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Celebrating Silence

Celebrating Silence

Alone, alone on the wishful hilltop
Alone, alone on the longing beach
Alone, alone in the silvery garden
Listening to dreams…stealing hopes
Celebrating silence……

poem by Prasanna Kumari
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Margaret's Bridal Eve

I

The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee:
There is a rose that's ready;
And which of the handsome young men shall it be?
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

My daughter, come hither, come hither to me:
There is a rose that's ready;
Come, point me your finger on him that you see:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O mother, my mother, it never can be:
There is a rose that's ready;
For I shall bring shame on the man marries me:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

Now let your tongue be deep as the sea:
There is a rose that's ready;
And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

Tall Margaret wept bitterly:
There is a rose that's ready;
And as her parent bade did she:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee:
There is a rose that's ready;
Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me!
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

II

O mother, my mother, this thing I must say:
There is a rose in the garden;
Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay:
And the bird sings over the roses.

Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men:
There is a rose in the garden;
You marry them blindfold, I tell you again:
And the bird sings over the roses.

O mother, but when he kisses me!
There is a rose in the garden;
My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be!
And the bird sings over the roses.

O mother, but when I awake in the morn!

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
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Wishful Heart

Wishful Heart
Wishful Heart
How much pain can you endure?
Hurt you til there's nothing left.. Love Again?
Are you sure?
All the times you stay hopeful to it all
You know very well in the end you always fall
Wishful Heart
Wishful Heart
Are you a fool?
Love the one who will never love you
Broke into a million pieces
some stolen along the way
you care too much
Though they abuse
Still you stay; Pretend covers your bruises
Wishful Heart
Wishful Heart
Where do I begin?
Want to mend you
But you wont give in
afraid of what love just may do
you close your eyes
& pray to god
that this is true.
Wishful Heart
Wishful Heart
Oh I love you so
Not enough to heal your scars
but enough to sew your wounds
I promise, one day you'll have a new start.

Sweet Dreams... Wishful Heart Wishful Heart

poem by LeighAnna Williams
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[9] O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!

O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!
[LOVE POEMS]

POET: MAHENDRA BHATNAGAR

POEMS

1 Passion And Compassion / 1
2 Affection
3 Willing To Live
4 Passion And Compassion / 2
5 Boon
6 Remembrance
7 Pretext
8 To A Distant Person
9 Perception
10 Conclusion
10 You (1)
11 Symbol
12 You (2)
13 In Vain
14 One Night
15 Suddenly
16 Meeting
17 Touch
18 Face To Face
19 Co-Traveller
20 Once And Once only
21 Touchstone
22 In Chorus
23 Good Omens
24 Even Then
25 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (1)
26 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (2)
27 Life Aspirant
28 To The Condemned Woman
29 A Submission
30 At Midday
31 I Accept
32 Who Are You?
33 Solicitation
34 Accept Me
35 Again After Ages …
36 Day-Dreaming
37 Who Are You?
38 You Embellished In Song

[...] Read more

poem by Mahendra Bhatnagar
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

II.

[...] Read more

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Twin State

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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The Door Of Humility

ENGLAND
We lead the blind by voice and hand,
And not by light they cannot see;
We are not framed to understand
The How and Why of such as He;

But natured only to rejoice
At every sound or sign of hope,
And, guided by the still small voice,
In patience through the darkness grope;

Until our finer sense expands,
And we exchange for holier sight
The earthly help of voice and hands,
And in His light behold the Light.

I

Let there be Light! The self-same Power
That out of formless dark and void
Endued with life's mysterious dower
Planet, and star, and asteroid;

That moved upon the waters' face,
And, breathing on them His intent,
Divided, and assigned their place
To, ocean, air, and firmament;

That bade the land appear, and bring
Forth herb and leaf, both fruit and flower,
Cattle that graze, and birds that sing,
Ordained the sunshine and the shower;

That, moulding man and woman, breathed
In them an active soul at birth
In His own image, and bequeathed
To them dominion over Earth;

That, by whatever is, decreed
His Will and Word shall be obeyed,
From loftiest star to lowliest seed;-
The worm and me He also made.

