Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details
A GIFT FOR EVERYONE
The Mulberry Tree & its Birds
Now watch a short Video film made by me (placed on my Music Channel on You Tube) based on this Poetic story and enjoy a Great Secret revealed in this short Video Film about India's grand past and about its prosperity and how it was stolen nearly 2500years ago. Use the following URL :
When Bulbul* was warbling
On its branches
A strange big bird with round beak
Came over there
To eat Mulberry’s sweet fruits
The bird was expert
In changing its colors
Like the colorful sky
But like some arrogant child
She could not make anyone
It’s friend on the Mulberry tree.
By the time
Anyone could have spotted its beauty
It suddenly changed its colors
And became invisible,
While hiding behind the leafs
And the branches of the Mulberry
Alone the bird came over there
And alone she flew away
Without any friend
For some other tree. 10
The sparrows began to chirp
Watching a Koyal* sitting
Somewhere very close to them
On a nearby branch of a tree.
But, strangely, for all of them
A Neelkanth* also
Came over there
And opened before them
Its beautiful blue color wings.
From where the Neelkanth came
And for what destination,
It would leave no one knows.
Before the eyes
Could have feasted fully
All that, beauties of the Birds
And the beauty,
All around, the Mulberry tree
A Yellow Green bird
Came to drink,
Water filled in a Pot
Which was lying on my terrace,
Not very far off
From the Mulberry tree. 11
In those moments
It seemed to me,
As if, someone has opened
Of precious, colorful birds
For the tree. 12
Used to play often
Of flapping sound,
Of its leafs
Whenever, the wind blows
With, its strengths,
While, touching the leafs
And shaking its branches
While saying slowly
In the ears of the Mulberry
“Dear Shahtoot –
Create Music in the air”
So that, we may dance together
On the tunes of the wind. 13
And then the Mulberry
Began to show
Its beautiful dance
On the tunes
Of the fast blowing winds
And watching that dancing beauty
Of the Mulberry tree
And the beauty
Of its dancing leafs,
Often used to get filled
With an unknown
Happiness and joy
The dance of the Mulberry tree
Causes fear in birds
And then they began to make
Loud noises like crying
To show their fear and anger. 14
But, when they were happy
The birds began, to chirp loudly
They were greeting, the Mulberry
For such a wonderful dance
and music. 15
I used to get astonished and lost
Such an excellent beauty
And grandeur of Nature
Which, always reminds me
My relations with you,
O’ Shahtoot, which is as old,
As are the days, of my childhood
When we used to play
On the lower branches, of your tree
And my childhood friends
Used to come like birds
Searching the chalk lines
Made by me, on your branches
And cutting them
To tell that they have found
The treasure, hidden by me. 16
But, I always feel sad
O’ my dear friend, Shahtoot
That I could not save you
From those onslaughts
Due to which
You just vanished,
Suddenly one day
For ever and forever. 17
Now, that place
Where, the Mulberry used to smile
Every Morning and every day
Hardly get any birds
To listen to, the melodies of Koyal*
And the chirping sound
And music of
Bulbul* and of the sparrows.
Even our, kids and children
Hardly get, any opportunity
To see now colorful birds
Flying and sitting
On a branch of tree.
They almost never see
The Neelkanth* flying in the air
While showing, it’s gorgeous
Beautiful blue wings
To tell the story of its birth
O’ my dear friend
This Poem on you,
O’ my friend ‘Shahtoot’
Would make you immortal
Because, now you would live
In the hearts of everyone
And you would bloom
On the mind and hearts
Of little kids and children
Who would plant more and more
So that colorful birds may
Keep coming on their trees
And they may enjoy
The beauty of Nature which lies
In Plants, Trees, Birds
Such efforts of the
Of kids and children
Would make you immortal
For ever and forever
When they would listen to
This story of yours
And of the singing birds
Which always come
On your trees
In the season of Mulberry. 19
Kanpur India 10th November 2013
NOTE: Protected under the copyright
provisions of Poetry Soup and US copyrights.
*Bulbul=A sweet singing Bird of India
*Koyal= A melody Bird of India
Shahtoot= The Hindi name of Mulberry tree and its fruits
*Kilkil Kaantaa= Kilkil Kaantaa* A child game of India in which,one player makes some lines by chalk on any such object which can be searched by the other player to cut these lines and win.
