This Radiant Plot
Within a woods dark glade, the sun had ventured,
And birds warbled with joy, this sight to see.
The shadows gradually fled, as it adventured,
Between the leaves, a homeland for a destiny.
Wakefulness, had arrived, silence was broken
By birdsong amplified from branches tall,
And as if the diverse foliages around had woken,
Had draped the scene resplendent, before the fall.
What a great variety there was of greens and blues,
Reflected by sunbeams, enriching this radiant plot,
A beauty to touch the soul, such clear variant hues,
Became a tapestry so rich, in this most wondrous spot.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Anticipation
'Coming events cast their shadow before.'
I had a vision in the summer light—
Sorrow was in it, and my inward sight
Ached with sad images. The touch of tears
Gushed down my cheeks:—the figured woes of years
Casting their shadows across sunny hours.
Oh, there was nothing sorrowful in flowers
Wooing the glances of an April sun,
Or apple blossoms opening one by one
Their crimson bosoms—or the twittered words
And warbled sentences of merry birds;—
Or the small glitter and the humming wings
Of golden flies and many colored things—
Oh, these were nothing sad—nor to see Her,
Sitting beneath the comfortable stir
Of early leaves—casting the playful grace
Of moving shadows in so fair a face—
Nor in her brow serene—nor in the love
Of her mild eyes drinking the light above
With a long thirst—nor in her gentle smile—
Nor in her hand that shone blood-red the while
She raised it in the sun. All these were dear
To heart and eye—but an invisible fear
Shook in the trees and chilled upon the air,
And if one spot was laughing brightest—there
My soul most sank and darkened in despair!—
As if the shadows of a curtained room
Haunted me in the sun—as if the bloom
Of early flow'rets had no sweets for me,
Nor apple blossoms any blush to see—
As if the hour had brought too bright a day—
And little birds were all too gay!—too gay!—
As if the beauty of that Lovely One
Were all a fable.—Full before the sun
Stood Death and cast a shadow long before,
Like a dark pall enshrouding her all o'er,
Till eyes, and lips, and smiles, were all no more!
poem by Thomas Hood
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Adam and Eve
When the first dark had fallen around them
And the leaves were weary of praise,
In the clear silence Beauty found them
And shewed them all her ways.
In the high noon of the heavenly garden
Where the angels sunned with the birds,
Beauty, before their hearts could harden,
Had taught them heavenly words.
When they fled in the burning weather
And nothing dawned but a dream,
Beauty fasted their hands together
And cooled them at her stream.
And when day wearied and night grew stronger,
And they slept as the beautiful must,
Then she bided a little longer,
And blossomed from their dust.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Eyes Once Clouded Clear to Brightness
Hussshhh...
The presence of truth,
Is amongst us on the scene.
Ssshhh,
A silence invited...
Stills the air,
Of chirping birds.
And frantic human beings.
The rustling leaves on trees slowly blow.
It is as though,
A divinity has arrived.
Eyes once clouded clear to brightness.
Those accustomed to disguises,
Stop charades paraded with lies.
And...
Hussshhh...
The presence of truth,
Is amongst us on the scene.
Ssshhh,
A silence invited...
Stills the air,
Of chirping birds.
And frantic human beings.
The rustling leaves on trees slowly blow.
It is as though,
A divinity has arrived.
Eyes once clouded clear to brightness.
Those accustomed to disguises,
Stop charades paraded with lies.
And to everyone's surprise,
Truth does not victimize...
As rumored.
And that which had been disrespected,
Is now observed.
As those things nature protects.
With a consciousness of this as it is.
To expose regret for all the neglect done and shown.
Awakening sensitivities dismissed...
And many to experience tears of happiness.
And...
This is good.
Hussshhh...
Let the presence of truth,
Amongst us on the scene...
Prevail.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Poison-Flower
IIN the evergreen shade of an Austral wood,
Where the long branches laced above,
Through which all day it seemed
The sweet sunbeams down-gleamed
Like the rays of a young mother's love,
When she hides her glad face with her hands and peeps
At the youngling that crows on her knee:
'Neath such ray-shivered shade,
In a banksia glade,
Was this flower first shown to me.
