who loved and lost, and learned
Never commit thy time to chance.
I had them hidden
locked & safe
my treasure, my precious
What I value above all
Some said gold
Some said money
but some, even surprised me
whispering "puh; she hasn't got a thing"
some made me laugh
while others made me cry
But, here I have them
still safe, hidden & locked
my treasure, my precious
My Books...
What I value above all...
Charlotte & Emily Bronte
Dickens, Twain
Austen, Hugo
Nesbit & Holt
Even Dumas...
It took a little time
Gave me a hard time
But, I have them now
my treasure, my books
My favorites..
Made me my world
Gave me new taste
I value above all
more than gold
My Books, My Treasure....
DEATH.
For Time and Death and mortal pain
Give wounds that will not heal again.
Emily Bronte
From the land of the night
The death has spread its wings
Marking eyes cold & lips starved
Hope gone under goaded stray
Sensitive heart being bled grey.
An anchorage in diseased body
Withering like the autumnal plant
Decayed air under cover of mourning
Rusty dust stretching in stifled bay
Inky night spreading shadows of lay.
Star crossed lovers strolled together
over moorland fields of heather...
Tragedy unfolds
Emily Bronte wrote thereof...
She, too, lost chance to find true love...
Death, again, grabs hold
__________________________________
For Black-Eyed Susan's Contest: Tail Rhyme
5/1/12
I was in the Yorkshire Dales
just the other day,
and sat where Emily Bronte
used to sit and play.
I gazed into the water
just below my feet;
it brought words of inspiration,
so pure yet oh so sweet.
Rapturous ovations
seemed to burst into the air,
making me pause and wonder
if Emily was still there!
A gentle breeze whispered
quietly in my ear,
'This stream is full of magic
come listen and you'll hear;
The drip, drip, drip, dripping
of the water from above,
bringing tender, caring, meaning
of peace and hope and love.'
29th September 2011 Robert Davidson
I.
On the right is Emily Bronte,
Bard of Yorkshire moor—
Her talented, tormented family
Wrote novels which still endure.
II.
On the left’s Christina Rossetti,
Who chastely did refuse
The goblin’s fruit of ecstasy;
Pre-Raphaelite recluse.
III.
In the center’s a filmy mirror,
Dusty-looking glass;
You rub it till it’s clearer
And see a skull-faced lass—
Yourself…at Requiem Mass.
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