Month: March 2015

The Eiffel Tower

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Today marks the 126th year since the official opening of that icon of Paris and indeed France – the Eiffel Tower.

Hands held transfer visions

of sunsets on choppy seas in

Ireland; like glowing orbs

viewed brighter on cratered

moons in space.

Kisses placed on lips like

French music playing in Paris

while standing neath the Eiffel Tower;

triste never farther like

ancient ruins to distant pasts

that I can smile on presently.

Eyes of bright teal like every

sky I could imagine; changing

hues in foreign lands and salt

air that I can scarcely taste…

Feathered visions placed like

warm embraces and I’ll never

pine for anything more than

what you place

within my soul

– Jasmine Rayne


The Morsel

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Some more poetry in recognition and celebration of this most sacred week in the Christian calendar – Holy Week.

A piece of bread
torn from the loaf
Exists separately
no longer part of the whole.

It has a solitary purpose
complete in itself
not passed over
Held closely, protected
until the fullness of time
When it is dipped and released
at the final feast
Broken for one,
not for all
Given only to the intimate one
who must go quickly
To do what he must do.

When Satan’s treacherous leaven
had fully risen,
Judas Iscariot accepted
the chosen morsel
And went out into the night.

A piece of bread
torn from the loaf
Exists separately,

no longer part of the whole.

 – Shelley A Soceka


Sonnet Written In Holy Week At Genoa

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I WANDERED in Scoglietto’s green retreat,

The oranges on each o’erhanging spray

Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet

Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet

Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:

And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay

Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,

“Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,

O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”

Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours

Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,

The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.

– Oscar Wilde


Let’s Talk Cricket

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I talk of cricket quite infrequently,

as most would be nonplussed and mystified:

to them it is a total mystery.

If I said, oh the bowler bowled a wide,

you’d smile, then shake your head and turn away,

or what if I said,  caught on the on side?

A flipper or a chinaman I’d say,

while knowing that you didn’t have a clue,

as you would ask, bemused, well what are they?

The tail is wagging, will they see it through?

A common term when trying for a draw,

must seem like speaking double Dutch to you.

So now you’re stumped, you can’t take any more

and I’ve just hit you’re fastest ball for four !

– A Terza Rimma Sonnet, by Black Narcissus


British Freedom

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It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.-In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.

– William Wordsworth


I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (William Wordsworth)

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I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

– William Wordsworth



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The doctors don’t know
Why the symptoms just grow
Especially towards the end of the week
But there’s just a strange feeling
Something rather appealing
A sensation that we all want to seek

We all need the weekend
To go out and to spend
Time or money. For yes what’s right is
That doctor’s it’s simple
Not a spot or a pimple
It’s just that we aall have Fridayitis!

– Adrian Dobson


A Morning Exercise (William Wordsworth)

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FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry
Becomes an echo of man’s misery.
Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl
Tries his two voices for a favourite strain–
‘Tu-whit–Tu-whoo!’ the unsuspecting fowl
Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain;
Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,
Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.

Through border wilds where naked Indians stray,
Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;
A feathered task-master cries, ‘WORK AWAY!’
And, in thy iteration, ‘WHIP POOR WILL!’
Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave,
Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave.

What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays
Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel;
And that fleet messenger of summer days,
The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell;
But ne’er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark
To melancholy service–hark! O hark!

The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,
Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed;
But ‘He’ is risen, a later star of dawn,
Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud;
Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;
The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark!

Hail, blest above all kinds!–Supremely skilled
Restless with fixed to balance, high with low,
Thou leav’st the halcyon free her hopes to build
On such forbearance as the deep may show;
Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties,
Leav’st to the wandering bird of paradise.

Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove;
Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee;
So constant with thy downward eye of love,
Yet, in aerial singleness, so free;
So humble, yet so ready to rejoice
In power of wing and never-wearied voice.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler!–that love-prompted strain,
(‘Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.

How would it please old Ocean to partake,
With sailors longing for a breeze in vain,
The harmony thy notes most gladly make
Where earth resembles most his own domain!
Urania’s self might welcome with pleased ear
These matins mounting towards her native sphere.

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars
To day-light known deter from that pursuit,
‘Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute;
For not an eyelid could to sleep incline
Wert thou among them, singing as they shine!

– William Wordsworth


Lines Written In Early Spring (William Wordsworth)

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I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

– William Wordsworth


Written In March (William Wordsworth)

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The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon:
There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone

– William Wordsworth