Thoughts of " Autumn " and her " off Spring"
Seasons change as do people...
Her name is Autumn...
She quietly puts her mark the on Season ….
Yet no one sees her there..
She has a certain presence, still …
and her perfume fills the air..
Yet no one speaks to her…
Her colors are not light, but bright…
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight…
But even though , she’s more than that…
No one approaches, some don’t seem to care..
So she quietly leaves ...before all the trees are bare...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
You will not
For it is hate
and love that made us.
It is the great and the small
that reverberate within our bones.
It is every syn and antonym,
every opposite every known,
the many, the alone.
We are a poem.
You will never
for it is truth
and art that made us.
We are a poem.
Copyright © Ilan Benjamin | Year Posted 2013
In luscious green fields
As far as one can see
With her eyes closed embracing her tree of life,
Her supple body
And soft cheek pressed against the rough bark
Awaiting her beloved
Hugging her from behind
He’s hands cupping her bosom
Pulling her ever so close
Gently turning her to face him
Passion in his eyes
The wise old oak tree
With whom she shared so much
Her memoirs since her 3rd birthday
When her puppy died
All her little concerns and secrets
It is here where their lips first touched
It is where they will lay to rest
Long silence, no more voices inside her head
No need for words while with her beloved under her tree
Though many years have passed
The old oak ever majestic
Has lost some branches during the winter storm
She sighs with contentment
Enjoying the shade it provides
After their walk and teaching him all about hugging trees
They settled on the lush green lawn for a sunset picnic
He picked up his guitar and sang to her
Love songs from his soul
It is where tonight they will
Consummate a lifetime of songs
Exploring and learning
The air moist with mist blanketing
Their pleasured sighs
In tune with the nocturnal symphony
Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2013
She is like a tree dancing in the wind,
her love is like tree leaves that's blown
away in the dust.
My love for her is not her only trust,
she liberates her flesh for lust to enter.
I cried for her love when she is gone,
she sunk like the sun in the west
as the evening creeps in.
I am like a cloud hovering over
her face sinking in the sea.
She rises again at dawn to smile
on a fresh new day for me.
Love me no more O My darling of woe!
Your love invade my soul and then
you vanish like the wind.
Come back to me and tell me your false
your name is now written as my fading history.
I am the wind coming in the rain,
you are the sea on the shores of my destiny.
Come back my love and embrace me with a kiss,
for our love to grow for you to dance like the
tree in the wind once again.
Copyright © Gideon Cecil | Year Posted 2011
Seasons change as do people...
A girl named Autumn….enters quietly into the room….
Yet no one sees her there...
She has a certain presence, still …
and her perfume fills the air...
Yet no one speaks to her…
Her colors are not light, but bright…
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight…
But even though , she's more than that…
No one approaches, some don't seem to care...
So she quietly leaves ...before the trees are bare...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014
The snowbird trees are putting on their colorful autumn coats
Preparing to follow the sun southward
The provincial evergreens are hunkering down for winter
All are well groomed in this spiritual oasis
A gently convex (concave if you are a koi) wooden bridge crosses a pond
The bridge is framed by the textures of nature
I leave my point of view
And walk onto it
Looking down I see koi lounging and strolling
Or perhaps they are wavy reflections of the koi-colored leaves above
I hear the murmurs of respectful visitors to this cathedral of nature
Reflecting their souls
Looking back to where I was standing is not inspiring
Nature pounded into efficient shapes
In which is hanging a window onto my deepest and highest thoughts
A large photograph of an autumn scene in a Japanese Garden
Copyright © Cordon Bittner | Year Posted 2015
I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on
Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen
Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest
Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen
A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly
Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing
A place of tranquility and majestical splendor
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me
Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words
"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"
A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"
As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees
contest In The Woods
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013
The impressive mighty trees
Are birthed from such small seed
Drawing resilience from the sun
And earth’s fertile garden bed
Trees wooden trunk has shaped
And sustained for centuries many in varied ways
Some over and upon oceans wide
Where waves stroke shapely hulls
And lull to sleep the hapless venturer
Trusting in woods durable strength and buoyancy
And from such crafted boughs
And whispered sounds
Her meekness and strength is seen and heard
Like the creaks of grandma’s rocking chair
Where the hapless wanderer was first rocked to sleep
Trees have cradled and rocked in their arms
High and low of this world
The greatest of these was in a lowly manger
In an animals crib
But for this one tree its destiny was marked
Chosen before time
For on this tree’s wooden shoulders
It bore God’s greatest gift–
A Holy Child born - Like it-
For one purpose only –
To become accursed - on its wooden cross
To bear the sins of All
The Holy Son then rose - triumphantly from earth’s fertile soil
Into His Father’s arms
© Brenda V Northeast 11th March 2012
Copyright © Brenda Victoria Northeast | Year Posted 2012
O stony plant submerged in ice tobacco , oh azure tree wrapped by waterfalls of Mashu Mountain, where the secret springs of the universe, and a whop in sun flags , loving a dust of a brown town misted by the breeze.
