Sorrowful unto death
(Ecclesiastes 1:18 KJV)
He that increases true wisdom increases grief...
exposing that the knowledge of serpent did not instruct the dove,
and to know serpent knowledge is to know,
how the house of Love was divided, that sorrow is in learning,
how many there are deceived of themselves….
To be harmless as a dove is to be love,
to be of a serpentine jester is to pester,
to pester life as a jester of strife...
is to be twain in total vain.
Love is oneness of twain in a wedding garment…
The trinity of infinity is the beginning of thee,
opening the sacred heart gives one options to see,
the beauty you see inside is the essence of thee,
tis also the beauty in the nature of a tree…
the nature of life’s tree eternally…
To be is, to be, of the nature of life’s tree,
not to be, is to be, of thine own ciestrine…
Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2012
I first met Autumn when I was very, very young,
she was just a shy, quiet girl, but so very bright.
These maple trees were our favorite to play among,
as our laughter faded away with the falling sunlight.
I can still see her brown sweater, and reddish-orange hair,
blowing around her smiling face, like a flickering flame.
Her innocent voice still whispers on October's cool air,
near the place, where our lonely swing remains the same.
As the summer days said goodbye, and welcomed September,
the death of my dear, young friend came all too soon.
Autumn was one of those whom you'd always remember,
her soul was as beautiful as the shining, harvest moon.
She was here, then gone, leaving words that were never spoke,
to this day, I have never understood why Autumn had to leave.
Her presence lingers on the wind, like drifting wood-smoke,
as once a year, her playful spirit arises on All Hallow's Eve.
August, 4th, 2014
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
The barren land that has failed us
to give anything back all this time,
while we wet it with our blood and sweat
digging it with bare hands till the bell tolls,
telling us it's time to give up all our hopes
time to get back to the losers camp and mourn our destiny...
and then suddenly,
we realised we weren't farming the barren land
to grow our crops nor our dreams,
we were just digging our graves
the land shall take back all that it gives.
Copyright © Teka Haile | Year Posted 2015
A gentle breeze
A luscious glade
Cold under your feet
A rich blue sky
Beautifully arousing aromas
Tasting without touch
Pleasingly soft sand
To bathe yourself in
A sensuous bed of leaves
To wrap yourself in
A pleasurably warm ocean
Stimulating your senses
Depriving your concentration
You lose yourself
In natures tempting ways
Seducing you to stay
Copyright © Jules M. | Year Posted 2014
Alone in my room...
Bored and hungry
With no food to consume
I look at a corner...
"Hello, Jimmy, it's an honour."
My room became his...
My new room-mate
My heart was filled wit bliss
Day 3, knocked off at five
Jimmy still in my room
"Come on, let's get you a wife."
I offered him to nature
Jimmy hopped with joy
Too bad I can't denature
It is a dangerous world
Lizard caught Jimmy...
I froze in angst as Jimmy twirled
Copyright © Stefanus Nuno Pereira | Year Posted 2012
I dream in tornado,
blade of pulsing
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2015
A kestrel dips into an updraft
thinking he knows the world
through silent valleys
around the earth
through the wind
The creature soars ever higher
in great swoops and dives
the horizon curves as it eludes vision
the stars pulse their siren
but thrill denies
their ambient warning
Gust to gust each fades
quicker than the last
whispers carry the weight of wings
and their soulful song breaches sanity
prayers of rightful good
where petty purple banners
crest twinkling hearts
The last thermal ridden
last lyric dies
as flight’s drone fades
upturned wings alone
the sky empty oblivion
as the sun aligns its beady eye
to the looping path of the bird
Two brittle forms
grapple in light
which blots out the senses
what can never be touched
smites the naive bird
an archangel buried
in a crypt
six feet deep.
Copyright © Avery Swarthout | Year Posted 2015
of carmine and carnelian
Dying in a sunset’s
The flame of pink,
the smoke of lavender
Grudgingly giving rise…to
Final feeble glowing light
of velvety purple
Then to Ebon soot of night
Copyright © David Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic | Year Posted 2013
Why is it that when we decline and we are dying there is no beauty in our bodies
though there may be nobility in our natures and in our souls, yet when trees in
arboreal arabesque let fly their leaves floating to earth giving all creatures colourful
hope, but we are at our worst in deathly pale and black croaking at the end the
hope of eternity in different many ways, as the leaves do bunker compost go,
or the autumn fires so?
Copyright © Peter Dorr | Year Posted 2014
Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2010
I stood in the graveyard all alone,
With no-one else beside my ship,
But nature seemed near to me,
As it was marked repeatedly hip.
