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Forest Of Berries
The forest expected it, the woods create,
A storm has arrived with the leaves;
Wind blew and created, the leaves turned,
Bellies adjusted to the food.
What were berries? The berry is wonderful,
For the strawberry is the best.
A forest of leaves crazes me, as no other,
Never in too many lives does it create.
Tomorrow it lies with leaves and more,
The best berries are for me, the law;
When are you expected to dance?
The hour is near when the berries are present.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Appearances
I hated them when I was four years old,
The bright pink berries on the pepper tree.
And now they seem quite beautiful to me.
My tower of dreams when I was four years old
Was such a tree. Its branches hid me well,
Although I so disliked the berries' smell.
I had my dreams when I was four years old . . .
But groundling now, who once could mount in air,
I judge the high-swung bright pink berries, fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Sodger's Lassie
A'the toun is to the doun
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Ab's gane, Rab's gane,
Aggie's gane, Maggie's gane,
A' the toun is to the doun,
An's left the house to wae and me.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Sodger Tam, he cam an' cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie;
Still I went, an' still I bent,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Berries high, an' berries low,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Tam maun come where berries grow,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Never ance I looked at Tam,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Weel I kent him when he cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Baith our faces to the groun',
Puin' o' the blaeberrie,
Tam cam near without a soun',
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wow! but we were near, I ween,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
A' the air was warm between,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Could a lassie think o' ill,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries e'en grow where they will,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Berries here, an' berries there,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I was ware,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Wha wad fash wi' ane anither
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries whiles will grow thegither,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I could speer,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Hech! that folk sud come sae near,
A' to pu' a blaeberrie!
While I grat and chid forbye,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Doun we sat-I ken na why-
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
A' amang the blaeberrie!
Sidelong Tam he cam an' cam
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Wha could tell he meant na fair?
Weel I ken I chid him sair,
But that day we gaed na mair
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Doun amang the blaeberrie!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Taste Of Strawberry
I am not sure if every one of my family is entirely pround of what and how I am.
My grandmother turned 101 years old the other day.
I am the nearest one to visit her.
Last week I brought some fresh strawberries to her.
It was a beautiful day.
She happened to tell me the most special thing I had ever heard.
'Even if someone great in Japan came bearing these berries to eat together, they wouldn't be as tasty as these.'
I had never felt myself important to somebody else.
I will never forget the taste of berries in 2012.
Strawberries dipped in Chocolate;
Commotion on my tongue,
The delectable berries are young,
These berries are alone like a canyon,
They long for a candy-coated companion.
My eyes creep over to the kitchen counter-top,
As my jaw takes a deep drop,
A jar of luscious milk chocolates waiting for me,
And then I thought of a wonderful idea, strawberries dipped in
Chocolate served with tea!
I take out pure, creamy butter along with an effulgent, silver saucepan,
And pour some two-percent milk out of its can.
Then out of the Hershey’s, I take seven precise pieces,
And save the rest of the delicacies for my mamma’s nieces.
The chocolaty mixture bubbles like lava in a volcano,
As I try a spoonful the taste is bursting like a tornado,
I take one of the blood red berries,
And dip it in the mixture that is as heavenly as a bunch of cherries.
Commotion on my tongue,
The delectable berries aren’t young,
And as I pull out another berry from my pocket,
I realize that I have fallen in love with strawberries dipped in chocolate.
poem by Michelle Melnicky
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The Tree Of Scarlet Berries
The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Hutch
of her arms, this was her sin:
where the wood berries bin
of forest was new and full,
she crept out by its tall
posts, those wooden legs,
and heard the sound of wild pigs.
calling and did not wait nor care.
The leaves wept in her hair
as she sank to a pit of needles
and twisted out the ivyless
gate, where the wood berries bin
was full and a pig came in.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Berries! ! ! ! !
Mulberries
On a visit to granny in the Doon valley
It was March, the old tree full of Mulberries.
Red, purple teasing from far, ran with cane basket.
Picked one, ate some while the birds created a racket.
Strawberries
Strawberri es in white boxes, one atop other
The hawker sat on his knees, said go no further.
I protest too expensive, not for the masses.
Rich eat raw, make a tart or with cream in glasses.
Wild Berries
On way back from school at noon, attack wild berries.
Are for free and so yummy, home a lot we carry.
We laugh and shriek as our skirts get stuck in thorns,
Satiated, come back home, with berries, skirt torn
Written in ancient japanese form Sitigotyo
06.04.09
Mamta Agarwal
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Holly Bush
The Holly Bush
It was in the depth of winter
When snow lay crisp upon the ground
That I saw the tiny creatures
Which fluttered all around.
I stepped into the garden
To see what the fuss was all about.
There was a fairy trapped in my holly bush
And her friends were trying to pull her out.
But the sharp leaves stabbed at wings
And they tangled up long hair
As the fairies attempted their rescue.
They weren’t getting anywhere.
The fairies saw me on the garden path
And that I was getting near
They hid behind my chimney stack
And cried aloud in fear.
‘Stop being silly now, ’ I told them
As I carefully pulled the fairy free.
‘My name is Buttercup’, she said
As she explained to me.
That she had been stealing the berries
To plant down in the wood
Because there was no holly left.
She was really trying to be good.
‘People like holly for Christmas
But some of them dig up all the trees.
They don’t leave anything for the birds
So, can we have some berries, please.’
I did not want my little friend
To take another fall
So I helped to pick some berries
And said I did not mind at all.
The other fairies came to thank me
Then taking a berry each, off they flew
But Buttercup waited by my side
There was something else she had to do.
She waved her hand up in the air
And her dress changed to green and red
‘This will remind me of your holly bush
And your kindness, ’ the fairy said.