In this Poem I have not placed only a small part of this unique story which would be the real attractions of my Video based on this unique story.Hope you would like that full wonderful story of my Video as and when it would be placed on my You Tube Channel. Love and best wishes..Ravindra K Kapoor
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
White Wolf | Details
In my opinion, one goal in life is to reach the apex of the mountain of knowledge.
But we all seem to be in a rush to attain this, and all following the same path that has been laid down for centuries. But we must also remember that life is more about the journey than it is the destination. You may be saying to yourself "but there are many paths that go up this mountain." And you are right in thinking so, but generally once one has chosen a path that is the one they stick to.
So let's imagine two people at the beginning of one of these paths, one says to the other, "I'll see you up the top then some day shall I?" So one heads off on a path trekking his way up, while the other who remains silent wanders off into the bushes on the side. Years and years pass by until the one who chose the path finally reaches the apex of this enormous mountain. While waiting for his silent friend he decides to build a hut to keep the wind and rain off him. Eventually settling down and begins to build a cabin.
Now, many more years later, he sees a figure approaching his settlement. It is the silent one. Overjoyed in finally seeing his friend he begins boasting how he had beaten his friend to the top and so long ago, and proudly showing off his cabin of labour. The silent one then spoke, "I have dwelled in caves in this mountain you have built upon, I have learned about every tree and beast and bird that also share this mountain, and now I can tell you, my friend, I am this mountain you have stayed upon," then added, "I suggest you go back down your path and start again, for you and your cabin are not welcome here." The cabin builder looking astonished retorted, "why not?" The silent one responded, "no man has the right to build upon me, they may use their paths but one day they too shall be reclaimed and overgrown." So the cabin builder says, "well then, I guess I'll see you sometime down the bottom my friend?"
The silent one replies bluntly, "I wouldn't hold your breath, my friend, like I said, I am the mountain now, and my place is living within it, and venturing around and around again." The cabin builder having lived there for so long now forgot even which path he took up, and asked the silent one, "which way do you suggest I go?" Then the silent one says, "makes no difference, you will get lost whichever path you choose, for they have all changed since you arrived, but if you are not in a hurry why not come venture with me?" "I can show you many wondrous places that exist here on this mountain."
Just then a Merlin hawk lands on the silent ones left shoulder startling the cabin builder, who then says, "and who is this?" "SHE is a friend of mine and has a nest not far from here to the north," the silent one replies, then adds, "you would know this if you weren't in such a hurry to reach the top." The cabin builder looked lost, and could not choose what to do. The silent one sensed this and said, "You may stay here for twelve more moons, but then you must decide, this hawk when you see her next will let you know of my return for your decision." Upon saying that the silent one turned his back and walked off into the thick of the mountain on the other side of his arrival. After eleven moons had past and close to the twelfth sure enough he saw the hawk high up in the sky above. And thought to himself, "I know not this mountain in which I live upon and have no chance of survival on my own, no matter which path I choose for my descent."
So he had decided he would take the risk and venture off with the silent one upon his return. Right on the twelfth moon, sure enough, the silent one returns and says, "what is your decision?" "I shall venture off with you into the wilderness," the cabin builder says nervously. The silent one then in a stern voice replies, "fine, but know this, if you come with me you must keep your mouth shut and never say a word unless I speak first." The cabin builder agrees to these terms and nods his head already obeying. So off they went this time in another direction entirely. One year had past and the silent one thought to himself, "I wonder how long he can keep this up." Another year past and still not an utterance. The cabin builder now was learning well how to survive from his friend, and one morning while coming out of the cave he had slept in saw a stranger walking upon a path nearby, but said nothing. But then the stranger had noticed him and yelled out, "Hey, can you tell me if this is the way to the top of the mountain?" The cabin builder replied, "yes, you are on the right path." Just then realizing he too knew the mountain well, then behind him from the cave yelled another voice, "I thought I had told you to be silent."
Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Terry O'Leary | Details
Ah Consuela! Invoking vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes,
I discern them again where she left me back then, as we kissed when she parted, my friend.