From there, from your leafy spirit , you overlook on us, O Iraq, by your white wings. presents the earth a tale light, colored by a shawl of a girl, gathering of the date from her small garden.
I'm never surprise by those gases, and those distances that crossed by knees of bare feet. I do not wonder by the death and hope and time smiles falling in you hall as a wax images.
Yes, thus, the mightiness of waste earth bends, and it is nonsense in the empty chest , towards the effects of your old glitter, towards the boughs of the carnelian, where the scorpion man irrigates them with silver water.
Thus . you draw me a brown bird, and you give me a coppery kiss, so I fly in you as spatial vehicle, which saw a new face of the moon.
Did not teach me your brown summer reading the dew? Did not your hot sands slapped my face ? Did not Holy Euphrates my bright dream angles ? So I became ringworm, pigeon , and a bitter voice of light lavaliere.
Copyright © Anwer Ghani | Year Posted 2015
George and his stupid acorns.
He has no sense of boundaries--
danged things falling on my head.
And Celia. She thinks she's all that
with her new clothes: red, yellow,
green, orange. How passe!
And then Baldy, the coward,
so afraid of winter he went stark
naked even before fall started.
And here come those helicopters again,
courtesy of Myrtle the maple.
They get into absolutely everything.
Sometimes I think I'm the only one with
any sense around here. You won't
see MY leaves going all psychedelic
or turning brown or flying helicopters.
Me? I stay green all year round, and
I don't go dropping leaves and nuts
all over the place. Sure, I have cones,
but they're actually more like accessories.
You can use them in arts and crafts
and as Christmas ornaments,
Speaking of Christmas, what month is it?
November you say? Late November?
Wait! What are you going to do with that ax?
Hey, let's talk about this...
Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015
TREE OF LIFE.
I am He that gives life to man, yet man knows me not.
I lived in the midst of man but man never appreciated my importance.
Every tree you can see around gives life; some give life to aquatics creatures; while some terrestrials.
I stands as the only Tree that man needs to resurrect
I was called the Tree of Life when your fathers were in the garden,
I created the tree of knowledge; I refused to live inside the tree until fullness of time.
Fullness of time? Yes.
Fullness of time when man shall eat me and live forever.
Other trees rely on me for provisions till date, all the trees in all ages knee down before me for adoration.
My splendors are in the works I created.
I am He that you rejected but was accepted by those that deserves life.
All the branches that are mine sons and daughters sprout from me,
I am He that gives life and nourishments to sons of men.
The waving branches of trees; reminds me of my numerous glories,
My Source intervened and man departed from mine presence
Then, man screamed, and I saw the look at his face;
I said, Oh! one day, I the Tree of Life shall come and die for you and you shall be my branches.
Thought of all kinds rushing as early streams in the mind of men,
The mind of man asked: How can you die for me and still have me as your branch?
No tree ever dies and still remain alive to produce branches.
Dies you said? Asked the Tree of Life.
Yes ! death. It is my destiny to die.
The glory of your existence is in my death.
In dispensations and ages to come, I shall be the vine and you be my branches.
The fruits of my Tree that you once denied shall you eat and speak of its power to nations.
Greater will your fame be than I when you shall know my knowledge.
I will no longer be in the garden where I was kept and guard by Angels; The heart of men shall be my abode.
All the branches whom you are, shall spread the good news,
I was written in engrafted words in tablets; So shall I in the heart of every man.
I am the Root of roots, the only Root that carry the universe and never complains.
