Quotes about spry, page 2
Bronze Star
From the ambience of the boundless sky,
A twinkling and perfect bronze star,
As if a saint had gotten spry
And left the everlasting ajar.
The splendor of the palace beds
On the corner of the firmament
Where ice cloud and star weds,
Beyond all chills of any extent.
The twilight verse of the turtledove
Awakens us at morning's dawn
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poem by Albert Price
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Romance Point [3]
ROMANCE POINT [3]
esspeecee … [12.10.08]
O floral bed
En-bosom the,
Foot marks indelibly
-of her.
Bohemian me
Know well,
She’ll efface
Like a
Spry shadow.
Her balmy
Coquette feet will
Gush out,
But to -
Dumfound me
Achefully.
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poem by Dr. Sakti P. Chakravorty
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Drought Won Too or Drought To One
Dewdrops on hedgerows once we knew,
Rainbows bridging the sky,
Over our heads dark storm clouds grew,
Ugly, we thought, - but why?
Grieving for failed crops we view
Here fields that once grew spry,
Too arid, unproductive too,
Dust ridden waste, bone dry.
Rose sere upon the stem, no clue
Of moisture meets the eye,
Unless the tears that filter through
Good news to bad reply.
Heat comes to roost-roast, all’s askew,
Turns wild oats sown awry...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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‘romance Point’ [1]
‘ROMANCE POINT’ [1]
esspeecee … [06.10.08.]
Questing the fragrance
Of dews,
On the sod
Where you left
Foot print.
Blind I’m
To view,
But will
Find that fragrance
Thro’ my
Acute sense.
But –
Alas!
You’ve lastly
Effaced
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poem by Dr. Sakti P. Chakravorty
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Luscious Guy
Branches reaching to the sky,
'climb up' says I,
up high,
where I can spy
that luscious guy
who's caught my eye.
He is nearby
but he's kind of shy,
perhaps a smile is worth a try.
Oh My!
I can't deny
he could add stimuli
and he's very spry.
I'm pretty sure that he could electrify, or even petrify,
but he would very certainly, satisfy.
He'd be my sweetie pie,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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Fable
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it's no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ: all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Proud to be a frog
I am proud to be a frog, though I know not why.
The green of my skin, so utterly devine;
as to what others say, (to which I am blind)
'You are proud to be a frog, though we do not know why'.
To look at the toad or turtle, they are a shame.
They are slow and weak, their legs poorly shaped.
If you dare to look closely at the great frog race;
we are quick and spry, objects of envious hate.
To the toad that is brown or the newt that is orange.
Their ugliness is a disgrace, no more than a sore;
and as to what I say, (to frogs it is right)
'We are proud to be frogs, all apart must die! '
poem by Shirow Walker
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Rondeau Reclimbing Childhood Tree
In rhyme reclimbing childhood tree we try
to paint trunk soaring through dark clouds to sky
as tot from cot in garden grot advanced
upon strong branch in innocence. Dream chanced
reclimbing childhood tree.
Tot tottering trotted to Spring sprig so spry
that, tempting, seemed to beckon on the sly:
imagination is thereby enhanced,
reclimbing childhood tree.
Child's venture wild seemed Everest so high,
as on a whim adventured, - tree limbs fly
towards the heavens where their branches danced.
Sage in old age keeps image deep entranced
recalling day way up above grass dry
reclimbing childhood tree.
19 October 2011
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Grand-Pa's Whim
While for me gapes the greedy grave
It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
Or green or white.
Jest squat serenely in the sun
Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
--A chore! It ain't.
The job is joy. Although I'm slow
I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
Smart that ol' fence.
Them pickets with my hands I made,
When young and spry;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Dusk and Dying
Dusk purple trees reach out high,
Gently brushing the Cotton Candy sky,
The nostalgic horizon passes by
And time races toward the time to die.
And I cannot help but wonder “But Why”?
Time is simply passing by, passing by,
Passing by….
But does it pause for me? Not I.
For me time simply passes by,
Like these leaves that patch this somber sky,
Time simply passes by
Like these leaves that have dried,
Skipping over the concrete, so spry.
“Simply live and let live! ” I try,
But life and living keep passing me by.
So, as my verse so aptly implies,
Whether I live, or whether I die,
I simply bid you fond goodbyes,
Like the sun as it sinks ‘low the cotton candy skies…
poem by Rachel L. Moore
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