En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Minoru Lakes Gardens

in the rock garden
an elegantly pruned duck

hovers butterfly proud
on tortoise shell pond,

applies standard strokes,
glides forth.

royal crest
symmetrical waves
released

still point
supernova

flattens pleiades
bends orion's belt

washing clean balding green
graffiti on billions year stone

poem by Doug Bentley
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The Stone and I

By the edge of the mini-pond
where I sit when the weather’s fit for it,
there’s this stone.

I’d like to call it a rock
because that sounds more dignified
and metaphorical and carries
more tradition, but
it’s a stone

and on it grows a lichen;
not the vivid, flat, yellow and vermilion and red and black
lichen that grows on stone walls
by the seaside; this one
has those colours at its edge
but has a furry crop of tiny green fronds
cropping from its mossy green
which are quite vigorous in their tiny way.

I liked it so much that I tried
to get the other stones around the pond
to match, by douching them alternately
with urine and yoghourt in the approved manner
after dark for obvious reasons
but they didn't respond;
I guess stonecrop beautiful word
knows its own field so to speak
and won't be rushed, at least
it makes me treasure this one more

If I had the money which I haven’t
and the patience which I don’t
I’d have a perfect, model
Zen garden complete with sand
which I’d rake with a wooden rake
every morning into swirly lines
with graceful sweeping Tai Chi movements
until I got bored

but I just have this stone
with faintly Japanese pretensions
mine not its
however I’d like to think a Zen master
would quite approve of my modest intention
and say, less is more, more or less…

and now I think of it, the stone
has its own Zen garden; though whether
you could call this an eco-system,
whether the stone and the lichen
have a relationship, is open
to question, as is
whether the stone so agreeably placed
by the pool well OK pond
has a relationship with the pond

anyway, on a sunny day
the stone and I sit there together
if together is quite the right word
I feel we’re together whatever it feels
if it feels at all that is

and I guess it's even possible
in an evolutionary view of things,
lichen on stone, first life on earth
and all that, that the lichen
and I are really related, with
a common ancestor
which would account for a lot

and we sit there quietly in quite
a Japanese sort of Zen-ness
of being one with nature
and I become don’t laugh more stony
and still; as for the stone
I really can’t say but
It feels good

and in this state of relaxed contemplation
which I guess is the point of those
Japanese gardens
it occurs to me that the stone
and perhaps the water too

have qualities that I lack –
they know just how to be,
to be still, to be themselves

so there may be a point to what
we sometimes call with the trace
of a sneer,
communing with nature

since as Saint Augustine said
the whole cosmos is our
holy book; so why not
open it

*

[with a namaste to Augustine and Eckhart Tolle]

poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Sad Day

a garden of stone
a butterfly long gone

a dry leaf
afloat on the pond

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A tortoise

the tortoise is just inadequate
she has been treating
the same way everyone
of another kind

a supercilious front
to shroud weaknesses
broadcasting insouciance
with a hard hard shell

she knows she has a birthright
a hard headed advantage
with its shell signed
with letters from heaven
nobody is allowed even to knock on
it, protected species

here she is behaving in ways
that turn people away
without even knowing why

ten thousand years from now
she would be still in her same state
and behaving the same way
one big curvy hard hard shell
as the world shuttles to a new sphere

poor tortoise! poor tortoise!

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Butterfly

Deep ocean,
Deep love,
And like the drummers and the dancers!
Deep ocean,
Deep love,
And like the butterfly in your garden!
But, in the passage of time.
The Chinese letters,
The elephant,
The soldier ant,
The tortoise,
Art talks! !
Pure, sure, cure, lure;
And like a jump into the world stage!
But i am as calm as the butterfly in your garden.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Run Home, Run Home Butterfly

run home
run home
butterfly;
run run
fly fly fly

there’s rain and hail
and the wind blows wild;
what are you doing
flitting idly by?

run home
run home
butterfly;
run run
fly fly fly

duck for cover
excuse the expression;
hide under a tree
or go sleep under the leaves;
have you no sense
of impeding danger?

Oh run home
run home
butterfly;
run run
fly fly fly

the wind blows hard
and you’re being blown around;
what happens if
a tiny hail stone
swings a hole in a wing
or worse -
oh fragile butterfly -
I don’t want to be here to see
a hail stone the size of a child’s fist
land smack on your gentle head

so run home
run home
you silly
playful butterfly;
run run run
fly fly fly

poem by Raj Arumugam
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A Tortoise's World!