You once had no access to me; but now, through my death you have gained access.
I came as knowledge from my Source and whosoever eats of me, have the Source of everlasting life.
You are in me and I in you. That is why I called you: Tree of Life in this era.
All the saints in me, plants me in all the gardens of the earth till my second coming.
Omojevwe Emmanuel Brown
Copyright © Alfred Emmanuel Brown | Year Posted 2012
I only sang to the old fig tree
As it trembled under the wind
I promised you since you left
I'll drink grief enough for both of us
I'll open like the gulls
My wings on the horizon
And under the November sun
I'll wade into a cold Natifah's brook
Inviting your friends who accompanied you in the war
To our old home
Sitting next to our old fireplace
Talking about our homeland,
How the men descended
Two, three and four toward their death
Talking about storms that flooded homes
About horses that plunged into rivers
So that shadows became frightened in their land
Talking about one who
Still kindles the wet firewood
And how the rooms are filled with soot
After the flames stopped
Talking about what they did
What they couldn't do
About your heart hungering for holiness
How you passed death twice
Thus death returned defeated
Once you made from it, a home, a door and a lock.
We'll talk about all of this
Until the wind shakes and the fire is extinguished
Then I"ll recall in my mind
How everything around me was just empty seats
Ah how bitter you are
When you took all the warmth
All the love in my heart.
Copyright © Fatima Nusairat | Year Posted 2014
There are no months as beautiful as early summer months wild flowers make the headlines,
Leaning heavy on my old worn hazel wood stick walking to a wooded meadow out of breath,
Clusters of Primrose and large patches of Blue Bells chat with clumps of Spring Violets,
As I stand wheezing the wonderful smells the dampness of wood and flowers give me air.
Lesser Celandine flowers between March and May heart shaped leaves a glistening yellow,
Now feeling a little better my head lifts the top of some large trees seem so far away,
The Cuckoo flower has leaves deeply toothed with spear stems, shows off all its beauty.
The kindle under my gentle walking cracks loudly so the meadow and trees know I am here.
There is a second spring in the forest wooded meadow Snowy Mespilas with white flowers,
It reminds me of winter snow I once enjoyed these days my legs are not what they were,
The tree of heaven spreads climbing sixty feet and the Alder with soft purple catkins,
Leaning on a tree happy to be here with warm sun finding its way through high branches.
Hedgerows dress in the same vernal-looking hue and a Chipmunk darts across a small field,
The Chipmunk runs up the side of a nearby tree if he new me well he would not run away,
Thick scented heather lives on the moorlands side by side with an evergreen Bog Rosemary,
A furry little face high up on a branch is watching me in the same way I am watching him.
A Judas tree with round leaves clusters of magenta, pea like flowers greet me this day,
I wonder why it is called the Judas tree is it the one Judas hung from with silver coins,
Cornelian Cherry flowers at the end of winter, followed by richest bright orange fruits,
A Japanese Quince shows splashes of color they are so white, or salmon or very very pink.
Weigela a beautiful shrub will bell like flowers and a deep red rose brighten the woods,
Times getting on now and I am tired but standing in this beautiful meadow I feel so alive,
Doesn't matter how old or how well a person maybe that same natural beauty is seen by all,
So leaning heavily on my companion the hazel stick I walk back to my home it's a great day.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2012
LIKE FALLEN LEAVES…
Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead,
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.
Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams.
Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.
And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of love, faith and hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015
Birds are happy pleased I swear
They are satisfied
Homes in the trees
Early in the morn, hungry they go
At sunset, full they come
Every day is a festival
They talk birdsong
Daytime among verdure and flowers
Raindrops their showers
Sleeping on time
Healthy they are
No impression nor vigil
Marriage in a minute
No mine nor yours
Just fly to get things
All things are free
The land is wide
The sky is wider
Wake up and fly!
Copyright © Abdullah Alhemaidy | Year Posted 2014
The Tree of
force fields around
Stemming from the
Earth's inner core
Where outside on the
grass in bare feet
Back to basics
having the Earth's
inner core recharge
To get into your own
Ans spread out ward
and up wards to
To charge them back
And recycle them
back into the earth
Getting fed into the
Trees could be souls
from other times
Maybe even animals
Were all equal as
In this game of life
It's survival of the
get their simplistic
energy from the sun,
moon and earth
Humans think to hard
Full of junk
Trees and plants
make great peace
with their inner
Roots are planted
firmly into its
Going nowhere in
But how did it get
there in that spot?