A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip
And a wonderful purple hood;
And your eye caught the sheen
Of its leaves, parrot-green,
Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood.
And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand
Made you long for its odorous breath;
But ah! 'twas to take
To your bosom a snake,
For its pestilent fragrance was death.
And I saw it again, in a far northern land,—
Not a pansy, not purple and white;
Yet in beauteous guise
Did this poison-plant rise,
Fair and fatal again to my sight.
And men longed for her kiss and her odorous breath
When no friend was beside them to tell
That to kiss was to die,
That her truth was a lie,
And her beauty a soul-killing spell.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Perfect Scenery-Cloud's end
Here as i sit with network of green to surround,
the Falcon soaring high in the blue sky,
a blanket of dew drops on the fresh green leaves,
shining a perpetual golden brown.
the silence and tranquility of the blissful air,
blueberry flowers on steep slopes of valley,
causing mystical ravines of my heart to flood with
beauty and sizzling
excitement,
the magic touch of heavenly green spreads all over,
there follows a heavy downpour of tropical rain,
macro droplets of water cascade everywhere,
with the grass blades crying out in anticipation to
swallow the rain drops,
clear and transparent, quenching their thirst for
divine blessings,
leaving them submerged in a river of celestial love.
tall pine trees had their drooping branches covered
with white snow,
shielded the valley in heat with their shade and
warmth,
enriching every inch of soil with their overgrown
root,
as golden rays of the sun shine on their leaves,
displaying vivid contrasts of velvety green and satin
yellow,
obscuring my eyes with film of salty tears,
enjoying this lovely rapturous sight,
fulfilling desires lurking in my soul with vibrant
echoes of ravishing
nature.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Ode To Bird Watching
Now
Let's look for birds!
The tall iron branches
in the forest,
The dense
fertility on the ground.
The world
is wet.
A dewdrop or raindrop
shines,
a diminutive star
among the leaves.
The morning time
mother earth
is cool.
The air
is like a river
which shakes
the silence.
It smells of rosemary,
of space
and roots.
Overhead,
a crazy song.
It's a bird.
How
out of its throat
smaller than a finger
can there fall the waters
of its song?
Luminous ease!
Invisible
power
torrent
of music
in the leaves.
Sacred conversations!
Clean and fresh washed
is this
day resounding
like a green dulcimer.
I bury
my shoes
in the mud,
jump over rivulets.
A thorn
bites me and a gust
of air like a crystal
wave
splits up inside my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
- was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump -
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters
birds of the devil
with their ringing
with their useless feathers.
I only want
to caress them,
to see them resplendent.
I don't want
to see under glass
the embalmed lightning.
I want to see them living.
I want to touch their gloves
of real hide,
which they never forget in
the branches
and to converse with
them
sitting on my shoulders
although they may leave
me like certain statues
undeservedly whitewashed.
Impossible.
You can't touch them.
You can hear them
like a heavenly
rustle or movement.
They converse
with precision.
They repeat
their observations.
They brag
of how much they do.
They comment
on everything that exists.
They learn
certain sciences
like hydrography.
and by a sure science
they know
where there are harvests
of grain
poem by Pablo Neruda
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The Rivers Edge
While drifting on these ebony waves of silk,
the air is cooler here,
where my feet aren't touching the ground
A dreary archway of trees surround,
the entrance to the woods upon me.
My sight has seemed to wake the leaves,
slightly shaking the trees.
Waking the birds,
but not a sound I can hear.
And with every passing cloud.
I feel as if time has been sealed on this scene.
For a moment,
this light feels serene.
And this picture,
is oh so crystal clear.
And the sky,
so divine in color,
a dark blue,
so distinct,
this perfect hue.
Has captured the breeze,
the open air,
the contrast of the trees.
The oh so green,
and violet flowers
line the ridge.
This distinct feeling
of my soul releasing
into this sight
off the rivers
edge.
poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
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The First Artist and Author.
The first artist painted the sky with colors, such beauty,
Look at those sunsets, and the mountains, such reality;
The mountains, have shadows, of splendor that only the Master can do,
Yes! It's God who was the first Artist, and He also taught me too.
