The old man and his stone
an old man
seated alone
on his stone bench
invited me
almost invisible
gesticulating with his hand
sit down beside me
we did not say a word
together we just heard
nothing but our silence
he invited me
to take a look in his garden
he took me by my hand
guiding me
through the open gate
he gave me a grand tour
in his Japanese paradise
and wanted to know
if I would be able
to show him
that spot
he was searching for
all his life
so he could also see
all the larger stones
at once
I'll wait
and watch you
I stood
I sat down
I climbed a tree
while being up there
I could see
a smile on his face
expressing understanding grace
I walked around
accompanied
by the sound
of crackling shelves
I can count endlessly
maybe even further
In that serene garden
I could not find the spot
that place where I could see
all his stones
although I learned
during that search
there were fifteen different larger stones
that unknown space
where I see and count
the old man's 15th stone
there I was on my own
still searching
it was late
at last I returned
sat down beside the old man
on the other stone bench
he offered me his silence
and told me with his eyes
that a man or a woman
is wise
when admitting
accepting
a simple fact
you can see
you can count
all the stones
not at once
not on your own
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Buchenwald-cat
a couple is walking ‘hand in hand'
on historical grounds
they're not talking
in disbelief of what invisible
yet so present
overwhelmed by the deadly silence
of the spirit
of hundreds of thousands
passing by also
so long ago in an eternal way
moved
by exhibited drawings
miniatures of art
by witnesses back then
only the sound of countless stones
under their feet cracking
each representing
the forceful presence
of whom once were here
even the birds left the area
only a black-and-white cat
living another one
of his of his endless lives
coincidentally or not on this spot
sneaks also in silence
with his body
crawling us
telling us
so much more
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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The Air is a Root
The air is a root.
The stones are filled with tenderness. bravo.
bravo. the stones are filled with air.
the stones are watery branches.
on the stones replacing the mouth
grows the skeleton of a leaf. bravo.
A stone voice face to face and foot to foot
with a stone glance.
the stones are tormented like flesh
the stones are clouds for their second
nature dances to them on their third nose.
bravo. bravo.
when the stones scratch themselves, nails grow
on the roots. bravo. bravo.
the stones woke to eat the exact
hour
Richness of the spirit
the emptiness of the silence
the limitation the space
the infinity of the dark
the length of the awaiting
the helplessness of paralysis
hooked in herself
seated on her chair
wandering
where this will end
the continuing of the times
that will be changing
she shares
her essentials
coming out her of nutshell
her eyes show off
her words depict
her warmth conquers
who tells more
who knows more
who shares more
who is more herself
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Hooked
the emptiness of the silence
the limitation the space
the infinity of the dark
the length of the awaiting
the helplessness of paralysis
hooked in herself
seated on her chair
wandering
where this will end
the continuing of the times
that will be changing
she shares
her essentials
coming out her of nutshell
her eyes show off
her words depict
her warmth conquers
who tells more
who knows more
who shares more
who is more herself
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Poem (‘It Doesn’t Look Like A Finger...’)
It doesn’t look like a finger it looks like a feather of broken glass
It doesn’t look like something to eat it looks like something eaten
It doesn’t look like an empty chair it looks like an old woman
searching in a heap of stones
It doesn’t look like a heap of stones it looks like an estuary where
the drifting filth is swept to and fro on the tide
It doesn’t look like a finger it looks like a feather with broken teeth
The spaces between the stones are made of stone
It doesn’t look like a revolver it looks like a convolvulus
It doesn’t look like a living convolvulus it looks like a dead one
KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY FRIENDS USE THEM ON
YOUR BITCHES OR
YOURSELVES BUT KEEP THEM OFF MY FRIENDS
The faces between the stones are made of bone
It doesn’t look like an eye it looks like a bowl of rotten fruit
It doesn’t look like my mother in the garden it looks like my father
when he came up from the sea covered in shells and tangle
It doesn’t look like a feather it looks like a finger with broken wings
It doesn’t look like the old woman’s mouth it looks like a handful
of broken feathers or a revolver buried in cinders
The faces beneath the stones are made of stone
It doesn’t look like a broken cup it looks like a cut lip
It doesn’t look like yours it looks like mine
BUT IT IS YOURS NOW
SOON IT WILL LOOK LIKE YOURS
AND ANYTHING YOU SEE WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU
London Bulletin, No. 2 (May 1938), 7.
poem by Hugh Sykes Davies
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The Gift Of Medusa (clerical Correction As Requested By Candice Salazar, , , Thanks)
we may think that those she turned
to stone
hate her, but how do we know?
we haven't heard yet
any stone talking?
sometimes i wonder
stones are happier for whatever happened
i need to know those stories before
the turning
for sometimes i think
that Medusa is a gift, there are those
who, in reality, have become stones
but never really come out
in the open.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Gifts Of Medusa...
we may think that those she turned
to stone
hate her, but how do we know?
we haven't hears yet
any stone talking?
sometimes i wonder
stones are happier for whatever happened
i need to know those stories before
the turning
for sometimes i think
that Medusa is a gift, there are those
who, in reality, have become stones
but never really come out
in the open.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At Set of Sun
If we sit down at set of sun,
And count the things that we have done,
And counting, find
One self-denying act, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance, most kind,
That fell like sunshine where it went--
Then we may count that day well spent.