Is it satisfied
enough to stay
But still it does
change each year
Some tree are so
Climb of perfection
Just don't break
It took years for a
branch to reach out
Just let us be
Than others are just
plain to sensitive
Just a pure defense
Covered in thorns
Assuming its that
special that some
higher power will
want to hurt it
Thorn bushes will
run wild on you
Cant tame them
Trying to spread
what it knows of
Knowing that it has
all those thorns;
nothing can hurt it
Attempting to reach
out & around
Scaling up larger
Just ends up hanging
back down all limp
Ground just a tad
Trees are the
building block to
Other animals work
Home sweet home
Their power of
But they can't
conquer the elements
on their own
Smaller plants and
Shorter life span
but big help
Copyright © Miya Fontaine | Year Posted 2014
I kept listening to beliefs:
“This is the way things are.”
“This is the way things have to be in order to…”
“You know, if you do this, you will receive that…”
“That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way I am.”
“What I really want for you is….”
“You’ll be happier if you would just….”
“If he really loved you, he would…”
“Well, if you really love him, you would feel…”
“If you do this for me, then you will get this…”
“If you don’t do this, then I will talk about it until you do.”
I not only listened, I became them.
My choices were based on the list of phrases.
I had to “do the right thing.” Or….
Or I would die?
Well I am dying today.
Not dying like my body has fallen and is breathless.
Dying like full of breath, full of grief.
Dying like; “I hate dying because I keep thinking it’s permanent and that I will always feeeeeeeeel.”
Dying like; “I think I am becoming weightless with all of this heavy gunk junk falling off of me.”
The pu-u-u-u-u-u-u-lling like picking a stubborn apple.
And the plops of rot thudding the surrounding ground.
My expanded branches open out and up
Free of knowledge that once grew on me
That looked soooo pretty
But sour and fused with poison
this tree was…
Copyright © melissa mesch | Year Posted 2011
Their sighs were barely audible
as the trees began to absorb each drop.
With palpable relief
the red bud, river birch, alder, dogwood,
pine and fir trees stopped shedding
and began to perk up.
The longed-for showers had arrived,
the first appreciable rain since March.
March! It's now almost September.
Weather maps were consulted
more frequently than usual.
Radar was checked.
In the middle of the night
a soothing drip-drip-drip punctuated our sighs.
Some places, far away, are dry.
We know that.
moisture almost non-existent.
That's the desert.
Not in my backyard.
Several dry months in summer
but never persistent drought.
in my backyard
Thirst in my backyard.
Grass has lost all
tinge of green.
Leaves and needles galore are nature's litter.
Forests are dry.
Wild fires abound.
Lakes and rivers have little water.
Watching foliage shrivel
is not an option.
We can do little but
Shrug and water
Shrug and water
Shrug and water
Copyright © Gay Stuntzner | Year Posted 2015
Last Autumn we invested in a 0.5 acre
of Mother Earth's aria,
as sung to Thames River swell and tide,
New England new sprouting this our virgin spring wedding
with this home place,
space of grace.
My urgent first task, now largely complete,
was to partner with the trees and ornamentals,
in Bodhisattva warrior solidarity
with human racing family co-arising co-respiring trees,
counter-revolutioning against upstart thorny opportunistic brambles,
wild grape vines
reaching over all our 0.5 arias of CoBreathing Allies
in brambly weedpatch ways.
I usually tip toward recessive underdogs
and creation stories,
as these are far too often disempowered PostMillennial Occupiers,
these brambles and vines flirting with monoculturing graves
of gracious Trees, and other beings,
draping together to suffocate
0.5 decomposing acres of hungry thorns and briars
waiting for Bodhisattva SuperWarrior Me
to saw and chop and hack,
and sometimes shamelessly slash and smack,
invading over-populating brambly trends
of ivy towering thorns
with empire-building designs
embedding my delightful flesh.