So I’m daring to tread towards the klieg lights ahead, where I’ll wait till I see her ascend.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes;
Her serape entangles her ebony bangles like lace on the sorcerer’s looms,
And her capes of the night, she drapes tight to excite, and her fan is embellished with plumes.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes;
Taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina performs on the concert hall stage,
But she shies from the sound of ovation unbound like a timorous bird in a cage.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes,
As the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing, igniting the wild fireflies,
And the piccolo piper’s inviting the vipers to coil in the cold caldron skies.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes
As I rise from my chair and converge to the stair with a hesitant sip of my wine.
Though she doesn’t deny me, she wanders right by me with neither a look nor a sign.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she waves to the stage with her green Spanish eyes,
(For her senses scoff, scorning the biblical warning of kisses of Judas that sting,
With her pierced ears defeating the echoes repeating) and smiles at the bluebird that sings.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching faint embers a’ stir in her green Spanish eyes,
For a soft spoken stranger enveloping danger has captured the rhyme in the room
As he slips into sight through the scent of the night and the breath of her heavy perfume.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she gauges his guise through her green Spanish eyes
- From his gypsy-like mane, to his diamond stud cane, to the raven engraved on his vest -
For a faraway form, a tempestuous storm, lurks and heaves neath the cleav’e of her breasts.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching the caravels cruising her green Spanish eyes;
With the castanets clacking upon the deck cracking, he whips ’round his cloak with a whiz
And without sacrificing, at mien so enticing, she floats with her face facing his.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes,
While the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning, of jungles Jamaican entwined
In the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing the vaults in the caves of her mind.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching life's carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes,
And with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations come taunting her tremulous feet
With her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle for jesters that jive on the street.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides summer tides in her green Spanish eyes,
And her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling and shaking the shivering shores,
As she strides from the light to the taste of the night through the candlelit cabaret doors.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes,
With her movements adorning a trickle of morning as sipped by the mouth of the moon,
While her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming that flow from the sun’s oval spoon.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes.
Then the bluebird that sings ceases preening her wings and descends as a lean bird of prey -
As she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes, his narrowing eyes start to stray.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes,
And the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies race, reaching for gold and such things,
Even being reminded that only the blinded are fooled by the brass in the rings.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes,
But as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing, and weaves through the temples of stone,
While the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing in the depths of the dunes all alone.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes,
As she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted in tugs of his turbulent arms,
Till he cuts through the strings, tames the bluebird that sings, and seduces once more with his charms.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes,
And behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain that nothing and no one exist,
But though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants remain in a mythical mist.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Prince Patterson | Details
Oppressor and the oppressed.
Who is the oppressed and who is the oppressor?
Who has the right to beat a random person on the street?
Who has the right when to pronounce a person guilty or to see that they is the victim?
Who has the jurisdiction to carry a gun and to unload on a random person because of the way they is playing life's game?
There is a president but he has a nation that needs to be run, there is a mayor but he or she needs to govern protection and education for every man,woman, and child. There is those who vote and those who do not, there is those who KILL for a FEE and those who KILL to protect those who threaten and attempt to poison their feed.
In the Crayola box there is over 8 colors and how many of them do you see fighting to maintain a piece of land that doesn't even have their name? These colors have managed to get along but why has us as artist slander there good name?
You may agree we should be free, others may agree to lock them away, the third party may vote that we should have a Hunger Game and declare a winner from each district and let them be reminded by name and plaque.
Will it not be funnier if things went back to being the same before the post-Europeans, before the ice age, before slavery, before time itself? Before evolution, before the industrial revolution, do you believe it will solve the conflict of today? Do you believe it will create a new name of a newer society that is under a different system?
The enforcers enforce a punishment that themselves would not want to see happen to people of there kind, the victim sometimes is the guilted, the drugs may make a person a bit deranged or even appearance may look strange. But deep within their brain hides another person who has experienced a pain that became so unbearable so they hid behind a false name. Drinking, smoking, feeling of looking at trees in 3-D is all the same when you are being called a different name, but let it not change you into something that you did not dream of to be.
Look at me, I am me, you may see prince, others may see another black person, another person may ask me name and they may read my palms and tell me that I carry. Both a Spanish and African name that I was originally given to from birth. But hey life is a curse. You can argue with what happened in the past but will that change the date of today's oncoming past!