And when, for nuptials of the Spring
With Summer, on the vestal thorn
The bridal veil hung flowering,
A cry was heard, and I was born.

II

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Austin
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Cute Without The 'E'

Your lipstick, his collar.. don't bother Angel
I know exactly what goes on
When everything you'll get is
everything that you've wanted, princess
(well which would you prefer)
My finger on the trigger, or
(me face down, down across your floor)
Me face down, down across your floor
(me face down, down across your floor)
Well just so long as this thing's loaded
And will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
This all was only wishful thinkin,
this all was only wishful thinkin
And will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
This all was only wishful thinkin,
this all was only wishful thinkin
let's go...
Don't bother trying to explain Angel
I know exactly what goes on when you're on and
How about I'm outside of your window
(how about I'm outside of your window)
Watchin him keep the details covered
You're such a sucker (you're such a sucker)
for a sweet talker, yeah
And will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
This all was only wishful thinkin,
this all was only wishful thinkin
(the only thing that I regret is that I, I never let you hold me back)
And will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
This all was only wishful thinkin,
this all was only wishful thinkin
Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens
A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins
I wil never ask if you don't ever tell me
I know you well enough to know you never loved me
Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens
A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins
I will never ask if you don't ever tell me
I know you well enough to know you never loved me
Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens
A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins
I will never ask if you don't ever tell me
I know you well enough to know...
Why can't I feel anything
from anyone other than you?
Why can't I feel anything

[...] Read more

song performed by Taking Back Sunday
Added by Lucian Velea
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Cute Without The E (Live ThisIsNotEmo.com)

your lipstick, his collar.. dont bother angel
i know exactly what goes on
when everything you'll get is
everything that you've wanted, princess
(well which would you prefer?)
my finger on the trigger, or..
(me face down, down across your floor)
me face down, down across your floor
(me face down, down across your floor)
well just so long as this thing's loaded
and will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
this thought was only wishful thinkin,
this thought was only wishful thinkin
and will you tell all your friends
this thought was only wishful thinkin,
this thought was only wishful thinkin
let's go...
don't bother trying to explain angel
i know exactly what goes on when you're on and
how about i'm outside of your window
(how about i'm outside of your window)
watchin him keep the details covered
you're such a sucker
(you're such a sucker)
for a sweet talker, yeah
and will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
This thought was only wishful thinkin,
this thought was only wishful thinkin
(the only thing I regret is that I, I never let you hold me back)
and will you tell all your friends
you've got your gun to my head
this all was only wishful thinkin,
this all was only wishful thinkin
Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens
a thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins
i will never ask if you don't ever tell me
i know you well enough to know you'll never loved me
Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens
a thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins
i will never ask if you don't ever tell me
i know you well enough to know

song performed by Taking Back Sunday
Added by Lucian Velea
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On This Beach...

Life is a beach.
There are jellyfish. And sea urchins…the painful bumps along the road that we all encounter in life. On this beach.
In life..and on a beach there is warm water-like times, when we are happy, and have good times and enjoy living. On this beach.
We also have times, like a beach, when we have cold water times; when we are sad, or upset about losing someone or something. On this beach.
There are rough times, the same way the sea has rough water that pounds angrily against the shore. On this beach.
Life, like the sea, has high and low times, or tides. There is low tide when you think u can no longer go on, that life has done too much damage to you. Then the tide comes back in…and you are reminded that life goes on. Life gets better. You cannot give up on life, like you can’t give up on a beach because of a rough day or low tides. On this beach.
Life has sharks. Maybe not the same sharks from a beach, but they are there. They are the people that thrive on your pain and tears and hardship, the same way a shark sustains itself through brutal killing of unaware seals who don’t know what is coming or how bad it is. The sharks are there. Waiting. For someone…for you…like an unsuspecting seal, to come along and unknowingly become trapped in their lies and hurt. On this beach.
Life…has good times. Wonderful times where the only thoughts you have are about how much life is worth living and how much you love life. It is like the clear, cool blue water on a beautiful day at the beach. On this beach.
Life has those amazing people….akin to the beachgoers on a sandy shore…just along for the ride…to enjoy the good…and pack up and leave when it rains or something goes wrong. But there are the surfers..the daredevils…going back into the fear and love of the sea….of life. They risk the sharks, and jellyfish, and rough water and low and high tides, not because they are invincible, but because they know about the good that is to be had in this world. On this beach.
Life is so comparable to a beach…most importantly in that it has sand like a beach. Billions upon billions of unique grains of sand, like the 7 billion different people in this world, on this beach.