Now, first spring posing tree re-liberation,
leaves speaking young embryonic appreciation,
gentle thank yous opening to more buoyant sunrise,
draped in fallen sins of past neglect,
daring me to turn my well-armed back,
to continue this solidarity with our still-enslaved neighboring trees,
gasping for strength to breathe
through coils of parasitic woody stinging strikes,
blood-thirsty for revenge
snaking dense networked vines
stretching down valley toward river source
of water's satisfying nutritious displays,
more generous than I would prefer,
taking no sides in this small revolution
within Earth's 0.5 arias
of stress-afflicted trees.
Without sufficient humility
I more resemble thorny brambles
than wise Elder Trees
rooting through compost-drenched systems
deep down to River's sacred bed,
rising to meet Full Moon nights of bright.
Yet, in self-defense,
and defense of trees and ornamentals,
I prize our diversity and harmonic balance;
not so much looking for a free ride
up to sun's commingling paradise.
Now free to speak their new spring intentions,
my neighbor trees, allies,
co-inhabitors of 0.5 Earth acres,
remind me to do my best with them,
try to follow their strong-rooted commingling example,
and avoid proliferating over-populated competitions
for River's water
and SunGod's co-arising light.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
The pale yellow leaves
seem painted on the tree
in water color,
revealing sclerotic veins
they spin and tremble gay
without telling or being asked
hanging on while those
whose time has come
drop as doomed snow flakes
striking the sidewalk
with hollow thumps,
a regular rhythm as
the ticking of a loud clock.
Visibly the holocaust moves forward,
the metamorphosis of a painting,
the tree becomes more pitiful
it's black nudity emerging from
yellow dabs in the unseen wind
tugging at the twirling hangers-on
and sending a dense swatch
of the fallen scurrying
across the street en masse
as a hungry mob.
Copyright © Peter Kautsky | Year Posted 2014
Swaying. Dancing. Let me carry you.
Dance for me. Dance for me. Dance for me.
It's beautiful how you hold on so tight, but reach so far.
Up and Up and Up.
Begging sunshine and starlight and moon beams to fill your cupped palm.
We' can sip from it together but we both know you'll never be satisfied
Until your silver leaves can dance to the symphonies of singing constellations.
The diamonds sprinkling down your face would look like tears.
But you, and I? We both know this isn't real. Put away your fears
And dream for me. Dream for me. Dream for me
And please darling, Let us never wake.
Copyright © Natelle Dei | Year Posted 2013
She isn’t dormant, she moves through the dark in this new phase,
as exact as a silver snowflake. Despite her voicelessness, she speaks to me.
Her swollen body is idolized in the black that she unstains; she owns the shadows.
I live for the night, it rejuvenates my scars; it’s my only pleasure.
But she soon becomes entangled in his net of branches, in his
labyrinth of wires. The moon-bruise aches in these hands that grasp
her too tightly, the constant stroking; her whole existence is fingered blackly.
I crackle with his razor touches that hook on to my skin.
Each vein sticks to her, emptying her white cup, eating her souring flesh;
to you the moon is just a stone, her presence doesn’t haunt you,
she is more than my reflection; and I feel myself becoming cold.
This struggle makes me scab but the yellow puss still leaks from me.
And I am numb with fear. She peeks through the branches like bone
in a deep cut, only she never stops bleeding. Her bleached corpse-body
aches for freedom, but she is truly caught; her ends fray and we unravel.
I wear her scabbing scars too, she is my sister after all.
This new phase is exhausting, he wants to lick my skin off.
My white body is caustic; it bites me back; I scratch and feel myself flake
beneath the nails. I touch the tree and feel its poison enter me.
You are my immunity. But I don’t think I can go on.
We are septicly whole. She is draining, pouring herself out, as animated as
the old skull with its thin layer of skin: its veins pulsating with the starved
appearance of Death. I don’t think I’m here anymore either. I am in her bone casket.
You know this crippling well; we have both lived with these deformities.
I am now in the tree with her. She is now all of my eye, we touch and
I am frosted. We are one to the wet core, that stuff that white is made from,
and we are each swallowed by his trunk, living inside his chest of ill health.
Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013
One Day, I reached and sat on the highest peak that I could find.
After arriving, I quietly celebrated with pride my great climb.
After a while, I relaxed, looked all around, and reclined.
Inhaling the crisp clean air, I was rested and feeling fine.
