En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Mountain Cemetery

With their harsh leaves old rhododendrons fill
The crevices in grave plots' broken stones.
The bees renew the blossoms they destroy,
While in the burning air the pines rise still,
Commemorating long forgotten biers.
Their roots replace the semblance of these bones.

The weight of cool, of imperceptible dust
That came from nothing and to nothing came
Is light within the earth and on the air.
The change that so renews itself is just.
The enormous, sundry platitude of death
Is for these bones, bees, trees, and leaves the same.

And splayed upon the ground and through the trees
The mountains' shadow fills and cools the air,
Smoothing the shape of headstones to the earth.
The rhododendrons suffer with the bees
Whose struggles loose ripe petals to the earth,
The heaviest burden it shall ever bear.

Our hard earned knowledge fits us for such sleep.
Although the spring must come, it passes too
To form the burden suffered for what comes.
Whatever we would give our souls to keep
Is merely part of what we call the soul;
What we of time would threaten to undo

All time in its slow scrutiny has done.
For on the grass that starts about the feet
The body's shadow turns, to shape in time,
Soon grown preponderant with creeping shade,
The final shadow that is turn of earth;
And what seems won paid for as in defeat.

poem by Edgar Bowers
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A Day In The Life Of A Tree

Feel the wind burn through my skin
The pain, the air is killing me
For years my limbs stretched to the sky
A nest for birds to sit and sing
But now my branches suffer
And my leaves dont bear the glow
They did so long ago
One day I was full of life
My sap was rich and I was strong
From seed to tree I grew so tall
Through wind and rain I could not fall
But now my branches suffer
And my leaves dont offer
Poetry to men of song
Trees like me werent meant to live
If all this world can give
Pollution and slow death
Oh lord I lay me down
No lifes left to be found
Theres nothing left for me
Trees like me werent meant to live
If all this earth can give
Is pollution
Trees like me werent meant to live
(oh lord I lay me down)
If all this earth can give
(my branches to the ground)
Is pollution and slow death
(theres nothing left for me)
Oh lord I lay me down
My branches to the ground
Theres nothing left for me

song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring

Spring appears with yellow mango blossoms everywhere;
Bay-leaf trees with tiny silvery blossoms bear.
Cuckoos melody from mango groves reverberates in the sky;
Poets become enthused with peace and inspiration high.
Tiny birds twittering in the sky fill the poet’s minds with ease;
Green leaves dance with the mild vernal breeze.
Fragrant yellow blossoms invite the bees for a kiss;
For these honey-seekers, its nature given bliss.
Sun rays falling on earth make it alluringly rosy;
The rays make the earth-dwellers warm and cosy.
The wavy streams flow down with a melodious muttering;
The green forest all around is most enchanting.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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It is Spring Time

It is Spring Time

It is spring time.
I can smell it in the air.
I can smell the flowers.
I can smell the grass.
I can touch the grass.
I can touch and taste the vegetable growing in the garden.
The weather is changing.
The weather is warming up.
The trees are blossoming.
The flowers are blossoming.

It is spring time.
Easter has passed.
Beltane has passed.
Spring and May is here.
This is the time to tend to your garden and planted some flowers.
Some people pray to God to protect their garden.
Some people pray to Mother Nature for protect.
I do both and I thank God for this planet.

It is Spring Time.
The animals and bugs come out to play.
The frogs jump around the pond.
The wildflower comes out.
The sky is clean and blue.
The sun is shining.
The horses are running free.
The sunflowers are growing.
When seasons the earth also changes it is a beautiful way.
Nature is every where.

It is spring time.
There is rain and storm.
The trees have leaves and it arms.
The trees are ancient.
An apple falls down from the trees.
This is what thinks spring time is for me.
Spring time is beautiful.
Spring time is when nature is beautiful.

It is spring time.
Spring time is here.
The rabbits come out, and hop round.
The bees are collection honey for us.
The tulips are blossoming.
The roses are blossoming, and looking so beautiful.
The lavender is purple and bright.
Spring time is a time to celebrate.
Spring time is a time to clean our environment.