Or, on the other hand, if we,
In looking through the day, can see
A place or spot
Where we an unkind act put down,
Or where we smiled when wont to frown,
Or crushed some thought
That cumbered the heart--ground where it stood--
Then we may count that day as good.
But if, through all the life-long day,
We've eased no heart by yea or nay;
If through it all
We've done no thing that we can trace,
That brought the sunshine to a face--
No act most small
That helped some soul, and nothing cost--
Then count that day as worse than lost.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Rock Garden
in my present garden
i put rocks and pebbles
some sands
added dusts
they ask what do i grow
in there?
i put a chair and sit there
alone
barefoot i put my hands
in the open
i gaze
feeling like the sun
to some
planets
the stones as i walk
for a while
grate
as though they have
teeth
then back to where i sit
they begin
to grow silence
silence is a lotus
it is a pond too where
a dragonfly is
hovering
there is this stillness of a
little universe
the space is emptiness
of imaginary
stars
there is no moon here
no one is lost
there are no leaves
no pretensions of stems and calyx
the stones are faceless
like everyone that i meet in the mall
the rocks stand like gods
unchanged unaffected by the chaos of
my thoughts
i gaze
transfer my eyes to those that remain
intact
immutable hardness
fixed situations
they only sound when you take a walk
they do not rearrange things here
for they are heavy
and always
unchanged, unaffected
steady, firm
lifeless, unfeeling
stubborn, solid,
tonight darkness sleeps with them
its coldness seeps in every stone
lifelessly
always unaffected, unfeeling
and much as i wanted to stay
i can't
i have life out there
a door to open again and again...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stone
A stone
I am,
A stone
You are.
Both of us
Are stones
To each other.
Breaking the stones
And reconciling....
Why bother?
Were we not in
Endless pain…
When together?
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Stone Exchange
She knocked and entered
I have a gift for you
What he said
You can't do
In her hand was
A stone
Was she going to throw it
Who knows
She was so unpredictable
With that she smiled
And said this is it
A stone
A simple stone
Purple brown and grey
She placed it on the table
I took it out of my heart
Our hearts
For us
And every morning since
They exchanged stones
From their hearts
Soon they had
A little pile
Of freedom
poem by Harriet James
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When You Define A Thing
when you define
a thing, you limit it,
it is like fencing
your garden
the garden becomes
a set of exclusive
flowers, and anything
not like it becomes
a weed, and anything
that moves
becomes a pest
it is not that you
do not define, we do
it sometimes
only to understand
the limits of
understanding,
but we must be open
to other possibilities
of a garden,
a garden of stones
a garden of sand
of mud, of water
a fountain, a garden
of winds, of clouds
a garden of memories
like a poem
for instance, a garden
of words,
words with arms open
to the magic
of further creation
words still trying
to define themselves
in the garden
of the unknown
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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She
She grew up without very much
She didn't know who her father was
She met a boy and her heart he stole
So she gave him all her body and soul
She's not ready to face
The outcome of their mistake
It's brought her nothing but pain
And she's too young for this fate
SHE'S ALONE
CAUGHT UP IN THE UNDERTOW
WHERE IT TAKES HER NO ONE KNOWS
THAT'S HOW IT GOES, THAT'S HOW IT GOES
WHEN WE THROW STONES
People denied and criticized
They sent her away isolated
Caught in a bad dream, her plea rejected
They left her alone and neglected
They put her out on display
Showcasing all her mistakes
She's worn out and she's afraid
Why does it always happen this way?
[refrain]
She went to them for help
But blindly they cast the first stone
They could have taken her in
Instead they left her on her own
All alone
[refrain]
When we throw stones at the wounded
We throw stones at the brokenhearted
That's how it goes when we throw stones
song performed by by ZoeGirl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Temporary Poem Of My Time
Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.
Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?
Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.
Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav
poem by Yehuda Amichai
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Just A Moment
at the busy crossroad
the traffic jam
is complete
all roads crowded
all kinds of vehicles
have to stop
while their futile waiting time
disappears in stress
a cacophony of people
just talking about
them selves
complaining
about their situation
overpowering the impatient honking
of other drivers
still in their cars
in the queue
what should I do
secure the door
wait and watch the scenery
from my point of view
the intimacy
of the space
I feel is my own
or
open the window
and become a part
of the cram
hearing different sounds
creating
another way
homeward bound
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Dublin Roads
WHEN you were a lad that lacked a trade,
Oh, many's the thing you'd see on the way
From Kill-o'-the-Grange to Ballybrack,
And from Cabinteely down into Bray,
When you walked these roads the whole of a day.
High walls there would be to the left and right,
With ivies growing across the top,
And a briary ditch on the other side,
And a place where a quiet goat might crop,
And a wayside bench where a man could stop.
A hen that had found a thing in her sleep,
One would think, the way she went craw-craw-cree,
You would hear as you sat on the bench was there,
And a cock that thought he crew mightily,
And all the stir of the world would be
A cart that went creaking along the road,
And another cart that kept coming a-near;
A man breaking stones; for bits of the day
One stroke and another would come to you clear,
And then no more from that stone-breaker.
And his day went by as the clouds went by,
As hammer in hand he sat alone,
Breaking the mendings of the road;
The dazzles up from the stones were thrown
When, after the rain, the sun down-shone.
And you'd leave him there, that stone-breaker,
And you'd wonder who came to see what was done
By him in a day, or a month, or a week:
He broke a stone and another one,
And you left him there and you travelled on.
A quiet road! You would get to know
The briars and stones along by the way;
A dozen times you'd see last year's nest;
A peacock's cry, a pigeon astray
Would be marks enough to set on a day;
Or the basket-carriers you would meet
A man and a woman they were a pair!
The woman going beside his heel:
A straight-walking man with a streak of him bare,
And eyes that would give you a crafty stare.
Coming down from the hills they'd have ferns to sell,
Going up from the strand they'd have cockles in stock:
Sand in their baskets from the sea,
Or clay that was stripped from a hillside rock
A pair that had often stood in the dock!
Or a man that played on a tin-whistle:
He looked as he'd taken a scarecrow's rig;
Playing and playing as though his mind
Could do nothing else but go to a jig,
And no one around him, little or big.
And you'd meet no man else until you came
Where you could look down upon the sedge,
And watch the Dargle water flow,
And men smoke pipes on the bridge's ledge,
While a robin sang by the haws in a hedge.
Or no bird sang, and the bird-catchers
Would have talk enough for a battle gained,
When they came from the field and stood by the bridge,
Taking shelter beside it while it rained,
While the bird new-caught huddled and strained
In this cage or that, a linnet or finch,
And the points it had were declared and surmised:
And this one's tail was spread out, and there
Two little half-moons, the marks that were prized;
And you looked well on the bird assized.
Then men would go by with a rick of hay
Piled on a cart; with them you would be
Walking beside the piled-up load:
It would seem as it left the horses free,
They went with such stride and so heartily-
And so you'll go back along the road.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Take a break..................
sharing a moment
the serenity of space
the light of a flame
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Eternal torque
subtle waves
move water
little stones
sand grains
slightly move along
for a moment
settling down
on the sandy bottom
of the sea
or the wet beach
they all reflect
the light
if they are in sight
of the sun
while hiddenin sand
waiting for the moment
the land above them
is on the move again
everything is about to change
that next wave
causes an earthquake
in that little world
of stones, water, sand and sea
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Hard As Stone
the setback with
this racial thing
is too many men try
to have a hand in it
and most try to get
the upper hand
it always feels nice
to be at the side
that makes you feel
good though not
necessarily right
a stone can be used
for so many metaphors
like a character solid
as a stone or
a head cold and
unfeeling as a stone
many choose to be the latter
if we have more men with
characters hard and beautiful
as stones, diamonds, rubies
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Sight Too Sad
I walked the cemetary grounds and saw
the names engraved on stones.
I knew underneath the dark green grass
lay old and brittle bones.
How they died it did not say
just that they had gone away
on a certain date, now long forgot.
All of the stones a sorry lot.
Few had flowers. Most had naught.
Some were planted anew.
But most were desolate on the ground.
Their visitations all were through.
Who were these brave souls that had lived?
I would never know.
I walked the stones that lay in rows,
pacing to and fro.
I came upon a stone so sad
turned upon its side.
I picked it up and righted it,
looked and then I cried.
It belonged to a baby that died too soon
and never got to see
a smile on my face when she was born
when she was taken from me.
Cemetary grounds are repositories
and never do they tell
where the ones that are buried there
now reside and dwell.
So, I now don't venture to these grounds.
They make me feel too low.
Would it not be better to cremate the bodies
and let their ashes blow?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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