Story of a tortoise who hid in his shell
Under the rock in the well
That is where it would dwell
Until one day a frog chased by a snake, did fell

Both, tortoise and frog were friends since they met
They had so much to talk, a lot of fun, you bet
Frog wanted to go home, leave a new friend, not to forget
Frog left, promised, soon it shall return and bring friends to get

Days passed and tortoise was sad and lonely
It rained and rained, and then came the day lovely
Frog came and came Frogs, croaking and singing jolly
Also were there tortoises, fishes and snails, Joy filled the world wholly!

poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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Quaternion

Fix belt tip under books on table top
While holding buckle level, step away
Rotate the buckle once; two pi nonstop
A twist results which looping won't unplay.
Restart and rotate buckle four times pi
And now by looping belt round buckle end
The twists are cleared, exhibiting to eye
Zen essence of rotation; comprehend?
Never mind.

October sixteenth, eighteen forty-three,
beside the Royal Canal of Dublin town,
Will Hamilton glimpsed spatial clarity,
as view from fourth dimension looking down.
For multiplying triples, fly one higher,
by summing in a more capacious zone,
‘A circuit closed and spark flashed' to inspire
famed maths graffiti carved in Broome Bridge stone.
i^=j^=k^= ijk = -1

poem by Diane Hine
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The Pleiades

By day you cannot see the sky
For it is up so very high.
You look and look, but it's so blue
That you can never see right through.

But when night comes it is quite plain,
And all the stars are there again.
They seem just like old friends to me,
I've known them all my life you see.

There is the dipper first, and there
Is Cassiopeia in her chair,
Orion's belt, the Milky Way,
And lots I know but cannot say.

One group looks like a swarm of bees,
Papa says they're the Pleiades;
But I think they must be the toy
Of some nice little angel boy.

Perhaps his jackstones which to-day
He has forgot to put away,
And left them lying on the sky
Where he will find them bye and bye.

I wish he'd come and play with me.
We'd have such fun, for it would be
A most unusual thing for boys
To feel that they had stars for toys!

poem by Amy Lowell
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Her song of freedom

Under each stone a trapped butterfly can be found
And if you free the butterfly
You shall here the sound of
Some thing so graceful never herd around
She sings of beauty and of the free air
Yet though trapped under there
She still sings of how once a day
She was able to fly her own way
So under this stone of life and tears
Only one butterfly forgotten this year
So whom shall be the lucky one to see
This once trapped butterfly
Once again freely sing
Her song of freedom
Her song of me

poem by Susan Covington
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An Interesting Ancestry

To some of us, a tortoise lives on land
while turtles only rarely leave the sea.
‘Chelonians' applies to any brand,
so here I'll use this terminology.

Land dwellers share aquatic ancestry
and most of us decided to stay put.
Chelonians agreed to disagree.
A flippered revolution was afoot.

A late Triassic turtle fossil shows
a hard-shelled belly plate and softer back,
presumably to ward off fatal blows
from deeper-dwelling predators' attack.

Did top shell metaphorically ‘dissolve'
when full-shelled forebear sought the sea's embrace?
Or did an unshelled forebear's shell evolve
in oceanic pilgrimage retrace?

Genetic sleuthing points to latter case.
The evidence suggests that once again,
the tortoise forebears left their liquid space
and plodded (swam?) to shore with sigh, 'amen'. *

From sea to shore to sea to shore once more.
You'd surely think a record lies therein.
Yet maybe making not three trips but four
is water loving cousin terrapin.

When next you gaze with love in tortoise eyes
and wonder at his mind's soliloquy,
from languid, longing looks you may surmise,
he's pondering ‘To sea or not to sea'.

poem by Diane Hine
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Secret Garden

Shell let you in her house
If you come knockin late at night
Shell let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
Shell let you deep inside
But theres a secret garden she hides
Shell let you in her car
To go drivin round
Shell let you into the parts of herself
Thatll bring you down
Shell let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, dont think twice
Youve gone a million miles
How fard you get
To that place where you cant remember
And you cant forget
Shell lead you down a path
Therell be tenderness in the air
Shell let you come just far enough
So you know shes really there
Shell look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
Shes got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away

song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ocean

Here comes the ocean
And the waves down by the sea
Here comes the ocean
And the waves where have they been
Dont swim tonight my love, the sea is mad my love
Its known to drive men crazy
Malcolm has burned at sea, the castle it sits and reeks
The madness can make you hazy
But here come the waves
Down by the shore
Washing the rocks that have been here
Centuries or more
Down by the sea
Here come the ocean
And the waves down by the sea
Here comes the ocean
And the waves where have they been
Castles glowing at night, towers above out fright
Warlocks decapitating
Malcolm he lives on hate, serve your brain on a plate
Feasts on your mouth for dinner
But here come the waves
Down by the sea
Washing the eyes of the men
Who have died
Down by the sea
Here come the waves
Here come the waves
Here come the waves
Here come the waves