It is spring time.
Spring time is a time when rain falls.
Spring time is the time when the seasons changes.
Spring time is when the plants grow.
Spring time is my favorite season.
Spring time is the time to be happy.

It is spring time.

poem by Crystal Chown
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The Bee-Boy's Song

Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!
"Hide from your neigbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!"

A maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding - day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they'll fly away.
Fly away -- die away --
Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don't deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.

Marriage, birth or buryin',
News across the seas,
All you're sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell 'em coming in an' out,
Where the Fanners fan,
'Cause the Bees are just about
As curious as a man!

Don't you wait where the trees are,
When the lightnings play,
Nor don't you hate where Bees are,
Or else they'll pine away.
Pine away -- dwine away --
Anything to leave you!
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees'll never grieve you.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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On the Skeleton of a Hound

Nightfall, that saw the morning-glories float
Tendril and string against the crumbling wall,
Nurses him now, his skeleton for grief,
His locks for comfort curled among the leaf.
Shuttles of moonlight weave his shadow tall,
Milkweed and dew flow upward to his throat.
Now catbird feathers plume the apple mound,
And starlings drowse to winter up the ground.
thickened away from speech by fear, I move
Around the body. Over his forepaws, steep
Declivities darken down the moonlight now,
And the long throat that bayed a year ago
Declines from summer. Flies would love to leap
Between his eyes and hum away the space
Between the ears, the hollow where a hare
Could hide; another jealous dog would tumble
The bones apart, angry, the shining crumble
Of a great body gleaming in the air;
Quivering pigeons foul his broken face.
I can imagine men who search the earth
For handy resurrections, overturn
The body of a beetle in its grave;
Whispering men digging for gods might delve
A pocket for these bones, then slowly burn
Twigs in the leaves, pray for another birth.
But I will turn my face away from this
Ruin of summer, collapse of fur and bone.
For once a white hare huddled up the grass,
The sparrows flocked away to see the race.
I stood on darkness, clinging to a stone,
I saw the two leaping alive on ice,
On earth, on leaf, humus and withered vine:
The rabbit splendid in a shroud of shade,
The dog carved on the sunlight, on the air,
Fierce and magnificent his rippled hair,
The cockleburs shaking around his head.
Then, suddenly, the hare leaped beyond pain
Out of the open meadow, and the hound
Followed the voiceless dancer to the moon,
To dark, to death, to other meadows where
Singing young women dance around a fire,
Where love reveres the living.

I alone
Scatter this hulk about the dampened ground;
And while the moon rises beyond me, throw
The ribs and spine out of their perfect shape.
For a last charm to the dead, I lift the skull
And toss it over the maples like a ball.
Strewn to the woods, now may that spirit sleep
That flamed over the ground a year ago.
I know the mole will heave a shinbone over,
The earthworm snuggle for a nap on paws,
The honest bees build honey in the head;
The earth knows how to handle the great dead
Who lived the body out, and broke its laws,
Knocked down a fence, tore up a field of clover.

poem by James Arlington Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shape Me Like A Man

Spark my body into existence
Breath your life into me
Fill these eyes with temptation
Work your mystery
Make me in the image you desire
Raise me up from the earth
Let me be your creation
Women, give me birth
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Put this broken body in motion
With a strong and natural drive
Fill my flesh with sensation
Women let me know Im alive
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Make me like a man

song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Of An Orchard

Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith,
To meditate on life and death,
With a cool well, a hive of bees,
A hermit's grot below the trees.

Good is an Orchard: very good,
Though one should wear no monkish hood.
Right good, when Spring awakes her flute,
And good in yellowing time of fruit.

Very good in the grass to lie
And see the network 'gainst the sky,
A living lace of blue and green,
And boughs that let the gold between.

The bees are types of souls that dwell
With honey in a quiet cell;
The ripe fruit figures goldenly
The soul's perfection in God's eye.