But the most funniest thing about our past is how much we cherish it and pray for its ways to be continued on today. But look around you what do you see... I won't say any name for my name is not even copyrighted, BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO START A RIOT! I look at the people around me and I think how can you say that we need to bring change when your thinking and doing the same as the person who once stabbed you in the back?
I'm not saying don't hate the Man, I'm not saying say **** THE POLICE, I'm not saying that the president is part of some dummy corporation, I'm not saying that their isn't a war that has begun, but if you choose to believe what you hear than you will get what you perceive to be your reality!
I'm not saying don't go to school, I'm not saying don't drink, smoke weed, or snort yayo, I'm not saying that you have to rob and be branded a theft, I'm not saying that you shouldn't give love a chance, but everything is up to thee on how thou wants to perceive the world.
I'm not saying that if you close your eyes you will dream, I'm not saying that if you smoke crack you will become a fiend, I'm not saying that THERE IS NO DEMONS ONLY REASONS, I'm not saying that if youse look into the mirror you will see another person in your eyes, I'm not saying that the soul lies behind the eyes. But if you believe the lies you will think that when the truth is told you will think that, that is the lie.
There is a oppressor and there is there oppressed. There is the depressed and there is the depression that we all feel. There is two eyes but they act as one. Nobody asked to be POOR, nobody asked to have WEALTH,nobody asked to have POOR HEALTH, nobody asked to be born with ways that needs to confine to limited space.
But hey the more you believe the lies. The more that you have to believe you will be confined Into thinking that this life is a lie.
There will be battles, but instead of battling and slandering. Why don't we make our voices be heard like that over a beat slapped with claps and a set of drums. Kicking the inside of ears.
Let us prevent the internal bleeding of our heart that is beating (BREATHING)!
Copyright © Prince Patterson | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Tuisha Sircar | Details
The bird wanted to fly
But the wind wanted to blow
“Rest now bird”, said the wind
“You now take it down slow,
And let me flow.”
The bird accepted thinking it was a request,
And ignored the proud in his words,
She sat down on the branch to rest,
Keeping down her guards,
Unaware of what is next.
An hour passed,
But still the wind didn’t stop,
Now the pace became fast,
Now the wind gone, in place was the storm.
Unable to stand against it,
The bird felt helpless.
The emergence of automatic persuasion,
Left the bird in stress.
Her home is not the ground,
She lives in the sky,
Feeling gloomy and bound,
She doesn’t even try to fly.
She stays where she was,
And starts envying the wind,
The kind of power he has,
That brought down even the born free.
Flying is what she loves,
And the feeling of spreading the wings,
Something that cannot be expressed in words,
The beauty can only be felt within,
But when the storm persists on blowing,
The persuasion reminded the bird of a cage.
The feeling of being trapped,
Even turned down the sage,
Within the bird and now a panic engulfed,
Because everything was happening against her will,
And the storm and his manic laugh,
Harassing and shrill,
Dominating over the world with his power.
Now there is water added,
Pouring everywhere from the sky,
So hard that the vision blurry and fade,
The bird now wants to hide.
And so she trusts the woods,
Under the leaves she takes shelter,
Hoping the safe place could,
Understand and help the helpless her.
But today even the trees are of no help,
The rain is too heavy,
No matter where she hides,
Towards her somehow it will glide.
A day passed but still the storm wasn’t satisfied,
He kept on blowing,
Kept dominating the little with pride,
But the bird was now over sorrowing,
So, she decided to challenge the flowing.
And it seemed like years had passed,
Since the bird took a flight,
Into the blue and those effects that lasted,
Of serenity, luxury and rights.
Now the tolerance was coming to an end,
Her loud chirping of frustration speaks,
And so she comes out of the safe place and,
Into the grey she leaps.
It’s like, she dares the storm,
Even though she knows it’s futile,
The proud in him confirms,
That the end could be brutal.
But the little now doesn’t care,
She just wants to fly.
The storm does see the bird’s hindrance,
But would not understand the heart,
He will do what he wants,
That is what he is doing from the start.
He will choose when to come,
His wish no one can predict,
When his fun will become,
A thing getting vapid,
He’ll spare the imploring planet.
The rain can be the reason of someone’s laughter,
It can also make one morose.
The torrent of pouring water,
Is also something he does.
If his will says,
It’ll be a shower of delight.
If he wants it to be the other way,
It can become an element of fright.