Rows and rows of specific dates,
Epitaphs of stories set by chat,
With the deceased person neat,
As the relative in the talk bat.
Birds were there, flowers budded,
Lush grass reminded me of growth,
And development was respected,
By an understanding of us both.
The liveliness of it and the lividity,
Of the greenery brought me home,
Made me sit in my opinion to share,
The views of him that did roam.
Death is not commented upon,
By death, or nothingness’s void,
By non-entity or by no feeling,
As death we don’t need to avoid.
Our living brain pertains always,
Cognitive wheels drive us to town,
Our connections by death’s reality,
Will only bring us sense, renown.
The cemetery bid me stand, feel,
Gave a megaphone for my emotions,
Death does not mean silence cold,
But active interactions and passions.
The deceased one’s pride, pleasure,
Is that you take the talking podium,
And express yourself by their death,
By your model of ‘em, plasmodium.
And death bid me welcome also,
In my right to free speech, voice,
Because it needs me paint, dictate,
The relationships of my choice.
No-one can criticise a memory,
Slate a scene between you, them,
Only fear of damning exposition,
Will see someone allege mayhem.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
He sang of nature wild and free
and rode the waves upon the sea.
Found wonder in a bird in flight
and stargazed during the dark of night.
Somewhere above the muse still sings,
lifted high on celestial wings.
His soul flies over the eagle's nest,
as mortal remains are put to rest.
Riding the wind and sky above,
he sings his songs of home and love.
Country roads and apple pie;
he's left the earth to soar the sky.
Released from every earthly care,
I know he's found his mountains there.
The songwriter's gone but the music lives on.
July 5, 2015
Copyright © Janece Terry | Year Posted 2015
I am the spark of fire
Come of the heaps of ashes
Of the deceased,
I am not afraid of death
I am ever momentary birth
Of the immortality,
I wake up in the song
Of the Great Time,
I am on running ever
My soul peeps into obscurity
Like a sword of grass
I am not a coward
To bow down at the feet of naked gods
My risen heart sustains the rhythm
Of the universe
Like the wave of ocean
I can break through the broken
For the new ever
I am I can be
If you don’t stand by me
I can’t wait for a while
Time is too cruel to shed tears
Time is too fast to get at
Time is too restless to console
I am on fighting and struggling
For upholding my essence
In the cradle of the debris
I never allow getting my soul defeated
I am seed of the eternity
To sprout anywhere,
My drop of blood can make
The flood of victory!
Every feeling of the thought
Can kindle the damp mind of nation:
Like dust of soil
Hold the vast creation
I am among the all of it
However a bit!
Yet I am fit to beat prejudices
Vanity and barbarism,
To bring love to this world
You can never hurt me
And touch me
Beyond all touch and clash,
But I am in you with you
Even around you ever,
I am a bit of cause of the great cause
To cause this universe
Both diversity and conformity
Cause me to concern the integration
Of body and mind
Copyright © SANKAR SARKAR | Year Posted 2015
"Just how long have you believed the
wasps have it in for you?"... my psych therapist
He must be new in the neighborhood--
he wasn't told If he builds it, She will come.
Never mind he flies in the fast lane,
(no air controller needed), to decorate her wall
with his devil's daub for a family home
he's planned on high, where he imagines
it won't catch her eagle eye. But,
there's no site inconspicuous enough,
and she's surely woman enough,
to climb an eight foot ladder, bearing bucket
and sprays she's been hoarding for days
for emergencies like this. First, there's
a scrape with the shovel, then Clorox, then
a Tuffy to scruffy up his unsightly hovel.
There does NOT go the neighborhood--
he's gone for good. It's out damned spot,
she knows it's hot, but is here to swear
he'll seek homestead elsewhere.
for Dr. Ross
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2012
Super moon last night saw it from my terrace
18% brighter and 20% nearer a meteorologist
On TV said…how dry can one get?
Huge, yellow and beautiful, so close I could
touch it with a broom handle but I felt its pull
for a moment levitated and dared dream big.
Beauty should be shared till it becomes
a memory pooled by lovers, but you were not
there to see this wonder.
This was not a night for sleeping it was one for
nearness with the one you love and restless
I walked on sandy lane thinking of your absence.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2013
When comes the day
When I watch the sun rise
And fail to feel a sense of awe
Twill be the day that time
Blinds my eyes
And I hear the Angels call
When comes the day
I can no longer lift
My head from off my pillows
Twill be the day
I no longer care if
The breeze still blows
In the willows
When comes the time
That I can’t see the rhyme
Nor the reason for the Rain
Nor the thunder
When I grasp for the rapture
Of Nature… in vain
Twill be the day
…that I no longer wonder…
Copyright © David Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic | Year Posted 2015
FROM HIS BRAIN POETRY FELL,
FROM HIS CREATIVITY EMERGED-
HE WAS YOUNG IN THE POETIC DUEL,
READY TO MAKE HIS PRESENCE FELT.