Everywhere I looked, I was being captured by the tall pines.
None by God could arrest and speak such peace to my mind.
I was longing for Yesterday, supposing she would help me reach Tomorrow.
For comfort, Yesterday sometimes uses a stone, and not always a soft pillow.
I found Yesterday, although it was in a different state of mind, place, and sorrow.
Yesterday was unlike anything I expected, because time had erased its lovely face.
Yesterday had painted its own portrait, defying clarity and leaving so little trace.
I had accomplished my goal; but it left me win less at the end of an emotional race. I was so overcome with tears, that I was forced to appeal to God for more grace.
My great quest for Yesterday was much more than a ride down memory lane.
She was much like Today, playing her part; and some things about her caused me a little shame.
But thankfully, Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, always seem to work together with God to ease the pain.
12012015(Part Fiction)(Contest, Any Poem, sponsor, Broken Wings)
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
The Tree of Descent
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf *
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
As she descended from her paradise,
She said :
Oh Lord, choose a land for me
Where I would strew, out of my womb,
Tribes of greenery
So my limb would rise again toward you,
As I dissolve salt
And conglomerate it to be fresh dates
Praying that dream-doves of the captives,
And the flutter of their wings,
May illuminate the courtyard of the creature’s inner soul,
If the sun should set within him;
Then he would realize
How the root becomes hymns,
For eyes waiting at gates corroded by the dessert,
And bitten by hankering.
He said: “I’ve chosen you a witness …”
“I beg your pardon!”
“ A witness?!
A witness to infanticide? !!,
To the bullets as they pass by reiterating the names of their hosts?
And to death as it rains down on the banks of the breasts.??”
Pity tears in her eyes
She questioned bleeding hearts
With whispers of flush streams
With the woe of the fore waves.
How often they have witnessed
Sadness in the days of butchers
Who, behind the trunks of deranged time,
Kept burying the atrocity
of their innocence doves.
The rivers snuffed out the lanterns of their gulls,
And, under the stars of quiescence,
Slumbered with fainting breath.
Fragments of wars waged by maniac rhetoricians
Bent all the trunks of joy dancing within us;
Oh, how Mary kept shaking the trunk of the palm tree,
but embers of tragedy kept dropping upon her!
The grass was burnt...
The infant eyes lost their light
In a clandestine rocking
with severed head
and red shirt
Bustling with screams.
The river was waving with the distressed ink shirt
Then, and again, hiding its face and crying
- O Our Aunt, Our Aunt,
Are now sand towns
And could no longer be saved
Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi (Gold_N_silk)
?April ?14, ?2013
*Saad Yassin Yousuf is a poet from Iraq
The Original text in Arabic: http://www.alnoor.se/article.asp?id=206108
Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013
its for you too
some or small
some or tall
do have the key
let it be
don't leave the
Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013
IN THE AUTUMN OF HER LIFE
Beneath the cold gray skies---proudly
Stripped bare, naked to the world,
Arms outstretched to the heavens,
Unashamed, poised in her Avatar dignity,
Through the peep holes of windows
Eyes reached out touching her beauty:
This ancient lady, an aged old tree, glorified
In the autumn of her life.
So I glorify my ebony hued mother---stripped
Bare of her God given rights to be;
Arms raised, poised in her dignity, unashamed,
Proudly mastering each day
In the autumns of her life.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015
In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closes my tired eyes.
The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise was from a thousand drops on leaves.
Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath an oak tree listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain wets meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It travels underground meeting the other raindrops to flow as spring water.
Clear springs are feeding the runners, swelling brooks making its way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glade flowers and trees, far away faint rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflects from the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree, glistened.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.
The taccamahac a name to deal with, blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth."
The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
higher-the tree... !"
Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2010
One lone tree standing sentinel over the grassy field; patches of weeds stealing ground
with dandelions intermingled, their bright, cheery color lessening their thievery. The
splotched, motley colors of leather-skin disguises the barren ground where cows trod,
making a maze of trails.
The tree's shadow meets its restraints, as it gives refuge to all that draws near. Birds rest in
the branches. Rabbits nibble clover. Then, with full stomach, they hop off to the thicket
beside the fence, the fence that frames the field where one lone tree stands sentinel.
Copyright © Virginia Mitchell | Year Posted 2010