Point at the mulberry and abuse the pagoda tree.
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Rather mulberry than almond. (The almond-tree is in blossom earlier than the mulberry.)
The Mulberry Tree
It's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind
As I think of my childhood so long left behind;
The home of my birth, with it's old puncheon-floor,
And the bright morning-glories that growed round the door;
The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off
Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,
Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,
And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.
And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,
I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,
And the long purple berries that rained on the ground
Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.
And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,
I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed
With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee
To foller them off to the mulberry tree.
Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,
And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,
And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,
The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.
But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore
As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more--
What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,
With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!
Then it's who can fergit the old mulberry tree
That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free
As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out
Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?
O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,
Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,
And, a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,
They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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With time and art the leaf of the mulberry-tree becomes satin.
I’m sitting outside smoking a joint
I’m sitting outside smoking a joint, right
It is an early Wednesday morning in
Early September in late
St. Louis, right
The sun is at my back, two degrees
Pass an old silver maple tree
The last of the three mulberry threes
Is growing in the alley
I got coffee, cigarettes
Weed and beer to celebrate
Poetry, right
It was September
Of 1968 that I wrote my first poem.
41 years hence I’m still on point
People say of me that I can not
Keep a job, but here’s proof of my
Fortitude. If I seem proud
Of myself it’s because I am
It is an occasion of celebrating me
A poet to my poetry.
poem by David E. Patton
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By The Old Pagoda Anchorage [1924]
By the old Pagoda Anchorage they lay full fifteen strong,
And their spars were like a forest, and their names were like a song.
Fiery Cross and Falcon there
Lay with Spindrift, doomed and fair,
And Sir Lancelot of a hundred famous fights with wind and wave,
Belted Will and Hallowe'en
With Leander there were seen,
And Ariel and Titania and Robin Hood the brave . . .
Thyatira of the lovely name and proud Thermopylae,
By the old Pagoda Anchorage when clippers sailed the sea -
Racing home to London River -
Carry on for London River -
Crack her on for London River with her chests of China tea!
By the old Pagoda Anchorage (it's many a year ago!)
A sight it was to see them with their decks like drifted snow,
And their brasses winking bright,
And the gleaming gold and white
Of the carven kings and maidens on each slim and soaring bow,
And the high and slender spars
Humming shanties to the stars,
And the hulls whose speed and staunchness are a dead man's secret now, -
The ships so brave and beautiful that never more shall be,
By the old Pagoda Anchorage when clippers sailed the sea -
Racing home to London River -
Crack her on for London River -
Carry on for London River with her chests of China tea!
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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By The Old Pagoda Anchorage [1926]
By the old Pagoda Anchorage they lay full fifteen strong,
And their spars were like a forest, and their names were like a song,
Fiery Cross
and
Falcon
there
Lay with
Spindrift
, doomed and fair,
And
Sir Lancelot
of a hundred famous fights with wind and wave:
Belted Will
and
Hallowe'en
With
Leander
there were seen,
And
Ariel
and
Titania
and
Robin Hood
the brave:
Thyatira
of the lovely name and proud
Thermopylae
,
By the old Pagoda Anchorage when clippers sailed the sea,
Racing home to London River -
Carry on for London River -
Crack her on for London River with her chests of China tea!
By the old Pagoda Anchorage (it's many a year ago!)
A sight it was to see them with their decks like drifted snow,
And their brasses winking bright,
And the gleaming gold and white
Of the carven kings and maidens on each slim and soaring bow,
And the high and slender spars
Humming shanties to the stars,
And the hulls whose speed and staunchness are a dead man's secret now -
The ships so brave and beautiful that never more shall be,
By the old Pagoda Anchorage when clippers sailed the sea,
Racing home to London River -
Crack her on for London River -
Carry on for London River with her chests of China tea!
