Best Carob Poems
I listen to the sighing
of the wind, as I sit
in the cool shade
of a sprawling carob tree,
wondering if Basho,
in heavenly abode,
next to Elysian Fields,
is mumbling agitatedly
under his breath – possibly
grimaces, wrings his hands
as he flips the pages of
vain anthologies where
writers sell their wares…
Stuck in comfort zone
deprived of achievement,
wary of new horizons,
surprise ends and twists…
they cling to restrictions
and Mother Nature’s skirt.
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Pareidolia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
© 24th August 2020
The morning's first cup is sweetest, rich and hot,
as I look through my kitchen window at the hickory.
The low branches will come off first.
Once upon a time I'd climb it, perch atop the high branches,
then in the throes of leafing, to gaze unfettered at the land.
Should take the day to get them all,
put them through the chipper.
Dawn creeps upon October's harvested plain,
sun igniting pumpkin flames in the lazy creek that bends at the tree,
early mist caressing damp carob earth.
The trunk will come later this week.
Dew-stained fences meander idle tracts of shorn fields,
air pungent with hay, apples and barley.
Etched against apricot clouds spread in lemon sky
strides the hickory, alive with orange light
and bustling with wrens and robins,
far off roosters crowing morning prayers.
The stump will be out before the first snow.
We'll be moved to town for winter by then,
won't hear the wind crying over memories.
Time moves on forward fast,
Like rapids hurtling unheedingly headlong
Towards a sheer deep cascade,
And plummet down below in a mighty roar
To flow relentlessly towards the infinite sea
Drifting straight into eternal oblivion.
Yet time can ne'er erase all memories,
And special ones will always linger
In the obscure corridors of my mind.
Hence I can never forget my dear,
The night that we first met.
Were not that night the stars conspiring
To throw a luminous light on our love?
Did not the twinkling stars shoot out their ways
In the clear expanse of nightly sky?
There under a lonely carob tree,
Where dry old leaves crackled
Under our woollen spreads,
You smiled graciously at me
And suddenly I knew
How eager was I for a love so true.
We were like two of those gems above,
Shooting their way across the skies.
And fate decreed that those two stars should meet
In an astral collision and fuse into a lasting blast.
Light sparkled above sublimely
An ethereal fireworks display,
That lasted for one long memorable moment,
But the light in our love will last
Until the end of our days.
If I were to stray from the straight road,
meander along twisted olden paths
let me not see an ordered place
like some new grown garden
designed by some modern nursery
to whom you must pay a hefty price.
Give me the lonely winding trails
lined with hard square granite
which farmers use for rubble walls,
that in turn give some shelter
to the prolific cape sorrel
swaying their yellowish flowers
with light sea gentle breezes
that fill the air with misty sea breeze
and manure maturing in the sunny rays.
A sudden bend might reveal
the reddish volcanic scoria
so oft used in Christmas cribs.
Afar dogs bark and jump with glee
at birds that occasionally fly low,
while the stately old palms
stand like a rock at some juncture
in this heavenly bliss.
At last a wooden bench I'll find
not far from carob trees.
There I will rest alone at peace
as far away as possible from it all.
Indian Elephant
I know of an Indian elephant that is small for it type, but very sharp.
It worked in a circus one day it sat down and lectured the public
those who came here to laugh at animals and sad clowns.
It spoke of the injustice, why the rich pay no tax to help the poor.
The authorities didn't like this, and it was asked if it had a working permit,
the circus owner not wanting problems fired the little elephant that was
chased out of town by an angry mob that had read bad things about him in
the gutter press that in the name of democracy were allowed to print lies.
It took up living between two carob trees,
and since no one expects to see an elephant here, they didn`t see it.
I`m an exile cannot go home to my country up North because there
I would live in penury.
My best friend was a communist leader has a small pension like mine,
we often sit on top of the elephant play cards and he always wins.
This I think it is because I`m a drawing room socialist and can easily be
swayed to lean right if they give me a bigger pension.
"It's Thanksgiving" is a children's song, sung to the tune of "Oh, My Darling Clementine".
It's Thanksgiving, it's Thanksgiving,
It's Thanksgiving-time to eat;
Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes,
Pumpkin pie...yum, what a treat!
Bonus activity: Ask children if they were preparing Thanksgiving dinner, which foods they would prepare. Would they prepare traditional dishes, such as turkey, mashed potatoes and pie? Or nontraditional dishes like tofu turkey and carob chocolate pie? Or, would they simply order a pizza? Why did the child choose that particular menu fare-love of tradition, special dietary needs, ease of preparation?
Fat woman in a tree
The old carob tree by the roadside had grown big leaning partly
over the road and trucks often brushed against branches which
caused the tree or the person in the tree to scream.
We didn`t know a fat woman lived in the crown of the tree it was
chopped down and its timber used to make headboards and
kitchen tables: the fat woman who had lost her tree took abode
in cracks in the wood and she was vengeful.
Those with a wood kitchen table found their food disappearing
and plates unexpectedly fall to the floor; it got so bad that many
got rid of the table and bought a plastic one, which is the nearest
one can find in a soulless product.
For those who had bought a headboard of that tree, it was worst
plagued by nightmares they struggle to get out of and the evil woman
sat on young men`s chest till they suffocated.
Not all trees are like that only on those where a fat woman lives and
since she is invisible, it is hard to tell which tree.
(Philippine fairy tale)
Umbrella of Love.
If you drive along the asphalted narrow road that runs
Parallel with the vine plants, turn left, you will see
A muddy road more like a track now after rain,
From here you have to walk till you see a quiet little
Corner where two stone walls meet; and you will
See- not a great deal- the place I’m going to plant
A carob tree comes spring. The reason for the corner
Is two brothers who couldn’t agree whom it
Belonged to so they left it untended and with time
No one took an interest in weeds and stinging plants.
