Being But Men
Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.
If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.
Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.
That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.
Being but men, we walked into the trees.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Whispers of trees
Trees whisper of the coming winter
Leaves mutter among themselves
Seasons silently steal upon us…
As Falling streams from rocky shelves
Soft sibilant sighs, indistinct…incoherent
Nature’s voices, spoken through the dells
It’s the trees whisper… of the coming winter
The voices of Trolls, faeries and elves
Branches freeing…captive leaves fleeing
Limbs bleakly waving…in poignant farewell
Listen closely! …to the trees soft whisper
Of places of mystery…where legends dwell
Trees whisper the coming winter
Voices elusive…secretive as well
Hear the murmur of the wooded heart…
muted tumble of an acorn shell
Trees whisper…coming winter…
Tales that only trees can tell
poem by David Whalen
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Cowardice or Intelligence?
I am afraid of the Darkness and the Light,
the Eyes that lurk behind the Trees of Honesty,
waiting to catch our Mistakes.
I am afraid that the End may be near,
that icy fingers will soon wrap around me.
I am afraid that the World will keep turning,
that Life will be allowed to be lived in the Shadows.
I am afraid that nothing is real, that I am a Puppet
being watched by the Children of the Stars.
I am afraid that Life could mean Nothing,
that I am here for Nothing, and will die in Darkness
and simply become part of the Earth for the rest of Eternity.
I am afraid of being Alone in this world,
that the Sky will crash down upon me
once my misery has reached its highest point.
I am afraid of becoming the Forgotten,
of being Remembered only as a civilian passing by.
I am afraid that You are not what You seem,
that You are the Eyes that watch and wait,
hoping that I will make the Mistake.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Is It Too Late?
what constitutes deliverance?
how do we define, and draw the line,
between the sickness, and the cure?
between written morality, and ingrained morality?
between doubt of god, and the presence of god?
between hope, and despair?
do we accept what we see as real?
or must we touch, and taste, and feel?
is not the part of our heart that we hide,
the part that needs to be revealed?
whose hand is on the wheel?
who named the stars, and discovered fire?
must we not lose what we're most afraid
to lose in order to find what we most need?
do we spend all of our lives
trying to regain what we lost as children?
why are we afraid of darkness,
being children of the womb?
and why do we find that which is most sacred,
held by the hands of our darkest sins?
we fear death, we worship death... which?
is it the prize of a life well lived?
the cost of our guilt?
or are we just afraid of letting go,
of something beyond our control?
we run madly through life possessing and owning,
or being possessed and owned.
we try to make a name...
yet life is far more than names!
we cower before our own nakedness...
afraid of our own wings!
yet trees and rivers and mountains,
already converse with the sky!
who are we? is it too late?
or can we redeem the time?
can we hear the song of the mockingbird?
the chanting prayers of the ants?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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This House This Home
in this house the music of the night
is the soft rain from the sky falling upon the grass
like tiptoeing mothers watching their young children
sleeping and kissing their foreheads
there is no burning fire here from wood
and there is no smoke from a cigarette
it is dark as usual but it is desirable
even darker as there are no stars tonight
i am not sad
i am at home with myself in this house
i hear the symphony of winds and whispers
from the leaves of trees and the chants of earthworms
it is cold and so i have closed all the windows and doors
& then i curl beneath my blanket of roses
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Children Trees
I’ve walked past the park’s restaurant time after time,
and by those tempting trees the children like to climb.
With their low sprawling branches no child could resist,
and sunbeams that cut the dark, its a place of little risk.
But there is more to this place than first meets the eyes,
and when you look closer, the scene is telling lies.
I’m still not quite sure if it’s the light playing tricks on me,
but if I mention it to anyone, they’d question my sanity.
The tree’s entwining leafless arms move in a mysterious way
their twigs of fingers beckon the children to come and play.
I swear I saw a branch move slowly around a child’s waist,
but when it saw me looking, it withdrew its arm in haste.
This chilling, mysterious place worries me and horrifies,
and gives me that nightmare feeling when somebody dies.
But why should I worry? Parents are near in the light of day,
what possible harm could trees do, to our children at play?
poem by Orlando Belo
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Fear
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I've said that.
poem by Raymond Clevie Carver
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Sonnet: Grow Trees
The branches cut the wind fierce to a breeze;
The leaves break sunlight into chequered beams;
The shade of trees affords all travelers peace;
The wearied ones sleep ’neath the trees in dreams!
And birds too build their nests on branches high;
The squirrels eat their berries with great joy;
The trees make verdant all landscape near-by;
And attract rain in which children enjoy!
Trees make the earth greener and beautiful,
Adding oxygen to the air we breathe;
Preserve its trees, man! Nature is grateful;
The leaves and flowers can make us a wreath.
Trees are so useful to mankind always;
’midst good trees, men have spent their earthly days!
7-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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As Time Starts
As time starts a river flows
As the river flows a child cries
As a child cries the tears become a river
As the river is made life starts to grow again
As time starts a tree grows
As trees grow children climb
As children climb the stars shine
As the stars shine a story begins
As time starts a child runs
As a child runs danger chases
As the danger chases death awaits
As death awaits, the death takes you
poem by Isabella Epona
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Evening Sky
I walked beneath the evening sky
and felt the chill of night
But the cold that chilled me as I walked
was not as cold as the sight
of the stars in the sky that stared at me
as if to say 'What's wrong? '
How could I answer those stars up there?
Could I hum them a lonely song?
They were there to brighten my stare
and take the chill away
But no stars could ever accomplish that
unless you walked my way
For you are the light that comforts
and warms the heart of me
You are the one bright star in my life,
not the stars in the sky I see
poem by Edwina Reizer
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On the Garden Wall
Oh, once I walked a garden
In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass.