Now after going a mile,
The bird is in terror,
Still the storm being hostile,
And the bird being the bearer.
Though she is tired,
But hasn’t lost all hopes,
And so with eyes like angel she desired,
The thoughts of good and optimism.
But when she looked up with faith,
And saw the grey sky,
She fatigue and her pale breath,
But still she flies.
“Stubborn she is no less”,
Thinks the storm, and now he the outrageous,
Losing his charge on the rage,
The sky shines a red that’s vicious.
Then from somewhere a lightning bolt,
Suddenly strikes before the bird,
While she runs from the jolt,
Several others in her surround appeared.
She moves carefully,
But the storm is furious,
And he would not stop,
Until he becomes victorious.
Then a surprising tremor ripples,
Through her and little’s every part stops,
Down the bird with rush tumbles,
With eyes full of teardrops,
And her vision turns grey,
But did she lose the fray?
As the bird, hit the soil,
She remembered a life,
A life that never once gave her the turmoil,
But always love in rife.
Also a light that the bird saw,
When she first opened her eyes,
Now got vacuumed,
Leaving behind the blackness of demise.
The storm witnessed the whole saga,
But still he won’t remorse,
A beautiful little lay dead down,
Sometime else, again a creature would morose,
Because the nefarious never bows.
Copyright © Tuisha Sircar | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Diane M Quinlan | Details
baseball, bird, change, childhood, games, holiday, lost,
“Seasonal Walks in the Park!”
A walk in the park after a springtime morning rainfall
Is to hear the droplets fall from bent branches overhead
That can shock and moisten one’s brow walking below
And make note on the many water stains spotting the lanes
The grasses have turned into rich shiny green blades
Water drops remaining give individual blades sparkle
And soon the lawns will need to be mowed often
And made and kept ready for park picnics and games
The dissolving clouds open gaps for sun rays piercings
Adding sunbeam warmth down on upturned faces
The sun-warm breezes will temp visitors to carry their coats
And others perhaps persuaded in removing their shoes and socks
Some will have their feet dampened on the grass from droplets of dew
As they venture and tread about the newly showered lawns
The blades of grass will squeak when running shoes tramp through
And if recently cut than grass blades will stick between bared toes
Spring’s love potion is inhaled and felt by all touring about
Seasoning desires for familiarity towards the fairer sex
From past haunts of pleasantly spent park delights
Where wooing couples will be affected to a time stand still
The early morning rainbow has faded and day’s clear skies are imminent
The air fresh from receding mists mingle heavenly and tweak the nose
Dew worms break through and inch their way along above ground
Turning out from under the now soft rain moistened soil
This stirs the well-known smell of earth worms movements
And birds sing out invitations for all to join in this feed
Mother birds will return and hungry hatchlings will have first kills
And fathers will be released then of their nest guard duties for this share
All daytime and nighttime visitors will become love-struck
In their search for springtime’s romancing love calls to one another
The park comes awake to the frenzy and welcomes young and old
To meet, greet, and form new and old friendships offered all around
The park's excitement is truly felt when a love-knot becomes first tied
Crawling babies born from previous spring time passions will be noted
They will learn the high-step toddle soon enough bringing them to romp
Once they have experienced that first feel of having to crawl on prickly grass
Young voices are heard mingling along with loud hand claps
All friendly ‘high-fives’ are brandied about within the new met groups
This is an all- time game ritual passed between friendships bonding
All this showmanship will form new team players for ball-park games
The ice-rink’s wooden forms are being removed and taken away for another year
Memories of skating parties last held are brought to surface
The recall of being half frozen and then thawed
When invited to sip a mug of hot chocolate steaming and full-bodied
A freshly painted baseball diamond will replace the rink area now
This ball field will bring many ball park players to home-plate
While proving to others they are ‘out of bounds’
Their devotion to play after school and during holidays is well kept
The flapping and snapping of new kites sound overhead
Straining their ties against the cruel breezes putting them down
Watchers walking about are made to feel free
The breezes jostle skirt and pant legs to tease about
Children are held clasped in grown-up hands to hold them fast
Their first walk about in the park has been a long time put on hold
Even the elderly are childlike and have a bounce given to their step
Walking around the park’s perimeter evolves a lifetime’s returning event
A seasonal change brings about new and different facades to the parkland
And they never fail to have a special allure to draw all outdoors
No matter what the weather call that day or night will bring
Walkers are in want of fresh-air walks found in the park grounds
And dogs always have to reacquaint themselves to the lay of the parkland
Their bones need burying for great hunts in all seasons to become lost and found
They love to leave their markings on pure white snow banks as calling cards
The park sees all and sees to all that visit and never will tell tales of any kind!
Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
White Wolf | Details
"A little bird told me..."
Of all the birds revered by the Celts, the Wren was considered the most sacred. In Ireland, it was called the Drui-en, or Druid bird; in Welsh the word Dryw signifies both a druid and a Wren. Why is it that the Druid is pictured as an apparently nondescript little bird and not as an obviously powerful bird like the eagle?
An answer can be found in a story from the western highlands of Scotland. In a great assembly of all the birds of the air, it was decided that the sovereignty of the feathered tribe should be given to the bird who could fly the highest. The favourite was naturally the eagle, who immediately began his flight toward the sun - fully confident in his ability to win the title of King of the Birds.
When he found himself soaring high above all his competitors, he proclaimed in a mighty voice his monarchy over all creatures who had wings. But suddenly, from out of his wings popped the wren, who had hidden under the eagle's feathers. He flew a few inches higher and chirped out loudly, "Birds, look up and behold your king!"
This story shows the wren as a cunning bird, prepared to build on the achievements of others and to mock their pride by outwitting them at the final moment. The Druid was known as the 'cunning man' - the man who can become invisible like the wren, who can travel on the back of the noble eagle to reach his destination, saving himself energy in the process.
Being small he is unobtrusive and being small he can enter worlds that bigger people cannot. Being proud makes one unwieldy; being small and humble enables one to slip through the eye of a needle or down the root of a tree.
The Breton Celts go even further in according the wren a key role in their bird lore: they say that it was the wren who brought fire from heaven, but that as she flew back down to earth her wings began to burn and she had to pass her gift to the robin, whose plumage also burst into flames. The lark then came to the rescue, finally bringing the gift of fire to the world.
The Druid's house is the wren's nest - a place of comfort and safety, for another important symbol in Druidry, is the egg. The Druid's Egg, made famous by Pliny's remarks, articulates the idea that in order to grow and change there is required periods of incubation - withdrawing from the world to allow the opportunity to reform in the womb of time.
The wren's nest was said to be protected by lightning. Whoever tried to steal wren's eggs or baby wrens would find their house struck by lightning and their hands would shrivel up.
On the Isle of Man, a story is told of a fairy-girl or mermaid who lured youths into the sea. One of them threw a spear at her and to avoid it she turned herself into a wren, but she was obliged to assume her own shape on each New Year's Day. On that day she was at the mercy of her hunters who, if they were able, could kill her. A wren's feather became a lucky charm to preserve sailors from drowning and no Manxman would go to sea without one.
The tradition of wren hunting took place on New Year's Day until the Feast of the Wren was transferred to St. Stephen's Day on Dec 26th. With this tradition the wren has become a god or king rather than a mermaid - for the wren was hunted and killed in a ritualistic way, enacting the idea that the death of a god bestows strength on his killer, a variant of the belief that in the killing of the old king, his powers will be passed on to his successor.
The wren symbolised wisdom and divinity. It is difficult to actually see a wren. At New Year the apprentice Druid would go out by himself into the countryside in search of hidden wisdom. If he found a wren he would take that as a sign that he would be blessed with inner knowledge in the coming year. Finding a creature small and elusive to the point of invisibility was a metaphor for finding the elusive divinity within all life
Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Poet M.e. | Details
Kind Of Blue (For Miles Davis)
Woodlawn Cemetery, Bronx Ny 1991
Before they could lower Miles
into the damp, dark ground
Two of the PALL BEARERS
Thought they heard musical sounds
Before the Preacher could say
Turn your BiblesTo Acts,
The preacher paused.
After he read Deuteronomy
He looked back
But there was nothing there
But deep under the sepulchers
Six feet below the sand
The Spirits realized it was jus’
ColTrane and Gillespie
Warmin’ up the band
And a hundred corpses started
Creeping' out those coffins
Sayin', We don’t get parties round here often
And those Trom Bones started rattling
Those Trom Bones rattled
Like they were audition for Ezekial
Like they were auditioning for Ezekiel
And MILES was ready for his musical sequel
And MILES said
Is everyone here dead??