poem by Dark Fallout
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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Wishful Sinful

Wishful crystal
Water covers everything in blue
Coolin water
Wishful sinful
Our love is beautiful to see
I know where I would like to be
Right back where I came
Wishful, sinful, wicked blue
Water covers you
Wishful, sinful, wicked you
Cant escape the blue
Magic risin
Sun is shinin deep beneath the sea
But not enough for you and me and sunshine
Love to hear the wind cry
Wishful sinful
Our love is beautiful to see
I know where I would like to be
Right back where I came
Wishful, sinful, wicked blue
Water covers you
Wishful, sinful, wicked you
Cant escape the blue
Love to hear the wind cry
Love to hear you cry, yeah, yeah

song performed by Doors
Added by Lucian Velea
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Quatrains Of Life

What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?

What did it bring me that I loved it, even
With joy before it and that dream of Heaven,
Boyhood's first rapture of requited bliss,
What did it give? What ever has it given?

'Let me recount the value of my days,
Call up each witness, mete out blame and praise,
Set life itself before me as it was,
And--for I love it--list to what it says.

Oh, I will judge it fairly. Each old pleasure
Shared with dead lips shall stand a separate treasure.
Each untold grief, which now seems lesser pain,
Shall here be weighed and argued of at leisure.

I will not mark mere follies. These would make
The count too large and in the telling take
More tears than I can spare from seemlier themes
To cure its laughter when my heart should ache.

Only the griefs which are essential things,
The bitter fruit which all experience brings;
Nor only of crossed pleasures, but the creed
Men learn who deal with nations and with kings.

All shall be counted fairly, griefs and joys,
Solely distinguishing 'twixt mirth and noise,
The thing which was and that which falsely seemed,
Pleasure and vanity, man's bliss and boy's.

So I shall learn the reason of my trust
In this poor life, these particles of dust
Made sentient for a little while with tears,
Till the great ``may--be'' ends for me in ``must.''

My childhood? Ah, my childhood! What of it
Stripped of all fancy, bare of all conceit?
Where is the infancy the poets sang?
Which was the true and which the counterfeit?

I see it now, alas, with eyes unsealed,
That age of innocence too well revealed.
The flowers I gathered--for I gathered flowers--
Were not more vain than I in that far field.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Moon

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou seemest most charming to my sight;
As I gaze upon thee in the sky so high,
A tear of joy does moisten mine eye.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the Esquimau in the night;
For thou lettest him see to harpoon the fish,
And with them he makes a dainty dish.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the fox in the night,
And lettest him see to steal the grey goose away
Out of the farm-yard from a stack of hay.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the farmer in the night,
and makes his heart beat high with delight
As he views his crops by the light in the night.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the eagle in the night,
And lettest him see to devour his prey
And carry it to his nest away.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the mariner in the night
As he paces the deck alone,
Thinking of his dear friends at home.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the weary traveller in the night;
For thou lightest up the wayside around
To him when he is homeward bound.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the lovers in the night
As they walk through the shady groves alone,
Making love to each other before they go home.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the poacher in the night;
For thou lettest him see to set his snares
To catch the rabbit and the hares.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave
His home far away, incognito in his dress,
And view thee ere he passed along en route to Inverness.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
The longest of the present day
That has ever crossed o'er a tidal river stream,
Most gigantic to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
Which will cause great rejoicing on the opening day
And hundreds of people will come from far away,
Also the Queen, most gorgeous to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
And prosperity to Provost Cox, who has given
Thirty thousand pounds and upwards away
In helping to erect the Bridge of the Tay,
Most handsome to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
I hope that God will protect all passengers
By night and by day,
And that no accident will befall them while crossing
The Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
For that would be most awful to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
And prosperity to Messrs Bouche and Grothe,
The famous engineers of the present day,
Who have succeeded in erecting the Railway
Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
Which stands unequalled to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Added by Poetry Lover
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Beach Wet

Baby...
Bring that magic to me.