Prayer and praise in a country home,
Honey and fruit: a man might come,
Fed on such meats, to walk abroad,
And in his Orchard talk with God.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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Let's Walk Through This Garden

Come, my beloved, let us walk through this garden
Where lots of bees enchanting with the nature
Life of bees has got the life in the heaven
And placed it on the peach and citrus tree
Let us follow the footprint of those bees
Who has walked miles over the mountain?
The mountain to draw nectar high above the cool plain
Let us go into the fields, my beloved,
For the time of those who left to harvest
Seed of love has sowed into this garden
As the spirit nourishes the grain of joy with love in burden
Let us hear the melodies of the wind touch the wings
Let's sit beside this flower and pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.
Let us go into the next field, my beloved,
Let's us not fill our heart with joy of sadness
Bees are yet to shed tears for those who have already lost their heavies
Under the forced of the whispering wind
Let us tend the bloom of the earth
Let us make the flowers our happiest heaven
Let us relax after the day's toil,
And listen to the murmur of the provoke bees
Rather parting with old acquaintance.
Oh! Let us return to our dwelling, my beloved!
For the wind has caused the yellow leaves to fall;
And shroud the withering flower that whisper elegy to the bees
Come my beloved, come close to me since nature has just wearied
And bidding her enthusiasm farewell.
With quiet and content sorrow
Come close to me beloved; come too closed to me.
Let us speak glory of our heart,
For that is greater than the sorrow of the bees
Lost her heaves in the flower garden
Under the force of the merciless whispering wind.

poem by Kezang Dawa
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Inside The Cross of Iron Shadow

Inside The Cross of Iron Shadow
====================

Shape to Guide Aligned by Light
Formed of Cross Divide of Shadow
Light to Darken The Cross Within
The Dark Surround The Light With Out
Shape To Confine The Shadow Caste Of Iron Cross

Pieced Together The Puzzle Within
Immediate Light of Circumstantial

Fade to Black
Cross Fade to Light
The Sound Staged Within

Shadow Sounds Free of Night
Forged Of Iron Shadow

Holier Than Thou Be This Shadow Cross of Age
Cast of Moon Beam of Light to Burn
Outline of Cross Confines The Shadow Dark
Which Binds A Mind To Light

Fore There In No Way Exist
This One Without The Other Side of Good
As Day to Blackest Night of Evil
As Sun Give Rise to Dawn To Cast Away
The Nightmare Within A Mind Of Day and Shadow

Night of Day To Darkest Cross Beam of Light
To Light A Mind Eclipsed In Shadow
Forever In Light To Dark Shade of Gray Matter
Inside The Cross Of Iron Shadow.

poem by Ricardo Antunes
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I Have Dreamed of You so Much

I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?

I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.

O scales of feeling.

I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and
face of some passerby.

I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.

poem by Robert Desnos
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Kindness

Things are destined to be lost
To be broken

The leaves fall and rot
At the foot of the tree

The roots soon shrink
And become part
Of the indifference of the

Rocks and the soil
Things move out
And up

Like vapor and then
Change their forms to air

But there are those that weep
And keep
Whatever was lost and destroyed

The leaves they take with their hands
And the roots
They stroke with the toes of their feet
Caress and
Kindness their virtues
That humanity has soon discarded

They grow the seeds in their hearts
They keep the fire of love
Burning
And the earth and the sun and stars
All smile at them

They too grow and scatter and travel
To all the places of this earth
Their forms too many
The gods know
They too must grow and get the world
Of the grass of sorrow

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Nocturnal Upon S. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.

poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

poem by John Donne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Moors

NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only
Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells,
But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely,
The vast enchantment of her presence dwells.
Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather,
Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees--
If you and I were only there together,
Free from the weight of all your garden's trees!