And they said, Do we look Dead?
And started snapping their fingers
And bobbling their heads
And they started to sing
and shimmy and sway
In A Silent Way
And Miles asked the Dead Man with the horn
Where am I?
How long do we get to play?
He said, We ain't got long, Son
The Shovels are on the way
The shovels are always on the way
And Miles crawled out of that casket
To a vertical stand
And Tommy put a horn in his hand
Miles stood on the tallest tombstome
And he played like a Boogey Man
He played like a Boogey Man
And then Mingus appeared, saying
Miles?? Can I give you a hand?
And Miles put his wrinkled Black lips on that horn
And sucked it like it like it was a breast
And he felt like he was a Newborn
And he pulled music deep in his chest
And he played like there was no tomorrow
Because there wasn’t one
And they said, It’s alright Son
And he played Vibrato
And he played G sharp
And he played sweeter
Then Caesars harp
Then Miles looked sad eyed
And thought back to 1945
Shooting heroin with Bird
recalling those sad words:
This shit is kind enough to kill you
And show up at your funeral too.”
And Miles said,
Yeah it’s Bitches Brew
It’s a Bitches Brew
He laughed, Crazy of Ol’ Coleman
To tell me to stay away from you
And that heroin went down
Like a Macy’s escalator
Then they went back up to their brains
like an elevator
And Bird was dead ten years later
And Miles went back even further in his mind
1944, East Saint Louis, when he met Billy Eckstine
He pressed Play, fast forward and rewind
Then he thought about Webster and Navarro
And he was filled with sorrow
Miles cried as he cleared his throat
But He saved
The Sweetest note
for alton, Illinois
Where he played as a boy
And was his mother’s joy:
“I think God himself made the piano
Now the Devil made the trumpet
A day later tryna show God off…"
She faded with words real soft
That thought was interrupted
Miles, We gotta hurry
The comin’ with the shovels
They told Miles not to worry
And those Spirits knew the party
Was coming to an end
And Miles played one last note
To the sun, to the wind
HE PLAYED THOSE
Those What If-heaven-
And then he brought to an end
That syncopated tune
Someone whispered, We know
"It always ends too soon.
It always ends too soon."
And the music stopped playin
And they confiscated those horns
Like a New York pawn shop
And that party came to a stop
And every ghost went back to his tomb
ANd Mingus said, Goodbye Miles
It’s a long way to Bangledesh.
You stay out of trouble
And then they saw the shovels
The very next morning
saw a Brass pipe on the ground
Where it came from he didn’t have a clue
But the Corpses knew
But if he had looked up,
Miles and MILES up into the sky
He would have noticed
The more Ominous clue
The Sky wasn’t white
Or Opaque or even Grey
It was was Kind of Blue
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details
Since childhood I was always fascinated with nature
Curious to know how plants grow
Always intrigued by the ingenuity of ants
And mesmerized by the coordination
And spectacular tactics of birds.
Birds come in different colors and species
They symbolize many conditions and have various
Significance and meaning in different cultures.
You have the nightingale and the humming birds
And the whippoorwill is perhaps the most cunning
of all species because it can camouflage itself.
Even though you can hear its distinctive sound
It's difficult to be identified.
I used to listen to them singing in nature
singing melodious tune, tunes that span beyond
Centuries, tunes reminding us that life is still divine.
I love to watch them soaring in the sky
flying from north to east, south to west
Until nature bids them to take their rest.
Birds embrace freedom and they hold the power of truth
they are unique messengers so the next time you see one
land on your doorstep just figure out if it is genuinely from nature
who send it, and what it is trying to say before you angrily chase it away.
Birds have wit and might, they are powerful
communication tools, they earn their keep from nature
and that’s how they stay alive
like the cows and the sheep
they can see way out in the deep.
Something peculiar has been happening in nature
I have been observing something unusual from the sky
While walking down the street the sun burst from
underneath a dark, cold overcast sky
and spread its light over me then suddenly disappeared.
Each time I take a stroll an army of birds appear from
nowhere and split up into different directions,
they form groups of six, seven and eight, three,
four, two, one and groups of twelve.
