Dharam Khalsa

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

"Though April showers
May come your way,
They bring the flowers
That bloom in May;
And if it's raining,
Have no regrets;
Because, it isn't raining rain, you know,
It's raining violets."

(B.G. DeSylva)

By day, the tiny sparrow
On a migratory mission,
Sets in wet yarrow,
A melodious musician,
Announcing her arrival
To the ugly bobwhite;
So frightening a rival,
By evening, she takes flight.

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Where the Sidewalk Ends
Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

I suggest we need the state of a child's mind where things are better,
Wholesome innocence, high hopes and dreams of children,
Whether to keep the mind sharp or reestablish older selves.

Why shut down and withdraw in worthless sadness, chap?
Come out of the woodwork, white-whiskered friend!
Stash that awkward wheeled walker, grab the trekker's walking stick.

'Kick the can', swerve down the merry lane, stroll anywhere with a pal,
Walk in the park with a sweetheart, hold hands.
Wet weather? Splash and splatter in all the puddles!

Stop and stand, watch the whitetail deer, the new-hatched warblers.
See all the breathtaking flowers, branches, milkweed, meadow bluebell.
Whether strengthless or sightless, inhale sweet life!

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On May Morning
by John Milton

Now the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

Neighborhood Hymn
Dharam

Espa–ola, beautiful jewel,
Southwestern valley town
On the North Rio Grande;
Memorable roadways,
The High Road to Taos.

"Lowrider Capital of the World":
Showy hydraulic suspensions
Bouncing high, then dropping;
Shimmery bodies, white leather,
New stylistic wire wheels.

Admitted home to gang thefts,
The town honors men, women:
Grandfather myth tellers,
Landlady grandmothers.
A dingy banner says "Mass".

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Wild Cinquo de Mayo past,
And June zipping in fast,
You exchange gumbo verse,
Like "For better or worse";
I hear a live "I do" at last.

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Guess I'd pick a gift in May
To arrive on my next birthday;
O, petals 'ere June,
or we will divorce soon;
Find a huge azalea bouquet!

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The Nest
Andrew Young

Four blue stones in this thrush's nest
I leave, content to make the best
Of turquoise, lapis lazuli
Or for that matter of the whole blue sky.

Thrush

Note the thrush, often too brusque,
A zealous worker from morn to dusk,
Weaving a little estate in selfless style;
Then babies hatch out in one tufty pile.

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Summer Evening
by John Clare

The frog half fearful jumps across the path,
And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
Till past, and then the cricket sings more strong,
And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear
The short night weary with their fretting song.
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,
Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
And drops again when no more noise it hears.
Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,
Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.


The Waddling
by Dharam Khalsa

We watch, viewing a gaggle of Canadian geese
And that duck duo, navigating down a bedewed,
Uncut, wonderful green woodland walkway.

Sofa Jam Session
by Dharam Khalsa

A July summer storm makes jets
That fly off the metal roof's faces,
As if the anthem from a jam session.


A Thunderstorm
by Archibald Lampman

A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,
The hurrying centres of the storm unite
And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe,
Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge,
Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height,
With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed,
And pelted waters, on the vanished plain
Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash
That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash,
Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed,
Column on column comes the drenching rain.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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