So Much That I Could Learn
If only the aged trees could speak,
What tales they might have to recite.
This giant oak has stood for years,
Having grown to a massive height.
And as the decades have done their time,
So many things they must have seen,
As the centuries of human life,
Have passed across this Village Green.
Smart gentry and also tired labourers,
Staunch farmers and shy parlourmaids.
Coy lovers in their starry-eyed loitering,
Sly poachers intent on their trades.
Nannies with their precious charges
Out for a long summer stroll.
Travellers trudging through the snow
To reach their eventual goal.
Then the era of impressive aeroplanes
Bravely cruising the limitless skies.
The motor cars and the charabancs,
Each one a mechanical prize.
Wars, battles and bombs have come and gone,
Generations have passed away.
But still the stalwart trunk stands firm,
To observe yet another day.
If only the aged trees could speak,
I would answer them in return.
I’d sit ‘neath their branches, lost in awe.
Oh, there’s so much that I could learn.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Related quotes
Little Island
LITTLE ISLAND
Randy Newman
In two long wars, my country bled
To save the world for everyone
As through the years, the fight we've led
Too long, we stood alone, too long alone
And when at last, the battle won
We asked for no reward
An empire gone
Two generations turned to blood and dust
Only the best were lost
Only the best
And now the years have passed
The times have changed
The foe is risen up
He stands astride the world
His dreams of conquest all fulfilled
Little island, little island
Glory lost in the mists of time
They will pay for what was done
To those of us who died so young
They will pay for what was done
Little island, little island
Little island
song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Separate Long Decades Have Passed
long decades have passed
polar ice caps keep melting
ghost years between all passed away
time lost in sightless mists years
but there was not one no rainbows
time left us alone poles polar apart
yet through all those lost mist years
filled with work time spectral dreaming
your name haunted mind each day
memories came ever unbidden
in thoughts intrusive odd timed
such thoughts were never far away
I hoped lost years to you were gentle kind
lost out of sight never out of memory mind
eternal youth memories face to ages blind
I see you ever in heart’s mind memory
memories that echo through eternity
in this love which endures in perpetuity
long decades have passed
polar ice caps are still melting
ghost years between all passed away
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Dear Friend
Dear friend,
Today I turn the pages of our memories
Those laughter and tears
That we have shared for more many years
Those secrets that we hide
Underneath the cherry tree
These photographs I held, and
I used to smile every time I looked at them
Dear friend,
I've been to the place were we first met
It’s the same old, and new, nothing has changed
Like an old book with precious stories
Every page has a wonderful thing to say
Like a laughter that remains on air
They’re sounds music in my ear
A symphony of our yesterday
Dear friend,
I plow our memories that blanket by autumn leaves
On this mango tree
And its branches look so droopy
But there’s a last leaf-standing firm on a trunk
That forgotten, as the time goes by
Like this friendship buried from the shadow of past
Thou I know it will never last
Dear friend,
Remember the summer skies
Those butterflies that landed in our hands
The kites that we ever flew
In these green fields of our childhood memory
We were children once before
When the trees were tall and we were small
And now we are tall and the trees fall
Dear friend,
Autumn was come
And the leaves started to fall
I can’t count the hours, how long I've stood here
Waiting for your presence
That you have promised you will come
The wind whistle like your soft voice
I feel the heavenly touch on my face
Dear friend,
You never told me that you are leaving
Together with the clouds that passed by
Together with the angels that flew into the sky
Like the waters that flow freely back to the sea
Like a wind that danced on its own
But your soul still live inside of me
You will always be my special memory
Dear friend,
I wrote you a letter sealed with my tears
Saying take care, I miss our funny deeds
Id rather be sad
And my heart is in grief
But somehow I’ll be happy then
That once in my life I had you as my friend
Dear friend, you will always be my best friend
poem by Cheryl Aldea
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Fashion sense for M'lady Ann Beard
The trees bedecked with blossom now.
Some clad in pink and some in white.
Contestants in the beauty show
which spring provides for our delight
The blossoms which adorn he trees
are unaware, they do not know.
That very soon the gentle breeze
will shake them loose to fall like snow.
The trees will don new coats of green.
More suited to the summer sun
than what the blossoms would have been
Their time has passed so they have gone.
When autumn comes the trees will know
its time to wear their winter clothes
In preparation for the snow.
The theme of winters beauty show.
Though seasons come and seasons go.
The trees adapt quite easily
for summers sun or winters snow
They’re sure to be dressed suitably.
29/04/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Harmless Gossip
An avenue of stately trees
whose branches meet high overhead
exchanging gossip with the breeze.
This is the way that rumours spread.
When lovers stroll beneath the moon.
The trees observe their every move.
They dance to day to the same tune
their forbears danced to when in love.
Though fashions change, some things do not.
The trees have seen it all before.
All that they’ve seen is not forgot
but added the their growing store
of gossip which the trees then share
with every passing breeze that blows.
The trees will spread it everywhere
to all and sundry I suppose.
Be very careful what you do.
Although no one can see.
Know that the trees are watching you
and they will share quite happily.
Everything that they have seen
with any breeze that happens by.
With consequences unforeseen
By trees and breeze or you and I.
When strolling in a moon lit glade
Beware the moons soft silver rays.
That stir the blood of man and maid
to think this is the time and place.
19/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Giving Tree
Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'
And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.
And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Will Of A Lover
Cover the ground with snow and white
Bury the town in soft moonlight
Watch the buildings flee from sight
On a lovers night
Chase the flakes with a windy blow
Wave them where they always go
Deep in wooded forest hollow
Where the trees dance slow
Lay us here, just her and I
Neath the snow and a lovers sky
Neath the snowflakes passing by
While lonely dies
Then let the trees and the moonlight sing
Let the snow and the cold wind bring
These flowers and stones to form a ring
And know that love’s not ending
Then bury us, just her and I
Neath the snow and a lovers sky
Neath the footfalls passing by
While lonely dies
poem by Ben Paynter
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Swallows in the summertime
Swallows in the summertime
The swallows have returned again,
Reminding me of those halcyon days of my youth,
Many years have passed since those blissful days,
I would spend many happy evenings watch them dart around.
The swallows always return each summer,
Spreading their joyful wings over England's green and pleasant land,
Every summer I wonder how many more times will I see the return,
Although it's summer again, I ‘am approaching the winter of my life.
When the swallows return again next year again,
I wonder if I will still be here to see them again,
Flying on the wing under the clear blue skies of summer,
If I ‘am, I will sit by the babbling brook and watch their dance once more.
If I see the swallows return once more,
I will remember those summer days of long ago,
When I was a lad and the countryside seemed to go on forever,
And in my mind I will be young again.
By Christopher Tye
poem by Christopher Tye
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In Silence No More
Aged 1
Aged 2
Aged 3
Aged 4
At 5 my life changed forever more,
Aged 6
Aged 7
Aged 8
Aged 9
By 10 he’d touched me a thousand times,
Aged 41
42
43
44
But now I’m not suffering in silence,
In silence anymore,
For now I’m chatting and talking,
Not crawling I’m walking,
Even though he’s still stalking,
I’m not suffering in silence,
Suffering in silence,
I’m not suffering in silence,
In silence no more.
poem by Darren Harris
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I Lost Myself
There are those who are forever searching and
After many decades have passed lose themselves to another world-
Although with much certainty and disillusionment
I can hardly remember living much of a life in
This world where people walk with confidence and self-assurance everyday-
Memories of nights as a child so young
Hearing voices others did not hear and
Seeing frightening sights others did not see-
Feeling alone although in the midst of myriads of others, afraid to speak,
Fearful to walk the streets others took for granted-
I was only six years old when voices threatened to kill
Would invade my already troubled mind and
I found myself an outcast for reasons I hardly understood-
The purple tree with golden flowers that grew inside of my bedroom-
As strikingly stunning as it was,
I fell to the floor when I tried to climb,
Because it only existed in the fortress of my mind-
My journey to find myself began when I learned to walk-
I learned to scream before I learned to speak-
Decades have passed and memories are evading me-
Walking the same path day by day-
While others are looking for a place in a world I feel I am not a part of,
My journey to find myself continues-
I walk upon a different path and have climbed many mountains
Seeking purple trees and my own garden of Eden-
Or merely for others that would accept and just remotely understand
The person I am and the world I have lost myself to-
Although my spirit at times evades me,
In the back of my mind I know in reality there must be a place for me and
Although at times my only wish is to climb that phantasmal purple tree
Until I reach the sky and disappear within only a moment’s notice
I will not give up the fight- I was born into this world so there must be a place for me-
Many decades have passed and today I see the sunlight peering through the clouds,
Though an outcast, I have a heart, a mind and feelings as does everybody else-
I continue to walk the streets everyday and my visions of purple trees, and
My dogged determination are what makes me unique- and someday people shall
Respect the person that I am and understand that flowers grow on every tree and
Every flower is unique, has its own special scent and every flower is
In its own way- magnificent and beautiful…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Among the Trees
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for the one my heart calls for
I wonder lost among the trees
I see your light amongst the dark
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is brighter then the rest
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is out of my reach
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light comes closer
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is bright like an angel from the sky
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light fades away and leaves me alone
I wonder lost among the trees
Without a hand to guide the way
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for my guiding light
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost, alone
I wonder afraid of the world
Around me I look for the one
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost and alone forever...................................
poem by kelly Martini
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Wooded Destinies
The sun-bleached exoskeletons
of old dead trees stand like sentries
along the towpath riverfront
exfoliated and gangling.
In a former age they stood tall,
grandiose to all passerby's
but they too are dead to recall
their once impressive colossi.
Eventually these remains
will meet their final destinies:
to fall-never to rise again-
among forgotten progenies;
yet many springs have passed since then
each sprouted trees, time and again.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Trees
Green with spendour when Summer's here,
Brown contender in Autumn's sphere,
Bare the branches in Winter's embrace,
New growth created, when Spring shows her face.
Stalwart trunks, with many years standing,
Leaves when over, steadily landing,
Branches swaying in the breeze,
How I love all kinds of trees.
Forests of green, where they all meet,
Swaying together as they all greet,
Each morning, when the light appears,
Each growing slowly over the years.
Sentinels of the land they survey,
Strong and upstanding in every way,
Graceful, mighty, powerful and fine,
Tall and sleek just like the Pine.
The Oak, Ash, Sycamore and Lime,
The Rowan, White Beam and Silver Birch sublime,
Each one giving of their glorious best,
To the World - The World's been blest.
What would we do without our trees,
Don't cut them down, will you please,
Remember how they give us shade,
From the sun, within the glade.
Stand and study these majestic creations,
Upright descendants of past relations,
Their dignity, against all weathers,
If it were us, we'd lose our tethers.
But these gallant trees require our care,
They give oxygen, in the air
That we breathe, so, if we want to survive,
Let us keep our trees alive.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Revolution Of Freedom For The Innocents Of Our Land
You hear the cries of many
As they cry to be free from all that is
The wars of human kind
Lay desolate to our lands
The dictatorship of life
Affects all of us in life
But how do we stand up
To the wars that kill our land
Innocent lives are many
Wasted upon the ground of life
Can you ignore the blood shed?
Of so many lost souls of war
Then one soul stands alone
Tired of the chaos of this world
And stands for the freedom
Of innocents of our land
THE MOMENTEM STARTS AS ONE
A voice that needs to be heard
Believe what you say
And mean every single word
If you believe in life
Then lay down the weapons of war
If you believe in love
Then accept human's beliefs for what they are
If you believe in peace
Then accept all races all religions
As equals in this world
If you believe in all of the above
Then you're a special human being
Never doubt your word
Never doubt who you are
Speak up for all those innocents
If this is what you believe
poem by Kaila George
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Truth In Time
I once knew a man,
An honest man, a decent man,
He told me of a time to come,
A time of understanding,
He said 'If all goes well,
You'll reach this time,
And know this time,
For time is all-commanding.'
Years had passed,
The man had died,
Still hadn't come,
A time of understanding,
So I watched time,
As life strolled by,
I peered in close,
Then time stood all but standing.
I wonder if the man had lied?
I aged quick,
Still never had,
A time of understanding,
Then hair grew gray,
And body sagged,
The hour close,
My time on earth was ending.
And quick as light,
Yet brighter still,
I finally had,
A time of understanding
I yearned for times,
Of passions great,
Though never be,
For time is all-commanding.
poem by Steven Rodgers
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Winter's Fingers
I’m looking out of the window,
watching the rain turn to snow,
the land is running from winter’s grasp,
but naked trees mean autumn’s past.
Trees’ bony fingers reach for the sky,
but the pale grey sky is a little shy,
and will not answer their call,
no matter how big or how tall.
But the clouds do speak and answer,
with snow, the subtle breeze dancer,
and the snows’ frisky little caper,
covers the land and blankets nature.
The land is under a white membrane,
but on my side of the window frame,
all is cosy with the fire ablaze,
my window is now a frosty glaze.
poem by Dale Mullock
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To Those Born After
I
To the cities I came in a time of disorder
That was ruled by hunger.
I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar
And then I joined in their rebellion.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
I ate my dinners between the battles,
I lay down to sleep among the murderers,
I didn't care for much for love
And for nature's beauties I had little patience.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
The city streets all led to foul swamps in my time,
My speech betrayed me to the butchers.
I could do only little
But without me those that ruled could not sleep so easily:
That's what I hoped.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
Our forces were slight and small,
Our goal lay in the far distance
Clearly in our sights,
If for me myself beyond my reaching.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
II
You who will come to the surface
From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all
Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness
That you've not had to face:
Days when we were used to changing countries
More often than shoes,
Through the war of the classes despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.
Even so we realised
Hatred of oppression still distorts the features,
Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly.
Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness,
Could never be friendly ourselves.
And in the future when no longer
Do human beings still treat themselves as animals,
Look back on us with indulgence.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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The Leaf And The Tree
When will you learn, myself, to be
a dying leaf on a living tree?
Budding, swelling, growing strong,
Wearing green, but not for long,
Drawing sustenance from air,
That other leaves, and you not there,
May bud, and at the autumn's call
Wearing russet, ready to fall?
Has not this trunk a deed to do
Unguessed by small and tremulous you?
Shall not these branches in the end
To wisdom and the truth ascend?
And the great lightning plunging by
Look sidewise with a golden eye
To glimpse a tree so tall and proud
It sheds its leaves upon a cloud?
Here, I think, is the heart's grief:
The tree, no mightier than the leaf,
Makes firm its root and spreads it crown
And stands; but in the end comes down.
That airy top no boy could climb
Is trodden in a little time
By cattle on their way to drink.
The fluttering thoughts a leaf can think,
That hears the wind and waits its turn,
Have taught it all a tree can learn.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
The tallest trunk that ever stood,
In time, without a dream to keep,
Crawls in beside the root to sleep.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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A Summer's Ode
~0~
A summer's fallen from the sky, it seems,
with heat a'waving in the sultry breeze.
Though June has fled 'pon wings of time, now gone,
its goodbye echoes through the swaying trees.
And July brings its days of warmth to hold,
with sun a'melting in a sapphire sky.
O'summer's middle-aged by now, alas,
breathing fire upon the days that pass us by.
A gentle turn of earth brings August near,
with fleeting day and ever-ending night.
And July passes through the summer's rain,
its thunder heard within a season's flight.
And so, a summer's aged with sweet remorse,
with days a'dwindling down 'til chill's return.
Yet, September still must sing its last refrain,
'ere summer days of memory swiftly burn.
A summer's fallen from the sky, it seems,
with heat a'wavering as its days grow old.
Though bittersweet the parting soon will be,
goodbye echoes with a promise ~ made of gold.
~0~
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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