Sometimes they are so many that I can hardly count them.
It didn't seem as if they were on a journey, it appeared as if
They were caged up somewhere and were suddenly released
into the atmosphere.
My curiosity grew deeper when I pounced upon
a man attracting the birds with feed laced with
corn grain and black sunflower seeds.
This was quite unusual because
no one in the entire neighborhood feed birds
I could read right into this mysterious cultural behavior
not only was he making a statement,
he was marking something by placing
the bowl of feed in front of the house
under my window and luring the birds to
fly from all directions to feed from the bowl.
They say that black birds are symbol of human soul
and they symbolize happiness, intelligence and wisdom;
they also have deep religious meaning.
Always remember that everything we do
evil always hinges close by good
to make things seem inconspicuous.
Legend has it to say that the devil appeared to St. Benedict
in the form of a black bird to tempt him.
Long time ago my kindergarten teacher
used to teach me this poem by mother goose,
“Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing
wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house counting out his money,
the queen was in the parlor eating bread and honey,
the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird and snipped off her nose.”
Birds are free habitats of nature
they do not earn their keep from artificial feed
but from natural food in the environment.
So the next time you see a bowl of bird feed
laced with black sun flower seed and corn
do not take it for granted
something is deeper than bird feed.
©2015 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Laura Loo | Details
He was mighty as could be venturing down by the sea,
revered as the king soaring over his golden throne-
He was respected yet felt neglected and could never see,
all the beauty he held and sadly felt so lost and alone.
Self-respect, he had some but always searched for more,
he sought no prey, for he saw himself as the target-
The game that he played, he knew not what for,
and blamed his spiritless life being bought on the black market.
The depth in his hazel eyes showed remorse for his poor behavior,
his long beak, razor sharp to slice his heart from sorrow-
For so long he took flight searching for a savior,
but never saw the beauty of flying away to escape tomorrow.
A honey-hued tail with feathers to be respected,
should hold passion for freedom, yet held chains of regret-
He felt he could never live up to the standards expected,
see, when your different you have tendencies to forget.
Aviation should be sought and trajectory should be taught,
for the mounts beauty needed him to soar nearby-
He felt he was nothing but an apathetic Red-Tailed Hawk,
even though he was created to freely fly high.
One day his talons were hanging off the edge of a cliff,
he knew how low he had become and filled with self-pity-
But all he deserved and craved was a windy lift,
but ended up plummeting into the depths of the sea.
His wings could not move and his claws could not grasp,
for no longer could the remorse fill his soul with fire-
His final descending flight had been flown at last,
plunging downward into nothingness was his last desire.
There’s no evasion or escaping when your beak can’t talk,
even when you’re a lonely majestic Red-Tailed Hawk.
This poem is about my sister who took her life 12-31-10. Her favorite animal was the Red-Tailed Hawk. She was always so beautiful, mighty and well respected. She had so much to live for yet found herself worthless. She thought of herself as the "prey", as opposed to searching for things in life she deserved and needed to survive. She craved deep love yet found deep sadness. I always looked up to her and saw her as this mighty woman carrying the strength of a hawk and she saw herself as a tiny bird cold and alone in the wilderness during the cold depths of winter. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to live through. Even though it's been six years, her death haunts me daily and she is one of my greatest inspirations for my poems. If only I could have filled her with more love and compassion maybe she wouldn't have fallen off that cliff like the Red-Tailed Hawk. Her beauty was evident to everyone around her, yet she felt she was not worthy because she was a lesbian. Her life was so hard because of that and to me that is very sad. I feel that you should be able to love who you want to no matter the race, sex or beliefs. Unfortunately, many people do not agree with me. Her life was a constant struggle and in the end she just couldn't take the pain and ridicule anymore.
I love my sister more than I can even comprehend. She was my best friend was my rock during the hardest of days. I know where she is now...she is happy and free. She is soaring high with all the hawks spreading her wings as far as they can spread.
Blessed be to all the people who struggle with depression and mental disorders. Life is short and there is help out there. Believe in yourself and love yourself for who you truly are.
My morale of the story...
Beauty is in all of us. Our majestic souls should take flight to the highest of heavens daily. Freedom to be who you are should be embraced not looked down upon.
A Natural Metaphor Contest
January 19, 2017
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2017