AND A THOUSAND POEMS READILY DROPPED
AS HIS SWORD BRANDISHED HOT.
HE COULD SING OUT EVERY HIS POEM
AND MAKE NATURE SILENTLY WEEP.
BUT ALAS! WHILE NATURE SLEPT,
DEATH READILY REFUSED TO SLEEP-
FOR IT CAME AROUND READY TO REAP
RIGHT FROM THIS EARTH THIS YOUNG POET'S NAME.
HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF HIS POETIC FAME
AFTER DEATH HAD MURDERED HOT:
WHAT MUST WE DO THAN SILENTLY WEEP
CUZ HE IS GONE TO THE ETERNAL KEEP.
YOUR SOUL WATCHES EVERY TEAR DROP
AS OUR HEARTS PRAY TO HEAVEN'S REALM
TO RECEIVE YOUR SOUL AND BE IT REDEEMED,
SO THAT YOUR POEMS MAY NOT IN HEAVEN SLEEP.
Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2010
We take turns stabbing
with our shovel at rocky clay dirt
until the cut's deep
enough for what little remains
of our family dog.
Warm wet salt drops--
on my tongue as
I sip wine from a fragile glass
Stare through to hawks
swimming in October winds
circling hills full of Diablo
full of still,
Copyright © Tamra Amato | Year Posted 2009
“I am a song that needs to be sung.”
Words by John Denver inscribed in Aspen.
While walking the path alongside the Rio Grande
A circle of stones in memory of John Denver does stand.
Inscribed on the rocks are the words of his songs.
They moved me deeply as I strolled along.
Realizing that I was in Aspen because I did spy
A tribute to John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High.
It sparked a desire to experience Aspen for myself.
Now here I am encircled with John Denver’s wealth.
I wasn’t a huge fan, but I did enjoy his songs.
His words stand tall beyond being written in stone.
I moved along the trail into an evergreen forest
Dwarfed by the pines as the river flows toward us.
Emotional connectivity with Aspen’s sheer mountain beauty.
Sitting on a rock in the river my only duty.
Feeling inspired to move again on the trail
An energy spoke to me; no words were entailed.
You are a song that needs to be sung
You are a bell that needs to be rung.
You are the newness of fresh mountain air
You are the energy of spring’s budding stare.
You are the eagle resting in its high nest
Ready to soar through the sky when the time is best.
You are the Rocky Mountain High
Colorado is the place for you to sigh.
Heave out the energy that is stored within
Sing your own song with a loving spin.
In gratitude I salute John Denver’s soul.
In the beauty of the Rockies, he continues his role.
Inspiring people to greater heights through his words.
Thank you, John Denver, for my heartfire heard.
Copyright © Margie Boehmer | Year Posted 2008
Remember how he came and how he went,
Born far away the flakes of your soft bark,
A quartered apple in the muse’s hand,
The evergreen fond memory, our spark.
Up, up, up
Into the errant autumn winds.
Leaves stutter in the gust – a maudlin dance,
The whisper of time’s awl.
Rend your unsightly pining skin,
Become a lute, a cup, a battle lance.
There is no infamy in such a fall.
The wheel has turned where grief and branches lay.
Remember how he passed and how he stayed -
Small things through which the darkness’s kept at bay.
Copyright © Anna Milon | Year Posted 2015
I can feel the clouds moving above me
covering the sun
Just enough to feel the warmth of it
The wind screaming through the trees
Drops of rain trickling down my forehead
As I observe the colors of the rainbow
set upon your stone
The earth above you cool and quiet
As you slowly become embraced
within its soil
Sleep in silence
cry no more
In the circle of life
A new child is born.
Copyright © Andrea M Christian | Year Posted 2010
As the sunset at noon
The golden rims hovered round the vacuum
Darkness revved in her glory
No more me,no more you
I still called you in my favourite tune
Gently the last smile crawled off faintly
The patience dragging as you embraced oblivion
Never would I forget moments I had with you
Happiness is you,how again would I smile?
My happiest moment would never ever again be complete
So sad to say but in my blithe
The plight I hang around my neck is you
Cuz no one again would ever be like you
My sapphire...anytime I take a walk to yesterday
I get lost
Through clenched teeth with lips kissing tears
I long to see your face again
My second nature.