The first great artist painted the colors on the sea,
Blues, greens, aquas, Only one could do this you see;
And when there is a storm near, the sea goes so dark blue,
Yes! God is the first great artist, to paint it for me and you.
The first great Artist, loved to teach David to write poetry,
And also king Solomon, writing words of such beauty;
Oh such magnificent works, of color and in each word,
Yes! There is only one who could do this it is the Lord.
Then. We see in every rainbow, and in each shell as well,
Look at the colored sands, and in every bird, it does tell;
Then look at each animal, and also the petals of each flower too
Then as you look at these, , give Thanks for doing it for me and you.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Nothing, Nothing, Could be Clearer...
Abyss has never ventured nearer!
Horror, cloaked in tainted glass-
Reflecting terror, midnight’s mirror…
The stars convulse- vomit, wither!
Birdsong stops- shadows dance,
Abyss has never ventured nearer!
Reflecting terror, midnights mirror…
Shows my soul- writhing in a dark romance!
Nothing, Nothing, could be clearer…
No witchdoctor, nor faith healer
Could un-forge this fate flame-cast
Reflecting terror, midnights mirror…
I weep! In vain I beg beneath her!
While an envy looms above my past
Abyss has never ventured nearer!
Reflecting terror, midnight’s mirror…
…Nothing, Nothing, could be clearer.
poem by Lazarus Knix
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Of Trees, Birds And Poets
i wish i could stand as tall
as a tree with a poetic vision
diverse and expansive as its
twigs, branches and leaves
that like muses never hold
themselves back to clap and
cheer when the air sends its
greetings of another halcyon day
where birds like God's blessings
fuel up the artist's imagination
and passion with their unrestrained
songs to inspire their eloquent verses
so that they make their way to us
like a flock of paradise birds
with bright red plummage to
charge up the evening sky
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Tree
The weathered tree stripped bare
broken branches hang still
as though to scar its nature
no birds nest here any more
a thing of beauty has passed
into a beauty of another kind
colourless in the backdropp of sky
roots rise and fall into the ground
etchings of forgotten loves
remain as eternal memories
no lovers shade here now
the tree stands as though defiant
unwilling to relinquish to time
that which grew so tall
not dead, perhaps dying
stripped and broken it stands
the weathered tree
a work of life's true beauty
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Greens Of These Trees These Leaves
THE GREENS OF THESE TREES THESE LEAVES
The greens of these trees these leaves
The many shades of green-
Olive green and deep dark green and yellow green
And greens I see but have no name for-
So many shades of light and beauty in green
And I with my eyes loving them all
And delighted and made happy by them all-
Wondering why and how God's world
Has so so much Beauty
Just in green alone -
And being deep in happiness
At being alive
And loving them more
In regretting why and how
I will not one day soon
be able to see them again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Up Up And Away
Balloons floating across the sky,
What a wonderful way to fly,
High up in the atmosphere,
Where the air is fresh and clear.
They are such a wondrous sight,
Each one glorious in it's flight,
All with designs in vivid hues,
Giving us such tremendous views.
Silently they drift away,
Towards the dawn of a new day,
Lit up by each quick burst of fire,
Sending them up, higher and higher.
What a way to spend a day,
Ballooning, up up and away,
To be above the fields and trees,
Gliding along upon the breeze.
No noisy motors to pervade the ear,
Nothing at all for you to hear,
Silence in such a wide-open space,
Moving softly with a gentle grace.
I watched them all one evening time,
As they gradually began to climb
Into the heavens, off they flew,
To meet up. maybe, at their rendezvous.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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In The Gardens Of Shushan
BE pitiful ! Her lips have touched this cool
Clear stream that sets the long green leaves astir.
The very doves that dream beside the pool
Sang their soft notes to her.
For her these doors that claim the amorous south,
Bound in red bronze and stayed with cedar-wood.
And here the bees sought honey from her mouth,
So like a flower she stood.
For her the globed pomegranates grew, and all
Sweet savoury fruits rose perfect from their flower.
Here has her soul known silence and the fall
Of each enchanted hour.
Under her feet all beauty was laid low,
In her deep eyes all beauty was made clear.
When the king called her through the evening glow,
'O Vashti, I am here !'
Still the sweet wells return to me her face,
Still her lost name on every wind is blown.
The shadows and the silence of this place
Are hers alone.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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One Tree
Against a clear and deep blue sky,
One tree stretched tall, its branches high,
And stiffly they, of movement none,
Stood true and straight, their course to run.
The wind it whistled strong, and shrilled
Between those branches, stiff and chilled,
But not one twig could it but sway,
And having tried, swept on its way.
Against a clear and deep blue sky,
One tree stretched tall, its branches high,
And with great dignity, it kept its stance,
No wind would ever make it dance.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Diana
What are you looking for at night
When moon is shining in the springs
And where the birds in warble fight
Flapping enchanted their wings?
Can't you perceive this nice array
Of leaves that whisper in the glade
And kiss each other and they play
In the refreshing forest's shade?
And like in mirrors moving fast
You want to watch a funny game,
In waters that have come and passed,
While your big eyes remain the same?
The spring has filled the woods again
Reviving everything, in truth,
However, all your thoughts are vain,
Like Endymion's, that fair youth.
Why do you want to be alone
With the low voice of secret source?
To hear the leaves by the wind blown
And sleep on grass, dark green and coarse?
And from that light reaching the glade,
From the cold waves, from shadow's charms,
To rise a fairy, a dear maid,
With big blue eyes and naked arms?
Oh! Now the boughs are bent with care
By little arms, so snowy white,
By a sweet face with yellow hair
On a tall body, slim, upright.
A golden bow makes her complete
And going hunting with much grace
On the innumerable leaves
She barely left a tiny trace.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by Octavian Cocoş
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Our Christmas Tree
Our Christmas tree, stood straight and tall,
We had it standing in the hall,
With decorations, sparkling bright,
And baubles, glittering in the light,
Rich tinsel laced around branches wide,
With bells and bows, that could be spied
Hiding among the dark green pine,
In silver and gold, boldly they did shine,
And at the very top, such a wondrous sight,
A star was placed there, which gave delight.
The whole effect so pleasured the eye.
We planted it outside, now it's 18 feet high.
This year it will once again, be a thrill,
Hung with big coloured lights, in the crisp winter chill.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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I Am' tree series # 2
i am tall
i am straight
i am ' TREE
as i see my leaves falling to the ground
surrounding my trunk like a skirt.
my branches stretch to all four corners
north, south, east, west
and as they fall, i know then
that i am dying.
i stretch my head to the father sun
and scream for his strength.
and down to mother earth
to quench my thirst.
for hundreds of years, i have lived
and flourished with a beauty that
all mankind admires.
i then realized that it was' autumn.'
i am replenishing my life,
to enter a new one.
as my branches, which touch each point
north, south, east, west
so are the four seasons.
'i am ' tree
i live, i die, i revive.
my beauty like love is eternal
in the eyes of the beholder.
'I AM' TREE.
poem by Louis Rams
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Awaiting autumn
Awaiting autumn
~
the rains they come
to fall and fall
upon home and fields
while days grow short
the weather chills
well wrapped bones
which hide away indoors
through windows eyes peer
watching a change occur
greens to reds and orange
a tapestry of a season
before the leaves begin to fall
we find ourselves
awaiting autumn
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Threading Through October (a pantoum)
New England autumn shouts out loud:
Arachne goes wild with natural dyed yarns.
Brash goldenrod has gone sedate.
What shall we do when winter comes?
Arachne goes wild with natural dyed yarns
her tapestry evolving daily.
What shall we do when winter comes
with silence out companion?
Her tapestry evolving daily
she weaves with leaves and branches.
With silence our companion
we watch and wait in wonder.
She weaves with leaves and branches
a symphony of autumn.
We watch and wait in wonder
what last great chord will strike.
A symphony of autumn
threading through October
what last great chord will strike
when all the weft is spent?
Threading through October
brash goldenrod has gone sedate.
When all the weft is spent
New England autumn shouts out loud.