The north is mine; though bred by elm and meadow,
Pines, torrents, rocks, and moors my heart loves best;
I love the plover's wail, the cleft hill's shadow,
The sun-browned grass that is the skylark's nest.
Ah, yes! you too I love, dear wistful pleader,
You most I love, dear southern rose, half-blown,
And rather lounge with you beneath your cedar,
Than greet the moor's wide heaven-on-earth alone.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Shadow Of The Sun

Once upon a time
I was on a mind to lay your burden down
And leave you where you stood
You believed I could
Youd seen it done before
I could read your thoughts
And tell you what you saw
And never say a word
But now that is gone
Over with and done
And never to return
I can tell you why
People die alone
I can tell you why
The shadow on the sun
Staring at the loss
Looking for the cause
And never really sure
Nothing but a hole
To live without a soul
And nothing to be learned
I can tell you why
People go insane
I can show you how
You could do the same
I can tell you why
The end will never come
I can tell you on
The shadow on the sun
Shapes of every size
Move behind my eyes
Doors inside my head
Bolted from within
Every drop of flame
Lights a candle in
Memory of the one
Who lived inside my skin
I can tell you why
People go insane
I can show you how
You could do the same
I can tell you why
The end will never come
I can tell you on
The shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Shadow on the sun
Sun
Sun

song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Slow

How slow the time passes
On hot summer days,
How heavy the air,
And the heat, and the haze.

How slow the sun's creeping
In reaching for noon,
How long now the day-time
Belonging to June.

How dry lies the earth
In the farmer's old hands,
How slow plod the herds
As they stroll off his land.

How sweet the bird sings
In the old apple tree,
How slow the leaves falling
O'er pathway and lea.

How far the bell tolls
Over green evening fields,
How close now the haymakers'
Singing and reels.

How slow the time passes
In twilight's night shade,
How slow fell the footsteps
True lovers once made.

Written March 1995

poem by John Carter Brown
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Cities and Thrones and Powers

Cities and Thrones and Powers,
Stand in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,
The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,
She never hears,
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance,
To be perpetual.

So Time that is o'er -kind,
To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
As bold as she:
That in our very death,
And burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
"See how our works endure!"

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Shadow of the Horse

In bright sun’s wash
Over concrete & stone
Outlined in strong contrast
The shadow appears
Before the white horse
Who bows its curved head
In acknowledgment.

The images stream-
And its swift appearance
Stays, as light & heat seem
To do, although, it’s been
Only a short while.

The folklore of archetypes
weaves tales
Of a soul longing to be seen.
“I see you & I love you, ”
The shadow tells the horse
Without uttering a sound.

The evidence is in the light. In
The arrest of time-
In the passing moment like
The crucial note in a song. The
Horse sees that its not alone.

The dream of the horse & the shadow

Is hard to let go of.

There is comfort in love that
Doesn’t talk back. A long walk
Down the bridle path releases
The need.

The sun fades & filters through
The leaves & the breeze...Yes,
The sun fades & filters through
The leaves & the breeze as
Autumn comes & the horse
Gives thanks by merely living
the seasons.

The shadow increases & decreases
At will. And the curvature of the earth
bows low with a simple nod.

poem by E.E. Green
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Luring Is For A Distance

Colour and shape of petals
Matter to bees at a distance.
Once the bees on the flower,
The body only matters.

Visage and shape of woman
Matter to man for selection.
Once the man is on the woman,
Her massiveness matters.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death

the shadow lurking
just outside my window;
faintly smelling like spring rain
remembered in the fall.

the first lips you kissed,
the first time you tasted
your own blood.
a good cigar, and
a shot of french brandy.

the film of time
covering the eyes.
taking away sharpness,
finding form in the vague
and near forgotten!

a Bible that smells
like damp newspapers;
shovelfuls of earth,
and an old Irish hymn.

and the weight of the undone
swings like a pendulum;
words never spoken,
almost touches, almost tears,
chances almost taken

and the fork in the road
i never took
the hoot of an owl.
water running over rocks.
pine needles carpet the ground
never walked on.

a shadow lurking
that knows my name!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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