And many orange-trees grew there
In sand as white as glass.
The curving, wide wall-border
Was marble, like the snow.
I walked that wall a fairy-prince
And, pacing quaint and slow,
Beside me were my pages,
Two giant, friendly birds.
Half swan they were, half peacock.
They spake in courtier-words.
Their inner wings a charriot,
Their outer wings for flight,
They lifted me from dreamland.
We bade those trees good-night.
Swiftly above the stars we rode.
I looked below me soon.
The white-walled garden I had ruled
Was one lone flower--the moon.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Mother Universe
IT took so many million years
before men finally realized
that this universe is
a female
feminine so feminine with
stars as accent for his black hair
moon as brooch
sun as golden gown
with all flare ascending the
stairs of heaven
the earth as her soft bed
at night laden with trees and flowers
and soft grass too
she got this black hole
sucking everything masculine
inside her radioactive womb
and with a bang
she gives birth to another set
of stars
another family
in the line of galaxies
heavenly family trees
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Ring of Stars
In order to make a star with five branches
Where six would have been the same
A circle must first be drawn
In order to make a star with five branches ...
A ring!
One did not take so many precuations
In order to make a tree from many branches
Trees that hide the stars
Trees!
You, full of nests and song birds
Covered with branches and leaves
That you lift as far as the stars!
poem by Robert Desnos
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By The Fireside : The Open Window
The old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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One for Sorrow; Two for Joy
Good morning Mr Magpie
alone again, like me
I greet you then I bless myself
and hope that I shall see
your lady busy in the trees
up here in Jagger Green.
The wind is soft and urgent
on the pale green Yorkshire hills
rooks fuss in high bare branches
looking down on silent mills
and the magpie is a single bird
up here in Jagger Green.
I watched him as he rested
in the Mayday morning light
then hard and low and straight there came
another flash of black and white
and the sun is like a woman's kiss
up here in Jagger Green.
poem by Hugh Mitchell
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Scared yet Feared
Fear.
Fear of being lonely.
Fear of letting someone past.
Fear of getting too close.
Fear of being hurt.
Fear of letting go.
Fear of hurting him.
Fear of not one but two.
Fear of loosing me.
Fear of loosing you.
Fear of the pain.
Fear of the love.
Fear of your kiss.
Fear of your hugs.
Fear of my life.
Fear of yours.
scared. yet Feared
poem by Morgan Tayce
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America, Grieving
America, grieving...
your oily fingers on
the wheel of the world,
your black heart of prejudice...
you pull the crumbs
from the mouths of the needy,
and litter your walkways
with the bones of children.
you poison your own crops,
and defile your own water.
you educate your children
in prisons dark, and
on foreign sands fighting...
for freedom, no!
you batter the people of color,
bruise them with your stars and stripes...
your hanging trees condemn you!
you cut the hearts out
of your working people,
and feed them fear and lies.
the stench of your excesses
rises to meet god,
the god you've created
in your blackened jealousy.
you taunt the spirit
with cries of freedom,
free speech, free thoughts...
and then break it with the
oppressive load of your debts.
Wall Street and big oil,
and the corporate demons...
no democracy here!
America, grieving...
your own will rise up,
and take down your flag!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fears of a teenage mafioso
Fear of love,
Fear of pain,
Fear of the unforgiving cane,
Fear of lies,
Fear of sighs,
Fear of those distraught eyes,
Fear for the unknown,
Fear for the known,
Fear of everything combined,
Fear is what makes me blind,
Fear is what makes me think,
and act in blind accordance,
Hindering the world around me,
Hence, My Fear of myself
Fear is when you run away,
Fear is when you’re scared to love someone,
Fear is when the sky turns grey,
Fear of confusion,
Fear is like a dark blue ocean,
Fear won’t let me escape
Fear mocks me, watching
Fear taunts me, waiting
Fear of losing,
Fear you cannot see,
Fear dealt upon thee.
Fear of darkness and death,
Fear of a dead comrade,
Fear of a gun being cocked,
Fear of being endlessly stalked,
Fear of time,
Fear of all the crime,
Fear of the undesirable truth,
Fear for the good.
Fear for the sake of life,
Fear of the neighbors next door,
Fear of the secretive man in the subway,
Fear of the revolutionary uproar,
Fear is to not rejoice your living,
Fear for the sake of your life,
But to fear is to forsake it.
Fear is to have no hope in life,
Fear of the fear of fear,
We need no reason to fear,
For fear has no reason for itself.
I guess life is just like that,
To fear for no reason,
For to fear is not to reason,
But to reason is to fear.
To fear for the sake of fear,
Is fear for fear,
So let me think,
What else do I fear?
What else do I fear?
What else do I fear?
poem by David daveres
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The Queen is usually reckoned equal, in average situations, to two Rooks and a Pawn, but towards the end of a game she is hardly so valuable as two Rooks.
quote by Howard Staunton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Reiteration Of Desiderata
he could have been in the wrong place
even the trees believe
that he does not exist
the stars do not give him any
sign of the zodiac
but look at him
even without the recognition of the trees and stars
he still exists
know what? because he is.
he is,
and that being himself
gives him that right to be
what he shall be
here,
here,
for in truth if only the trees and the stars know this
they should have known that as a man
he has the right to be here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oh! That We Two Were Maying
1 Oh! that we two were Maying
2 Down the stream of the soft spring breeze;
3 Like children with violets playing
4 In the shade of the whispering trees.
5 Oh! that we two sat dreaming
6 On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down,
7 Watching the white mist steaming
8 Over river and mead and town.
9 Oh! that we two lay sleeping
10 In our nest in the churchyard sod,
11 With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast,
12 And our souls at home with God!
poem by Charles Kingsley
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