By the old Pagoda Anchorage the clippers lie no more,
There is silence on the river, there is quiet on the shore,
And the silted channels seem
Still to murmur as in dream
Of the tea ships in their glory, lifting sea-ward on the tide,
All the strong and fair and fleet,
By those shores that used to meet,
And the valiant master mariners that walked their decks in pride,
By the old Pagoda Anchorage when clippers sailed the sea,
Logging fourteen on a bowline, ay, and seventeen running free,
Racing home for London River -
Crack her on for London River -
Carry on for London River with her chests of China tea!
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Pointy Toes
Pointy toes,
Elegance shows.
A dancer's feet,
Worn and Weary,
A ballerina's feat,
Makes it look easy.
We abuse our feet,
Scrapped till it bites,
We abuse our feet,
Tie knots too tight,
We abuse our feet,
Stand till sore,
We abuse our feet,
Curl like claw.
High heels, tall.
We abuse our feet,
Bound feet small.
Abuse our feet most than rest of body?
Take care, your feet, Everybody.
A Flower To Auroville Mother-21
Frangipani(Plumeria, Pagoda tree, Temple tree)
Vibrant more than that water-fall
Where at Kumbakarai I met you first
Your fragrance while bewitching around all
I saw a whirling nut downfalling next
I could guess perhaps it was messaging
That you're pink and red and white
Elsewhere true to my aromatic guessing
Yet cream with curled up beauty perfect
Only the heaven-perfumer can interpret
Of what magic you're scented this much
Of what magic you sit conical upright
On a magical sappy support that much
I remember I saw countless whirling nuts
Gyrocarpus, dancing in joy aero-dramatic
Nothing but to Frangipani, your redolence
Danced to rest on your leafy roughness chick
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Hot To Movement
The lost thrill
of my thoughts
wrapped inside the little coat
I have lost my path
from the mulberry tree
and along my journey
there stands a little lady
We strike up a conversation
on the 6 flights up
but all during this time
it was a summers dream.....
poem by Shai Cherry
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Gentle Harbouring Love
The festoon glory that comes
within love’s pagoda tree
with its branches like arms
stretching out around thee.
You savour love’s droplets
like the sweet juices from the vine,
nurturing the beauty
to last longer than time,
be captivated with
the gentle harbouring love
that it brings
deep within the melancholy
of the joys of spring.
16 July 2008
poem by David Harris
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No Point
J. spinks
This aint working out
Its not worth the time I spent on it
When Ive been next to you
Its not the way you want it
And all I wanna do
Is get away and as far away from it
Theres no point cos Im not winning
Theres no point going back to the beginning
Theres no point to keep on waiting
Theres no point in talking it over
Theres no point in getting any closer
If it was up to you
Wed go around in circles forever
Theres nothing left to do
I go around - around in you
Ive tried to see it through
All Ive seen is the stormy weather
Theres no point in still pretending
Theres no point cos this is never ending
Theres no point in keep on trying
Theres no point to carry on lying
Theres no point acting like children
Theres no point cos this time Im gone
Theres no point in talking it over
Theres no point in getting any close
Theres no point in still pretending
Theres no point cos this is never ending
Theres no point in keep on trying
Theres no point to carry on lying
Theres no point in talking it over
Theres no point in getting any closer
Theres no point cos Im not winning
Theres no point going back to the beginning
Theres no point in hesitating
Theres no point tonight
Theres no point at all
song performed by by Outfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Is Nothing Wrong With Power
'Tis sad to think that many with power abuse it those with power who abuse it weak not strong
There is nothing wrong with having power in the first place it is the abuse of it that is all wrong
For the abuse of power leads to serious crimes against the powerless though power in good hands it is quite okay
And good people with power never do abuse it they use it in the most constructive way
Some people with power are quite benign people and philanthropic one of them can say
But those who abuse their power to the law may never answer though to karma there's a price they have to pay
The abuse of power leads to dictatorial regimes that leads to serious crimes against humanity
In the despicable crimes against women and children the wrongs of power gone wrong for all to see
The people who abuse their power should never have it though to their power they desperately do cling
Power in the right hands an adavantage to others and power in the wrong hands is a dangerous thing
There is nothing wrong with power from once 'tis used well but some with power they do abuse their rule
And some with power they can become quite nasty and derive pleasure out of being cruel
But power in the right hands can be a blessing and kind people with power their praise we ought sing
Since they have the gift of empathy within them and happiness to others they do bring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Research on child abuse suggests that religious beliefs can foster, encourage, and justify the abuse of children. When contempt for sex underlies teachings, this creates a breeding ground for abuse.