The tree will be in memory of a girl a met a day of rain
And she shared her pink umbrella with me.
Not a big thing, but I was home from the sea and lost
In the big city, she gave me the shelter I needed.
Nature sonnet
I have been walking in a domestic land abandoned and
Left to go wild and there is a struggle for dominance among
The trees the olive and carob tree especially
Grow tall and imposing while berry bushes use their long
Claws like talons to attack and hinder a walker by letting him
Bleed and fertilize the ground where cows and mules no
Longer leaves behind their residue.
I`m waiting for my favourite plant a small bush so shimmering
light it is transparently green take lift after a few days
To the planet wench they came.
I`m glad the hunting has stopped for now to give animals
A chance replenished and be shot and hunted by dogs in fall.
August Forenoon
There is a sale on in the dress shop bathing trunks reduced up
to 40%. It has been a good summer and few local people have
died but the price of coffins stay the same....
So beautiful a forenoon, I drove on my moped to visit a carob tree
I used to sit under when lonely
Its thick branched protected me from the world. Under it now
two elderly women -on their knees- picking sweet, black beans.
The small farmers around here have aged with me, the women
looked up and smiled at this elderly, permanent tourist on his
round; he is like a hasty brush stroke on the canvas of eternity.
On green vines hung juicy grapes tasted one it was like an explosion
of natural sweetness that filled my mouth with yesterdays pleasure,
they are ready to be harvested and made into wine, not for the rich
but for the local people to drink with their stew.
Set smoke, so sweet, so delicate
Something fuliginous, so intricate
Ocher bronze is all that I can see
You're beautiful, a dime to me
Spheres of the purist maple syrup
Sums them up; affectionately
Flowing through my heart, forever over my soul
Suspensions of golden medallions, never to control
Carob or chocolate cold never be
Subbed; for your lens looking at me
Caliginous, foreboding, but never forbidden
Like a chestnut mare; not broken, or ridden
My devotion is firmly planted, in your Earthly visions
You absolutely slay me with your warm decisions
Whimsical; they are made of fine mahogany
Eye's like yours set all apart; yet set me free
The dark, mango, guava, carob trees
The resting place of all birds and bees
Appears deserted by human civilisation
The lonely nature's foundation
There sits a songbird--------
And sings a sweet morning song------
Which enchants, delights, fascinates us
It, itself perches in the dark
But shows a ray of hope to all of us
In the dry parched summer
When have dried up all ponds, lakes, rivers
Dried up all the plants and saplings
Not a single drop left for the poor
Thirsty, dainty ducklings
Yet mercifully sings a sweet morning song------a boon
That heralds the coming of the Monsoon
The optimistic note it carries
Absorbs all the stresses, tensions, worries
Cuckoo, the small sweet bird
Love of its music the very word
Comes and goes unthought, uncared
The premonsoon bird of thirst unquenched
Spreads bliss..............................
Oil Change
I’m not a poet never was, but I like to tell stories
Most of the stories are for my inner ear,
But for some reason my collections are called poetry.
I’m a practical chap, just changed oil in my car and
Filled up the coolant, which is pink coloured.
Later I will drive to the local garage and see if the tyres
Have the right amount of air; and then clean the car.
When I write about carob trees and my special tree
The almond, which in my mind, strews flowers on my
Fevered often walked track, I do so in tenor like oiling
The hinge of a door or hammer a long nail into a wall,
Nothing can be less poetic. In Kaleidoscope once I saw
My future lover’s face, can that be called poetry?
The new language
It was late August, on a glaringly hot day, when I felt dizzy
went to sit on a gigantic carob tree full of beans on thick leaves
to sit in its cooling shade; it was pitch dark inside, and I could see
nothing at all until my eyes got adjusted.
the sheep, seven of them, had sought relief from the sun’s cruelty
My dog refused to enter; she had been head-butted by a ram
the sheep looked alarmed; another human to order them around
but when I sat down among them, they took me for another ram
they continued to chew, looking absent-minded; with white wool
The sheep had white fleece in sharp contrast to the carob beans
that was like the gnarled fingers of a dark person (black is out)
Nothing is the same anymore; some men say they are women and
blithely disregard biological facts as unimportant.
There are no longer any Jews in Israel, now called Israelites
it is as if they are trying to kill the ghost of yesterday by living a lie.
In Denmark, a children’s book was withdrawn showing a black doll
a new book issued, a merger of many faces, quite unreal,
like the faces were drawn by I.A and certified by a committee.
(Note: taken from a diary of a young lady)
In memoriam of Jose` Maria
aged twenty, drowned.
I lounge on an uneven stone
under the uneasy shade
of an ancient carob tree,
away from the hot rays
of the summer sun.
I sit alone, abandoned,
I contemplate in vain,
for my thoughts wander on you,
who left me in the lurch.
I stare vacantly towards
the mighty sea that
like a cyclone of frigidness
buffets the darkened rocks
that form the inlet.
Wave after wave
enters the narrow strait
and rumble onwards
to the horrendous shore
throwing iridescent sprays
over the plaque of cold hard marble
that hides a tragedy of life.
Under the Iberian sky
prickly pears ripen
a stone's throw away
from the glinting shore
amid the green olive trees
slightly wet with sea spray.
The plaque seems to glow
in the hot summer rays.
I wonder what made Jose` Maria
swim in that turbulent sea.
Maybe he searched for treasure lost,
or hunted for the slippery octopus,
or mourned over lost love.
A life destroyed.
Am I not astray too?
I am so far away from you,
forsaken and unloved,
for you are like the sea, drowned
in a cyclone of frigidness.