Capturing the world with Photography, Painting and Drawing

Posts tagged “poetry

Great Poems : A New Start. – by Bernard Shaw

A New Start. – Poem by Bernard Shaw

I have wiped the slate clean,
No more reminders from the past.
Memories of what I have been,
Have vanished at long last.

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I look forward to my future new,
Where all is territory strange.
Soon I will be among the few,
That plans their life at long range.

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I see my life laid out at my feet,
New friends shall rally at my call.
They will be the first I will greet,
At this my welcoming ball.

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Soon all memories will depart,
Of a past left well behind.
I will get off to a new start,
With the best of mankind.

Bernard Shaw


The Landscape of Glendalough, county Wicklow , Crossing The Bar, A Poem by – Alfred Lord Tennyson

Glendalough
county
Wicklow Ireland
Nigel Borrington

Crossing The Bar – Poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have cross the bar.


Saying goodbye to November , Poem:November By, William Cullen Bryant, 1794 – 1878

November
William Cullen Bryant, 1794 – 1878

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,
Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare.

One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.


A Country Boy in Winter , A poem by : Sarah Orne Jewett

snowly mountain 2

A Country Boy in Winter

By Sarah Orne Jewett

The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
And I don’t mind how cold it grows,
For then the ice won’t crack.
Old folks may shiver all day long,
But I shall never freeze;
What cares a jolly boy like me
For winter days like these?

Far down the long snow-covered hills
It is such fun to coast,
So clear the road! the fastest sled
There is in school I boast.
The paint is pretty well worn off,
But then I take the lead;
A dandy sled’s a loiterer,
And I go in for speed.

When I go home at supper-time,
Ki! but my cheeks are red!
They burn and sting like anything;
I’m cross until I’m fed.
You ought to see the biscuit go,
I am so hungry then;
And old Aunt Polly says that boys
Eat twice as much as men.

There’s always something I can do
To pass the time away;
The dark comes quick in winter-time—
A short and stormy day
And when I give my mind to it,
It’s just as father says,
I almost do a man’s work now,
And help him many ways.

I shall be glad when I grow up
And get all through with school,
I’ll show them by-and-by that I
Was not meant for a fool.
I’ll take the crops off this old farm,
I’ll do the best I can.
A jolly boy like me won’t be
A dolt when he’s a man.

I like to hear the old horse neigh
Just as I come in sight,
The oxen poke me with their horns
To get their hay at night.
Somehow the creatures seem like friends,
And like to see me come.
Some fellows talk about New York,
But I shall stay at home.


Poem for the Weekend : Just Over The Mountain by Michael Ruger

Just Over The Mountain

© Michael Ruger

Just Over The Mountain
Irish landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington

As a tangerine sky lights up countless trees
sunrise has come to bless my way
Comes another day away from my yesterdays
Yes they wait just over this mountain
Down a steep ragged hill
across a rock gurgling streams
into the valley low

I will never go back
This mountain and me are one
It know I mean it no harm
It allows me to live here in peace

Today is fresh wild strawberry day
Compliments of this mountain meadow
I will take only what I need
for there are so many creatures that have need of them.
The Blue Jay screams you go
as Crows on the way give a call
I will walk back to the spring down below
and just sit there and take in THE ALL
Its is another grand day on the mountain


Winter Sky , Poem by : Lisa La Grange

Winter Skys
County Kilkenny
Ireland
Nigel Borrington

Come walk beneath the winter sky
as crystal starlight shimmers down,
to where the whispered snowflakes lie
to cloak the valley like a gown.

Walk ever forward and forget
the promises that never came;
and all the volumes of regret
to which our passions lay their claim.

The cold magnificence that glows
with luminescent mystery,
placates the agony of woes
that overshadow history.

Leave twisted trails of grief behind
and venture on a virgin plain,
as destiny becomes aligned
with hope’s provocative refrain.


Poem for a Winters day : The Light of Other Days, by Tom Moore

The Light of Other Days
by Tom Moore

Oft, in the still of night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the still of night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so linked together,
I’ve seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the still of night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me.
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.


Here I Am Still Breathing ! A Poem For The Brokenhearted by : Andrew Voigt

Top Withens
Also known as Top Withins is a ruined farmhouse near Haworth, West Yorkshire,
This farmhouse is associated with “Wuthering Heights”, the Earnshaw home in Emily Brontë’s novel
Nigel Borrington

I felt this poem by Andrew Voigt matched this great location on the yorkshire moors very well !

Here I Am Still Breathing

A Poem For The Brokenhearted

The night is dark and I’m alone
Searching for a place called home
Silence rings within my ears
Fear and pain flood my tears

Hope feels far, isolation nears
What if God isn’t really there?
Well, maybe I simply fail at dreams
A hollow chord with broken strings

Stars go black, night turns grey
Light is gone, far from day
Will the sun rise once again?
A distant dream, a long-lost friend?

Maybe I simply can’t understand
A single word of this master plan
It hurts like hell, my spirit screams
Life in the land of broken dreams

I sit back down to concentrate
Reminded of the things I hate
Depression, fear, regrets of time
Desiring just to press rewind

Yet, here I am still breathing
This heartbeat song unending
This life is still worth living
This life is still worth living

I pick myself up off the floor
Remnants of the mask I’ve worn
Face the mirror while it stares back
Accepting all the things I lack

Reflections often mirror shame
Yet, tonight they simply aren’t the same
Within the tears upon my face
A light reflects in a darkened space

Could it be the day awakes?
The winter gone, new hopes to chase?
Well, maybe I’m just seeing things
Like a blind man lost in the midnight sea

But what if hope still remains?
And what if love is not in vain?
Could there be a God of love?
Who walked this earth and gave his blood?

My head is spinning within these thoughts
Could God really care for souls so lost?
We turned our backs and swore His name
Yet, still He loves us in our shame

Yes, here I am still breathing
This heartbeat song unending
This life is still worth living
This life is still worth living

Andrew Voigt

Andrew Voigt is a writer and blogger discussing thoughts on God, dreams, and brokenness. He has served as a contributing writer for publications such as Patheos, Fathom Magazine, and Kingdom Spark. Andrew holds a B.S. in Communication Studies from Liberty University and lives in Charlotte, NC with his wife and orange cat named Pumpkin.


Sailing to Byzantium, by William Butler Yeats

Sailing to Byzantium, by William Butler Yeats Image Nigel Borrington

Sailing to Byzantium

by William Butler Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon‐falls, the mackerel‐crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing‐masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.


Autumn Within, By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Autumn Within
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.

Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.

There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves,
Comes no murmur from the mill.

Autumn Within
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow