Behaving Like Monkeys!
revolution, evolution...
the lid to the mayonnaise jar,
contemplates.
blackberries, strawberries,
and blueberries mingle on a plate,
perhaps plotting upheaval.
the leaf from the oak
blown onto the needles of the pine,
his brothers yell, 'dont be too long,
you might be converted.'
rainwater running from a rusted gutter,
repentance, absolution?
the leaf being formed, an unseen bud,
on a snow covered limb...
DNA?
the stray cat lays down with the dogs,
neath the spider's gigantic web.
the grass runs naked in the dew,
we know! moonlight saw them!
and mountains embrace whichever cloud comes,
with unadulterated passion!
while men behaving like monkeys,
dress in suits, and eat with forks!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Naked Eye
You can come inside
Come into the naked eye
My only world falls in again
I see your face fall in again
Its so dark
I dont know your name
Its so dark
And I dont know your name
Only mirrors lie only mirrors lie now
Only mirrors lie only mirrors lie now
Through the needles eye
Through the needles eye now
Only mirrors lie
Lie lie
You can come inside
Come into the naked eye
Naked
Naked
I feel so high
Going up on the wall
And youre down below me
Look all around look all around now
Look all around look all around now
Only mirrors lie only mirrors lie now
Only mirrors lie only mirrors lie now
Through the needles eye
Through the needles eye now
Only mirrors lie
Lie lie
You can come inside
Come into the naked eye
Naked
Naked
Just wanted a special view
Just me and you
Just just just the two of us
Just two of us
Going up on the wall
Up on the wall
Going up on the wall
Up on the wall
Naked eye naked eye
What do you see
And whats there to learn
Reading your books
Third diagram
Someones in the room down below
Someone someone
Someone below
Insects
Cherries
To the cherries
On the wall
Spider
Lyrics : j kerr music : simple minds (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Exile
These hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. Crows
Caw dismally in skies of an arid brilliance,
Complain in dusty pine-trees. Yellow daybreak
Lights on the long brown slopes a frost-like dew,
Dew as heavy as rain; the rabbit tracks
Show sharply in it, as they might in snow.
But it’s soon gone in the sun — what good does it do?
The houses, on the slope, or among brown trees,
Are grey and shrivelled. And the men who live here
Are small and withered, spider-like, with large eyes.
Bring water with you if you come to live here —
Cold tinkling cisterns, or else wells so deep
That one looks down to Ganges or Himalayas.
Yes, and bring mountains with you, white, moon-bearing,
Mountains of ice. You will have need of these
Profundities and peaks of wet and cold.
Bring also, in a cage of wire or osier,
Birds of a golden colour, who will sing
Of leaves that do not wither, watery fruits
That heavily hang on long melodious boughs
In the blue-silver forests of deep valleys.
I have now been here — how many years? Years unnumbered.
My hands grow clawlike. My eyes are large and starved.
I brought no bird with me, I have no cistern
Where I might find the moon, or river, or snow.
Some day, for lack of these, I’ll spin a web
Between two dusty pine-tree tops, and hang there
Face downward, like a spider, blown as lightly
As ghost of leaf. Crows will caw about me.
Morning and evening I shall drink the dew.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Orange Leaf
Orange leaf passing by
The air is stiff
And cold
Orange leaf passing by
Flying over the snow
Orange leaf passing by
Riding over the snow.
Past the oak tree
The old house is silent
Orange leaf
Fly with the wind
And snow
Fly past the frozen lake
Fish sleeping beneath
Its crystal surface
Orange leaf
fly to the sea
And wait
To be picked up
And carried off
Orange leaf passing by
The air is stiff
And cold
Orange leaf passing by
Flying over the snow
poem by Jesse love
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Empty Paper Cups
i do not wish to be great,
to turn and bow on the final stage.
i have no desire to be the train,
just a common plank on the track.
i do not brandish light for the blind,
i walk among shadows without a noise.
my name could be key, wellhouse, or pump...
my voice the sound of a sparrow hatched.
i taste like old trees,
and rain falling from a rusted gutter.
i've had long conversations with dogs,
walked window ledges with cats.
i know the stories of old tires,
i've hung my hat on rusted nails.
i pray in the moonlight with spiders,
and sing praises to the ants.
i am the lick of the tongue,
the bent finger stroking your eyes.
i come rushing like the wind,
leaving stray leaves and empty paper cups!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Stray dogs
Here and there and everywhere
Stray dogs doing business
And barkedup wrongtrees
And spoiled the working
Environments.
Stray dogs have no
Commonsense not true
Stray dogs encounter
The alien.
Stray dogs safeguard
The interest
And ensure to make
The area clean.
Stray dogs welcome
Common mass
Stray dogs do not like
Corrupt class.
Stray dogs can only think
The morrows
Stray dogs have practical
Experience and knowledge
You know I know all know.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Gardener
WITHIN this garden space are set
Sweet mignonette and violet,
Sunk in rich mould; at dawn and night
Their leaves dew-wet.
Who set them in the kindly loam
Lies buried 'neath the clover-foam
Of alien meadows, far away
From his loved home.
If it be glory thus to pass
For Honour's sake, and 'neath the grass
Red-wounded lie, then he, in truth,
Great glory has.
Yet, blossoms that he loved and set! —
Sweet mignonette, sweet violet —
Not Honour's self, nor Glory's crown,
Can stay regret.
'Twixt bud of leaf and fall of leaf,
Why should Fate in an hour so brief
Wreck flower and flower, and nurse alone
The cypress — Grief?
He is not gone — not all of him;
For trees have memories; leaf and limb
Shall breathe his name, and grateful flowers
At twilight dim.
For like these blooms, he left behind
Some fragrance, subtle and refined —
A memoried sweetness that shall haunt
Tree, flower and wind.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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More Fun Than A Barrel Of Monkeys
there are multiple questions pertaining to the concept,
'more fun than a barrel of monkeys.'
how big is the barrel?
how many monkeys are we talking about?
how big are the monkeys? Are we talking spider monkeys, chimps, baboons or what?
Are the monkeys old or young and where's the barrel, inside or outside?
If you leave the monkeys in the barrel, you got a problem:
they'll die in their own excrement,
if you lift the lid and let them out,
they might kill you.
a monkey can rip out your eyes, is that fun?
monkeys, leaping and running around the house, can do a lot of damage, is that fun?
monkeys are dirty, so... what exactly do you consider fun?
what's it going to be like trying to get the monkeys back in the barrel?
would that be fun?
what would the neighbors think of you, if you released the monkeys into their yards?
what happens if the police gets involved?
it could mean everything imaginable is more fun than a barrel of these animals.
maybe even more fun than a barrel of human beings.
poem by Richard Jarboe
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Winter Comes A'Calling
Oh, Winter comes a'calling
To dampen life's warming days
Spreading across the meadow
Where the last leaf of autumn lays
How sadly does the dying leaf
Flutter ~ to the frosty ground
Its glow a fading ember
Falling softly ~ without a sound
No more to see the sunrise
Above the forest ~ deeply green
Nor to treasure the glowing twilight
As it passes now ~ unseen
Oh, yes ~ Old Winter's a'calling
Where the barren trees now stand
Spreading ~ a darkened silence
With the touch of its chilly hand
The Winter brings the ending
Of our summer and autumn days
Their warm memories ~ are now buried
Where the last leaf of autumn lays......
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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The Angel Tree
A leaf broke away, spinning to the earth
droplets of dew formed from unheralded sadness
As the leaf spiraled downward, a beautiful angel
plucked it from the air, admiring perfection.
Divine breath pushed it high above her
wafting upward, the leaf glistened. Rays of light
gently tugged until forward motion was felt.
Brightness arrived
Pure love formed a golden aura as the leaf
slowly turned, twinkling into a star.
Past debts, discrimination and blind eyes,
now become an illumines trove,
all pain forgotten and forgiven.
poem by Sandra Hawkins
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Is Mine!
lover, dont lie...
the stench of silence overwhelms.
the stray cat sleeps in a cardboard box,
the old oak tree groans with morning.
table set for three,
you, me, and the guest...
too long on the road,
he's forgotten the turn,
and love's address is unlisted.
the feather drawn lines of arch and thrust,
define your eyes with headstones.
your hand slips between the bread,
tastes better without mayonnaise.
the cup of whispers grows cold,
deer stand at the edge of the clearing.
the rusted old truck sputters and starts,
crows fly in slow mournful lines.
the feet beneath the table are dirty,
the heart on the plate is mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sanaa
White-headed gibbons, orang-utans and Thomas' leaf monkeys!
Visit my muse and let me take you to Sanaa;
Tapirs, tariers and banded leaf monkeys!
Praise my name and let me introduce you to Sanaa;
For the traditional beliefs are here to stay with us!
And like the muse of this forest closer to Sanaa's home.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Fall to Earth
The stubborn little Maple leaf
held on when all its fellows fled.
They carpeting the ground beneath
a vast lushscape of gold and red.
Leaf held on through wind and rain,
the last survivor of its race.
Leaf held on past Turkey day
maintaining there its pride of place.
Then Leaf grew lonely, I suppose-
Like the summer's final rose.
Leaf envied then the flakes of snow
Who fluttered past to their repose.
Then, just as winter came to call,
Leaf felt a tug and then a snap.
Flying, tumbling on the winds
Fall to Earth. Fade to black.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Leaf
The Leaf.
On my walks I picked up a perfectly formed elm leaf,
the colour of dry tobacco. In Norway, during the Nazi
occupation, people had tobacco plants in back yards.
Perhaps carrots and cabbage had been healthier.
Put the leaf on top of a white wall and took a picture.
The wind came and blew it away. I brief meeting of
equals and a memory
poem by Oskar Hansen
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After Reading An Epic Fantasy
Quite suddenly, full blown,
out of the chubby cheeks of an infant wind,
a leaf landed on a mud-puddle,
like a strange, crude vessel launched
on a fathomless cafe au lait sea.
It tacked eastward for seven ticks of time
then lost its course in a birthday candle blow.
Later, by the sun-shrunken mud-puddle
that had beached the curled brown leaf,
an ant swam a minuscule cove.
But it was a gigantic monster,
and I saw the horrific peril of yet another episode
in the epic from which I'd been excluded,
too huge to be viewed
even as a comprehensible god.
poem by Larry Kimmel
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Watch
1.
Watching it closely, respecting its mystery,
is the note you've pinned above this heavy Dutch table
that takes the light weight of what you work at,
coaxing the seen and any mystery it might secrete
into words that mightn't fall too far short, might let you
hear how the hum of bees in the pink fuchsia
and among the buttercups and fat blackberries
is echoed by that deep swissshhh sound that is
your own blood coursing its steady laps
and speaking in beats to the drum of your left ear.
2.
When you watch the way the sycamore leaf curls,
browns, dries, and drops from the branch it's lived on
since spring, to be blown by a soundless breeze
along the seed heads of the uncut grass, then
the mystery that is its movement—the movement,
that is, from seed to leaf-shard and so on
to fructive dust—holds still an instant, gives a glimpse
of something that quickens away from language
into the riddling bustle of just the actual as you
grab at it and it disappears again, again unsaid.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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Hand On The Pump
down by the well house,
hand on the pump...
words get in the way,
when two hearts talk!
naked emotion,
and something more distant
than the remnants of fire.
stray leaves blown
by desire and whim;
the cut too deep,
the limb silently falls.
footprints scream,
with only the trees,
to witness, to testify....
too naked to lie!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Top made of a Coconut Tree Leaf
A weaving magic on a green coconut tree leaf ;
The leaf top rotates on the childhood rod fast.
No canker, the child runs with the top of green leaf,
Which, making the rustic road dizzy, spins fast.
Moss of disgust never gathers on the spinning top;
The drooping boredom spins away, as the child runs
With the top.It withers and gets slow under hot rays.
It did spin clockwise: one wishes anti-clockwise.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Bridge, The
I once
as a young boy
stood on a little
wooden country bridge;
tip-toed to look at
the languid moving water
Tomorrow popped up -
the wind that had blown in
tore off a leaf from
a tall standing tree
roots entrenched
by the water's edge
and this leaf
wafted and fluttered
and glided into the
current below
taken bodily
where gravity pulls
and drifted upon the
wavelets lapping
and pushing
its severed self
far, far away into
the distance
I heard the crickets
and the cicadas
droning in the
afternoon sun;
those things could
ruin your ears!
and all the while
I gazed upon the
fallen leaf
hoping to spy on
what the future
promised downstream:
that if I let go
of whatever it was
that kept me there
feet dangling through
the rusted railing;
heart racing
would I wake up
and return to the
bustling world
unable to swim
against the current
rudely torn off
poem by Frederick Kesner
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I Came From...
i came from moonlight,
my grandfathers were great trees.
my grandmothers sudden gusts of wind,
that came from nowhere and returned.
my mother was a wolf,
my father the hard trodden path.
my sisters brought the rain,
my brothers the bow and the arrow.
my lovers made of shadows,
my enemies demons that haunt.
i am the fire tended
by hands unseen,
the saw and the axe.
i will return on a coming night,
the pine needles will hear my feet.
for i am the sound within thunder,
and the hand that catches lightning!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Making a Snowman
’Tis snowing in the high mountains
Of great Himalayas:
This winter’s freezing ev’n fountains
Of Poonch, Kargil and Drass!
‘Tis raining flakes of harder snow;
All roads are covered white;
And every tree-top, twig, leaf, bough
Wears a glorious sight!
No blade of grass or bird is seen;
The meadow’s an ice-sheet;
Some Kashmiri children have been
Building a snow-man neat.
Yet, one can hear the booming guns
And smoke billowing up;
While children pile up snow in tons,
Before they go to sup.
With snow in handfuls, they build him:
Belly and head and back;
And soon their snow-man looks quite trim;
Twigs make his hands with knack!
They place a cap on his big head
And make his mouth, nose, eyes;
Their snow-man looks alive, not dead!
Assuming huge a size.
The happy children dance around
The snow-man, they had made;
They sing with joy some rhymes newfound;
Their snow-man looks so great!
Their hearts get filled with joy and thrill,
Seeing their snow-man made;
With snow-balls they play on the hill,
Before snow-man shall fade!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-25-1999
poem by John Celes
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