Copyright © OPEMIPO AKINSOYINU | Year Posted 2010
As the summer breeze blows through the air
I can feel your presence, I know you are there
As the summer breeze blows across the sea
I can feel your presence, it overwhelms me
As the summer breeze blows around the earth
I can feel your presence as I did at your birth
As the summer breeze blows through the trees
I can feel your presence from my head to my knees
As the summer breeze blows across my face
I can feel your presence though
You're in another place
As the summer breeze blows half past seven
I can feel your presence even though you're in Heaven
As the summer breeze blows and leaves entangle
I can feel your presence my sweet little Angel
As the summer breeze blows the tears now start
I can feel your presence within my heart
Copyright © 1998 Shari E Davis
Copyright © Shari Davis | Year Posted 2007
Scalding tears,empty promises,the rejoinder of corruption.
Keep away from the fire, fruit tree, bureaucracy don't scratch your pen on the
Poison somebody's mind,my village has 800 souls.
The murderer boasts again and the fireman goes to an early grave.
I snuff a candle,knelt down and prayed,
......as the moon is beginning to wax.
Copyright © Teddy Dude | Year Posted 2007
a barren desert:
deprived of life,
where one would be sent
only in their worst nightmare.
This is a place
one's body and soul
would surely die
This is a place
has deprived you of tears
- you no longer can cry,
the last hope for thee
is to find some water
- there is none,
No matter how hard you try,
there is no hope for thee
- you are losing your life.
What is left for you
is turning into stone:
- dried to the bone.
There is no help for thee,
you are here alone
willing to return home,
but all hope is gone.
There is nothing left,
but one strength -
thy last resort,
yet it demands
the very last feeling
not letting your life
it is your will of living,
for the people whom you love.
Copyright © Lukasz Walterowicz | Year Posted 2011
And if the winter comes
It will come too soon for autumn
But a branch shall be the angel’s arm
To raise me from the bottom;
I shall not sink into the snow
Nor feel the winter’s dark white breath
For here my eyes shall always open
To the sun; it, to my death.
Copyright © Garth von Buchholz | Year Posted 2016
Did I hear them cry
For a bossom
Never tender to come.
In the cold dry wind
Against deaf hears
Like dead men alive
The vulture keeps awake
For what was never there.
The lost conscience and patience
Though no one cares to hear
Mother Nature is all ears
She keeps alive
And waits patiently
For greedy heartless vultures
To sleep and wake no more.
Life is,but short.
Copyright © NWANDO OBIANYOR | Year Posted 2007
The Sky Draped over a blanket thick,
clouds; mean and low,
through weighted still air,dank and stagnant ,
move uncomfortably and slow,
Threatening tunes growl low,
on streets paces quicken,
the thunders rumbles hurry slow,
birds retreat the sky,
roost down in nests within the trees ,
that unhook their leaves from branches,
begins the wind to rock the grass,
the beast in distance growling ,
with crack, reveals its yellowish claw,
as dogs reveal sharp teeth,
threatening low growls of warned,
from this a hand toward ground strokes
fingers drop like Snowflakes fall,
drop like feathers from a bird
in silence slowly reaching down,
fingers from but Deaths Hand,
with the gentle lightest touch,
felt life like stone is dropped,
then the rain came One or Two drops giant,
as gates struggling hold,
back great waters parting open
as to give up releases that held
rain now crashing, not drops but buckets,
stops sudden like a grip regained,
like hands the dirt
scooped up its self ,
throwing house and road,
by some seeming godly compassion,
some are overlooked,
while by a seeming act by the devil
some towns away are stroked
Copyright © Jamesa Love | Year Posted 2016
He lived there once, he lives there still,
In brook, in valley, in hill.
His flesh and bone you will not see,
But he is there in every tree.
His sweat and tears fed their roots,
His blood runs in their supple shoots.
And if you listen you may hear,
In the babbling brook so near;
The essence of his being.
He is still overseeing.
He lived here once, he lives here still,
In mind, in spirit, in will.
Copyright © Ashley Lowery | Year Posted 2006
The golden hue of ringing of leafy bells-
so yellow and orange as the dawning sun-
sings a mellow whispering tune that swells
in the air of the thickest wind who sung.
The air of mist bows to the ground-
and morning fog seeps up to the mourning tree.
Mysterious to the depth of the roots who sleeps just down
the trunk of the sturdy crooked tree.
And so it gently slopes in a mourning tune
just over the decaying flower covered in a winter coat-
just as the colors of Antlantic sun set.
And off the limbs of branches the leaves gently float
unto the moral flower as a blanket to an eternal rest.
Copyright © brittany martin | Year Posted 2008