quote by Mary Garden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Getting To The Point
Its out of control (out of control)
And theres nothing I can do now
Out of control (out of control)
Spinning softly through the blue now
And look beyond these walls
As the meaning starts to dawn
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Its out of control (nothing I can do)
Like a fire that keeps on burning
And nobody knows (what Im going through)
And the thoughts just keep returning
And all you had to say
Was that you were gonna stay
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Chorus:
Its getting to the point
Where nobody can stop it now
Its getting to the point
Of no return
And all that I can do
Is stand and watch it now
Watch it burn, burn, burn
Its getting to the point
Where reasons are forgotten
Its getting to the point
Where no one knows
And all that I can do
Is say Im sorry
But thats the way it goes...
Getting to the point.
Forever
Is a long, long way
Forever
Takes your breath away
Id like to talk about it, try to understand
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Repeat chorus
Its getting to the point (getting to the point)
Getting to the point (getting to the point)
Its getting to the point (getting to the point)
Getting to the point.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Loving Tree
Three women walked upon a road,
And the first said airily,
“Of all the trees in all the world
Which is the loving tree?”
The second said, “My eyes have seen
No tree that is not fair;
But the Orange tree is the sweetest tree,
The loving blood is there.”
And the third said, “In the green time
I knew a loving tree
That gave a drink of the blood-red milk,
It was the Mulberry.”
Then the first one said, “Of all the trees
No sweetest can I name;
Ask her who yonder slowly comes—
That woman lean and lame.”
Grief like a hideous suckling hung
Along her hollow breast,
Pain was upon her as she walked,
And as she stooped to rest.
“Why will you question so?” she said,
“Is it to mock at me?
For how should I, who walk in Hell,
Know of a loving tree?
“My eyes are not as woman's eyes,
They hope not east or west:
Dull Famine my bed-mate is,
And Loneliness my guest.
“ 'Tis not the most delicious flower
That leaves the scent of Spring,
Nor is it yet the brightest bird
That loads his heart to sing.
“A tree may dance in the white weather
Or dream in a blue gown,
A tree may sing as a sweetheart
To bid the stars come down:
“Some trees are slim and lovable
And some are sleek and strong,
But the tree that has the cripple's heart
Will know the cripple's song.
“The sweetest death is the red death
That comes up nakedly,
And the tree that has the foiled heart
It is the loving tree.
“While ever lip shall seek for lip,
While ever light shall fall,
The tree that has the ruined heart
Is tenderest of all.
“Oh, ye may have your men to kiss,
And children warm to hold,
But the heart that had the hottest love
Was never yet consoled.”
The women three walked on their way,
Their shamed eyes could see
How well the tree with the foiled heart
Is still the loving tree.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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This China trade deal is basically like the Bobby Knight of trade deals. You know, you abuse, you abuse, you abuse, and then they say 'Well, OK, we'll let you try one more time.'