Baby...
Bring that magic to me.

I am glad we met,
In this Summer season.
I'd like to lay on the beach wet!
And sweat for different reasons.

Baby...
Bring that magic to me.

Baby...
Bring that magic to me.

With music softly played,
Our bodies get delighted.
With a tan that the Sun bakes...
A taste of the rhythm the sand takes.

And baby...
Bring that magic to me.

Classy baby...
Bring that magic to me.

With music samba played,
Our bodies get delighted.
With a tan that the Sun bakes...
We dance in a rhythm that the sand takes.

With music softly played,
Our bodies get delighted.
With a tan that the Sun bakes...
A taste of the rhythm the sand takes.

I like to lay on the beach wet.
And sweat for different reasons.
I like to lay on the beach wet.
And sweat for different reasons.

Classy baby...
Bring that magic to me.

With music samba played,
Our bodies get delighted.
No better place to lay,
Than on a beach excited.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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I Am The Beach...

As we walked along the beach, crashing waves
thundered in our ears and a light, salted mist,
dampened our lips.

The sun began to set and the voice of the beach,
traveled across the ocean waves.

'I am the beach, and here you shall find peace.
I am the beach, here you shall find love.

In this domain, my beach, the answers you
search for, could very well be found here.
For at this beach, there is much,
that has been revealed.

The sparkled, white grains of sand, that blanket
this beach, has been a bed of comfort, to many.

Pause, as you come upon this beach, and listen
to the symphony of waves and the chorus of
birds, singing their song, as they glide in the wind.

Feel the power of this beach, as it seems to
renew your inner being. You need not question
the beach and its mystical powers. For as
millions before you have found, the beach...
and its magical transference to one...have
existed, since the beginning of time.

Be not troubled, for the beach is close at
hand. You need only to deliver your strife,
to the tranquility of the beach and it shall
be exercised from you.

When you go from this beach...leave with
the peace that you have found here.'

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Power Of The Beach

As we walked along the beach, crashing waves
thundered in our ears and a light, salted mist,
dampened our lips.

The sun began to set and the voice of the beach,
traveled across the ocean waves.

'I am the beach, and here you shall find peace.
I am the beach, here you shall find love.

In this domain, my beach, the answers you
search for, could very well be found here.
For at this beach, there is much,
that has been revealed.

The sparkled, white grains of sand, that blanket
this beach, has been a bed of comfort, to many.

Pause, as you come upon this beach, and listen
to the symphony of waves and the chorus of
birds, singing their song, as they glide in the wind.

Feel the power of this beach, as it seems to
renew your inner being. You need not question
the beach and its mystical powers. For as
millions before you have found, the beach...
and its magical transference to one...have
existed, since the beginning of time.

Be not troubled, for the beach is close at
hand. You need only to deliver your strife,
to the tranquility of the beach and it shall
be exercised from you.

When you go from this beach...leave with
the peace that you have found here.'

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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Under A Blanket Of Stars

As we walked along the beach, crashing waves
thundered in our ears and a light, salted mist,
dampened our lips.

The sun began to set and the voice of the beach,
traveled across the ocean waves.

'I am the beach, and here you shall find peace.
I am the beach, here you shall find love.

In this domain, my beach, the answers you
search for, could very well be found here.
For at this beach, there is much,
that has been revealed.

The sparkled, white grains of sand, that blanket
this beach, has been a bed of comfort, to many.

Pause, as you come upon this beach, and listen
to the symphony of waves and the chorus of
birds, singing their song, as they glide in the wind.

Feel the power of this beach, as it seems to
renew your inner being. You need not question
the beach and its mystical powers. For as
millions before you have found, the beach...
and its magical transference to one...have
existed, since the beginning of time.

Be not troubled, for the beach is close at
hand. You need only to deliver your strife,
to the tranquility of the beach and it shall
be exercised from you.

When you go from this beach...leave with
the peace that you have found here.'

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!