Welcome to the Carefree Poets Cove, a creative project ideas initiative. We invite you to take an imaginative adventure as you amble through these pages where poets rule!
Wander through the carefree poets cove and enjoy this little treasure trove of literary de Bonaire and imaginative poetic flare.
With the modern poet voices You have so many, many choices.
Poems by some famous poets Who could forget those old oats.
So wander read and dream a while, And let the words broaden your smile.
Simply Love the Simple Life Carefree Poets in our little Poets Cove
I wish I could find the words right now To tell you how I feel inside On this cold and icy winter’s night
I lie awake in my warm and cosy bed With a solid roof above my head While many people brace the biting cold And hope they had someone to simply hold
Fathers’, mothers’, children, babies’, entire families Have been divided into such distinctive categories Searching for love and peace, that is all that they chase Love and peace may still exist in another time and place
Running through the streets, the rhythm of their hearts quiver amidst the mess They try so hard to break out of their little worlds, but it is all so worthless Down in the gutter now, they watch as life passes them by I see how hate and ignorance can make a grown man cry All their dreams, all their hopes destroyed in the twinkling of an eye
Everyone whom they knew has turned the other cheek, no one seems to care Thrown into shelters, some will survive, some will be forced to bare The pain and the loss in silence as their cries fall on deaf ears The peace and love that they are searching for may still take a few more years
Every beat of their heart, tears them further apart From the place they have called home They are lost and alone in the dark It is hard to believe that some of us are forced to attack It shows in the actions, that is all that counts, this is a fact Losing all faith, they have no more belief in luck
They are going home to a place where a life for them does not exist For in this land of ours, it may be difficult to subsist Some are going to places they have never been to before They have no choice, they must leave or be forever insecure We have a choice, we must choose to love, to come to their aid Hate is a burden to big to bear, it is time our dues are paid
A poem in response to Xenophobic attacks in South Africa May 2008 by Fatima Coovadia 30/05/2008 One of the Poets Cove Female Poets of the Fall
I had seen a picture Of a Roman road Crossing quiet fields. It appealed to the romantic In me So I wanted To walk it.
My Italian was just good enough To grasp the directions she gave And the sign had just enough paint To be read. The road was too rough for the car So we walked wondering When this artifact would appear. We saw Structures carved into the cliff. A couple appeared And took us with them Along a track Down a steep ravine And up into An ancient world.
So there I walked Where history had swept The feet of ages And sensed the strange silence Even in ancient times Of the tombs that lined the road. There I joined the throng For my own brief Moment in history.
A poem of history by Michael Corcoran One of the Poets Cove Carefree Poets
you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young, whatever life you wear
it will become you; and if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become. Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need: i can entirely her only love
whose any mystery makes every man's flesh put space on; and his mind take off time
that you should ever think, may god forbid and (in his mercy) your true lover spare: for that way knowledge lies, the foetal grave called progress, and negation's dead undoom.
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings
this is the garden: colours come and go
this is the garden: colours come and go, frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing strong silent greens serenely lingering, absolute lights like baths of golden snow. This is the garden: pursed lips do blow upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing (of harps celestial to the quivering string) invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled, in other lands where other songs be sung; yet stand They here enraptured, as among The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
ee cummings
may my heart always be open to little
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if it's sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly there's never been quite such a fool who could fail pulling all the sky over him with one smile
ee cummings
somewhere i have never traveled
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
ee cummings
when faces called flowers float out of the ground
when faces called flowers float out of the ground and breathing is wishing and wishing is having- but keeping is downward and doubting and never -it's april (yes, april; my darling) it's spring! yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be (yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound and wishing is having and having is giving- but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense -alive; we're alive, dear: it's (kiss me now) spring! now the pretty birds hover so she and so he now the little fish quiver so you and so i (now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found and having is giving and giving is living- but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing -it's spring (all our night becomes day) o, it's spring! all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea (all the mountains are dancing; are dancing)
ee cummings
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