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My shoes and my duck

My shoes and I are quite good friends you see
Often they have chats with me
They tell me things doesn’t matter when
Day or night
They ask me please to lace right
Tell me how to wear them right

I have many pair but only one do I love
They are blue and white
Just like the morning and its dove
That flies around with all their might

My shoes fight in my closet in the black of night
Over which one I will ware on my bike

But I can never forget my duck
To which I can always turn to trust
My friend that is always there
Telling me no lies
And awaiting my return home
From my eight hour chore

My duck can’t swim
my duck can’t quake
My duck just sinks
with a rock on his back
My duck can’t cry
my duck can’t sing
my duck just cant do anything
My ducks no duck and I know why
my duck is stuffed
my duck can’t fly...
I love my duck
Can’t you see why

So in the end
I wouldn’t trade my shoes for any red bull
Or my duck for any frog
Even though one might give me wings
Or one might make noise now and again
I love my blue shoes and my stuffed duck

P.S. the Saint helped me write parts of this, so I owe him a thank you, and just so you all know not all mine.

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Double Standard I

Double Standard I

As an alternative to poor matrimony
man can in leaisure live, prefer polygamy,
still pleasure sweet may give through reciprocity, -

He deserves to win...

Should e’er in secrecy some white your wife commend
Forswear intimacy! Shun, fright, Sir, strife to send,
for her disloyalty indicts her, life condemned, -

She swerves to sin!

24 March 1976 robi3_0111_robi3_0000

Double Standard II

The adage: ‘two is company’
applies to you but not to me.
Law? What I bade, not what I do, -
for that, my maid, applies to you !

24 March 1976 robi3_1372_robi3_0000

poem by Jonathan Robin
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My love is a butterfly

My love's like a butterfly caged in my heart
And dashing in the darkness, searching for way out.
My love's like a butterfly with a burnt tired wings,
With a short memory, with no deadly sins.
My love's just a butterfly, it can't find the key,
But still hovers silently and wants to get free.
My love's like a butterfly with one given chance
To get out of my chest and become a romance.
But you have to help her to break out from inside,
My love is a butterfly, it can't give a fight.
Why my love is the butterfly seeking for peace?
It's unsafe fleeting life is intended for miss...
Now you know my love's butterfly, fragile, not free
You can kill it unwittingly, with just one memory.

poem by Katerina Yanchuk
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Billions and Billions

BILLIONS AND BILLIONS

Billions and billions
Of stars in the sky-
Billions and billions
Of people who die.

Billions and billions
We wonder why-
So much and so many
And all passing by.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Tortoise Shell

The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.

Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.

Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.

Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.

It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.

The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.

Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.

Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.

The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.

So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.

The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvednes,s of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Double Standard II

DOUBLE STANDARD II

The adage: ‘two is company’
applies to you but not to me.
Law? What I bade, not what I do, -
for that, my maid, applies to you!

24 March 1976

robi03_1372_robi03_0000 WXX_JLX

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
DOUBLE STANDARD I

As an alternative to poor matrimony
man can in leaisure live, prefer polygamy,
still pleasure sweet may give through reciprocity, -

He deserves to win...

Should e’er in secrecy some white your wife commend
Forswear intimacy! Shun, fright, Sir, strife to send,
for her disloyalty indicts her, life condemned, -

She swerves to sin!

24 March 1976 robi3_0111_robi3_0000

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Paint body art beautiful

her majesty the hand
with nail graffiti polish
pain in henna red
paint in henna black
paint paint my heart

paint body art faithful
faithful to the strokes
paint in strokes divine
paint in strokes of red
paint in strokes of black
paint paint my heart

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Lost Among The Flowers In The Garden

a white butterfly
hovers among the white flowers
in bloom
in the garden
it stops for rest
and gets still

it is lost in there
and you cannot see it anymore

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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