quote by David Bonior
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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myth and abuse...by Talile Ali
we all are human
what is the use
all are victims
of myth and abuse
humans like to mess around
we don't think we're sluts
only when it's women,
then we soil all they touch
add to that the reality of
old men with young girls together
we accept it like that as lust and love
older women and young boys together
we see as cougars out slumming with thugs
myth and abuse
myth and abuse
so much insanity
based on lies and misuse
myth and abuse
myth and abuse
the bible or the Koran
to abuse our needs, such a ruse
so if you feel you
have a right to mess around and feed
cause your better half is dead
or even worse won't address your needs
no matter what the gender
be you male or female
you got to be yourself
and know you got to get nailed
we need to put an end
to all of this senseless abuse
we can shut down this game
and help each other to see the truth
we find love where it is
and thats just a fact
so long as they are adults
and mature, not just an act
end the myth and abuse
by being thoughtful and secure
and not deceiving each other
just to manipulate and procure
it ain't that kind of thing
we all like good lovin
it just needs to be said
to the other, not druggin
keep tryin every day
keep tryin every way
the thing that will help you the most
is being honest, today.
OK?
poem by Talile Ali
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When I was only three I planted a tree
When I was three I planted a tree. This was my tree and together we would always be. I gave it love and it to me, and so we were happy, me and my tree.
Then one day they came to see me and my tree. Men with no faces, and they said to me, you must go, and leave this tree.
Buy why I ask. For we've done no harm. Me and my tree, please let us be.
So they left us alone, me and my tree, but only for a while but I could not see.
Then one day they came and took me away. My tree was needed to save the day. Goods it will make it makes perfect sense. So we will take this tree, for wood we need. And so it was done, they took my tree.
And now I look around, my tree I no longer see. Taken from, this tree I planted when I was three.
poem by Brad Milner
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I see no point in
I see no point in
Understanding, as
At the end of it all
I am misunderstood
I see no point in
Visualizing
As in that process
I get drowned in dreams and inaction
I see no point in
Loving
As in its demonstration
I am either hurt or in hatred
I see no point in
Accumulating
As what is accumulated
Makes me its accumulation
I see point in
Teaching
As I am a proven failure
In unlearning
I see no point in
Giving
As I take pride in that
And am made arrogant
I see no point in
Becoming (something)
As I nurse the gnawing
That I am not that yet
I see no point in
Braving
As by that I proved
That I feared something
I see no point in
Praying (for something)
As it amounts to telling
That I am a beggar
I see no point in
Suffering
From something
As I prefer to struggle to overcome
I see no point in
Writing
As I will not be there with you
To say why I wrote this
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Claret Pagoda in the Cerulean River
A slow waltz
In the crimson line
Of the dusk's horizon
Drifts me back
Into the cerulean river
Where I used to glide
In canoes with lovely people
Incarcerating myself;
My thoughts, my squalors,
My despairs, my bliss,
That no soul would understand
In a profound reclusion
That not a single soul
Ever understood.
In a slow waltz
Between my hands
And the grating oars,
And between the paddles
And the sporadic tides,
I have feigned a smile
With the jocund compulsion
As we draw nearer to the sun
But my soul is left ashore
Feigning a lacquer smile
That no soul
Ever understood
In a slow waltz
From five forlorn years
I bid riddance,
For long forlorn!
And we brushed our heels
On the cold river's
Reaching hands
And ferry ourselves
In a claret pagoda
Of grotesque titivations
Of jumbled jewelries
From writings to revelries
Piercing through
The thicket of ignorance
That deemed us back
Into estranged acquaintances
And we go back into
Moving towards the dusk
Only this time,
I am alone
As I spew this robust
Dreams and idyllic spells
That should buoy our pagoda
My lost friends,
If I still have you
In spite of losing you
In the flourishing beckons
Of the tides;
In merriment
And in defeat,
I'm building a claret pagoda
In the semblance of the sun's
Skin and viscera
Because that's what we are
In this hostile river;
A contrast in the toppling
Threshold of the firmament,
Take my invitation
And let the current bludgeon
You back into the latent
Times of our concatenations.
In a slow waltz
Between my emollient soul
And the serrated spines
Slathering the pen,
I envisioned a pagoda
Pristine in claret
Defying the cerulean water,
By myself
In a slow waltz
With solitariness
That no soul would ever
Understand.
poem by Norman Santos
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