So, if you find a fairy in your garden
With a dress of red and green
Please, allow her to steal some berries
For it is my friend that you have seen.
poem by Irene C S ClarkHogg
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Birds at Winter Nightfall (Triolet)
Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone
From holly and cotoneaster
Around the house. The flakes fly!--faster
Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster
We used to see upon the lawn
Around the house. The flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Obedient to natures laws
Obedient to nature’s laws.
The last remaining berries glow
On frosted branches white as snow.
A meagre source of sustenance.
Which gives small birds a fighting chance.
Of surviving until the spring.
Returns to renew everything.
The few who manage to survive.
The hardy ones will live and thrive.
Compete for mates with whom to breed
Spring will provide their every need
They will build nest and raise their brood.
Instinctively they know they should.
The last remaining berries fed
The hardiest the rest are dead.
Saturday,21 January 2012
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Taken For Granted
No!
I am not berries to pick,
On your visits to the forest.
Nor am I a twig to pluck.
To deleaf and strip of bark.
What I am is flesh.
Deep with emotions.
I've learned I must protect.
Especially when my feelings
Are taken for granted.
And the more I give...
The less respect I get!
No!
I am not berries to pick,
On your visits to the forest.
Nor am I a twig to pluck.
To deleaf and strip of bark.
And this is what you do.
Like many who are clueless.
About that which has life.
Or about those feelings others have too!
'Why are you so sensitive?
Oooow!
Why did you pinch me? '
Isn't that strange?
I didn't feel a thing!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Barberry-Bush
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit
Waits till the frost has turned its green leaves red,
Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit,
And thou mayst find e'en there a homely bread;
Upon the hills of Salem scattered wide,
Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in Spring;
And straggling e'en upon the turnpike's side,
Their ripened branches to your hand they bring;
I've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour,
That then I gave such name, and thought it true;
But now I know that other fruit as sour,
Grows on what now thou callst Me and You;
Yet wilt thou wait the autumn that I see,
Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.
poem by Jones Very
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Premature
Pale berries fade to bright
Leaves green whisper autumn
Creasing brown and crisping - falling,
July parts with Summer sudden as fright.
Hedges swelling berries threaten indigo
Fallen Summer lightly crunches underfoot
Lazy spotted silk flits amongst the cabbages,
As rain drips and autumn winds blow.
Harvest dawns soon but now
It’s colours, winds and crops grow,
Fattening Moon and Sun to lingering orange
Swelling cold to comfort woe.
28-7-05
poem by Laura Russell
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New England Mind
My mind matches this understand land.
Outdoors the pencilled tree, the wind-carved drift,
Indoors the constant fire, the careful thrift
Are facts that I accept and understand.
I have brought in red berries and green boughs-
Berries of black alder, boughs of pine.
They and the sunlight on them, both are mine.
I need no florist flowers in my house.
Having lived here the years that are my best,
I call it home. I am content to stay.
I have no bird's desire to fly away.
I envy neither north, east, south, nor west.
My outer world and inner make a pair.
But would the two be always of a kind?
Another latitude, another mind?
Or would I be New England anywhere?
poem by Robert Francis
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0028 Emily Dickinson Considers Her Breasts
White silk gown – Sunday silk – yet
daily donned – tight-cuffed –
cool hands – folded - warm lap -
milk-white - under orange vest – and -
bearing – or to bear? –
two Legacies - from You, Sire –
this simple pair accompanying me -
twin-mirrored –
two poems yet to be read –
two words yet to be said –
to stimulate – a man -
circumferencing – unwritten future – to know – perhaps - which? -
kiss of need? as kid of goat –
little lips - innocent of teeth - tugged
as pulled red berry? Cherries fit
such little mouths. Or -
kiss of love? milk-white skin
brushed first – moustache – then
body’s delirious shudder –
ecstatic contract!
two red berries – red-plucked –
this first?
Will there be a morning - mooring –
you as sunrise -
after wild and feathered night,
bondage as play - so sweet?
Or – are these berries – to grow parched?
A rose - cease to bloom - before the flower taken -
autumn berries - heavy-hanging –
dropping – unmilked – unmouthed -
love put away - put in a drawer,
hiding brave face in hand?
I thus eventual – be –
awaiting further chance
of eternity?
You cannot put a fire out –
you love me – you are sure -
but – which is it, sir?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Blackberry Picking
I have fond memories of going blackberrying
On Sundays, with my Dad, when I was a child.
Situated on the very outskirts of our little town,
The lane was long and winding, lonely and wild.
We worked our way along the prickly hedgerows,
Plucking perfect fruit from amongst the brambles,
But the berries, which were over ripe or under ripe,
Were left behind by us, during our country rambles.
We picked plenty of plump, juicy berries,
And popped them all in to our plastic pot.
Dad seemed to know the very best time to go,
So we always returned home with quite a lot.
Along the way, we spotted spiders in their webs;
Of spiders, I have always been a little scared.
So any fruit which was located round about,
Was more than welcome to stay right there!
The blackberries were taken home to Mum,
Who mixed them up with apples, inside a pie.
I always felt a small sense of pride, as we ate
Those blackberries, picked by my Dad and I.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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To L. H. B. (1894-1915 )
Last night for the first time since you were dead
I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.
We were at home again beside the stream
Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.
"Don't touch them: they are poisonous," I said.
But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam
Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head
And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.
"Don't you remember? We called them Dead Man's
Bread!"
I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar
Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.
Where--where is the path of my dream for my eager
feet?
By the remembered stream my brother stands
Waiting for me with berries in his hands...
"These are my body. Sister, take and eat."
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Who wanders all the moors will taste all the berries.