Leaves
A frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches;
Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough;
Pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars;
Steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys,
Brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep.
But afar on the horizon rise great pulses of light,
The hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict
Like brute, stone gods of old struggling confusedly;
Then overhead purrs a shell, and our heavies
Answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound,
Loosening our shells that stream whining and whimpering precipitately,
Hounding through air athirst for blood.
And the little gilt leaves
Flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame.
poem by Frederic Manning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Kore
Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.
With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,
And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep,
With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,
She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep;
While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware
Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.
The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;
There was no sound amid the sacred boughs.
Nor any mournful music in her streams:
Only I saw the shadow on her brows,
Only I knew her for the yearly slain,
And wept, and weep until she come again.
poem by Frederic Manning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Untainted - 1366 - response to Mara Kirk Hart - Tainted
Although the road least taken
is one best left alone
when true h[e]art feels forsaken,
cut feelings, to the bone.
Although when skewed, mistaken,
joys curdle, grief is sown,
with challenge undertaken
who'd spice or bite bemoan?
Why self-destruct? no flicker
no flame, no pain, remain,
and lust unlucked fades quicker
than light, shan't rise again.
Teeth vampire? What is sicker
than blood turned muddy drain?
What's worth the rosebud liquor
returns to earth the brain?
Leave nightmares and awaken
from fears which turn to stone.
If not save face, save bacon,
for you there waits true [thr]one!
Honey, with faith unshaken,
to lemon tears too prone,
find new way which, when taken,
mind light leaves, dark unknown!
Tainted
You know the road less taken
Is one best left alone
All the joys you feel are skewed
You need the bite, the spice
To self-destruct in a flicker
Of flame, of pain, of lust
Your vampire teeth wait hidden
Beneath a rosebud mouth
Temperance no longer an option
Sweet sleep-nightmares you cherish
Honey is too cloying,
You'll take yours with some lemon
And a love too pure
And stinking of heaven
Will be passed by.
For your love has a darker side
You seek the soft underbelly of life
Most people avoid.
(16 March 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Demystified for M' lady Cate
The mist persists, it will insist
it has the right to block the light
with trailing wisps of dirty white.
The mist is wrong and it will learn
to leave when it has served its turn
Because the sun will rise and burn
the remnants of the mist away
There is no way that it can stay
once the bright sun comes out to play.
The mist defeated has to go.
It leaves reluctantly and slow
but where it goes I do not know.
It will return with fall of night
lurk in the darkness hid from sight.
Unless outlined by the moonlight.
The silver light makes it appear
to be the ghosts which cause men fear.
But they will quickly disappear
When banks of cloud obscure the light.
Be re-absorbed into the night.
to their dismay but men’s delight.
The mists persist they wont desist
as long as day and night exist
and if they did they would be missed.
The moisture which the mist supply
the plants trees drink thirstily.
Without the mists some plants would die.
1-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Cross-Roads
A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed
with a woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house,
and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows,
cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,
creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.
A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind howling
through bent branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing.
The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open
and the eyes glitter.
The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching.
Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;
tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging branches apart,
drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A waning,
lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream of pebbles and earth
and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed again
into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and horses.
Squeaking of wheels.
'Whoa! Ready, Jim?'
'All ready.'
Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin.
'Give us the stake, Jim. Now.'
Pound! Pound!
'He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground.'
An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him.
He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway,
and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet
in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground.
Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body,
and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick
held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green.
Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley
at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young
green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise
scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing,
under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within
his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun?
The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan.
The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over,
tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves,
and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees.
The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking - rocking, and all the branches
are knocking - knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate,
the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage
is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing.
The stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms.
The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well
in the deep, black ground. It holds the body in the still, black ground.
Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away;
it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the stake
is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly jewelled
with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises.
Down the road to Tilbury, silence - and the slow flapping of large leaves.
Down the road to Sutton, silence - and the darkness of heavy-foliaged trees.
Down the road to Wayfleet, silence - and the whirring scrape of insects
in the branches. Down the road to Edgarstown, silence - and stars like
stepping-stones in a pathway overhead. It is very quiet at the cross-roads,
and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, endlessly points
the way where nobody wishes to go.
A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking the wide,
still leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with his iron shoes;
silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth over Tilbury way;
riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One o'clock from
Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And a breeze
all of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up and down.
Dr. Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and curves away
from the sign-post. An oath - spurs - a blurring of grey mist.
A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing
down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him.
The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, the body, flesh from flesh,
has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, and clamping them down
in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and spine.
The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them still
in line. The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine, for the stake
holds the fleshless bones in line.
Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body has powdered itself away;
it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown earth. Only flaky
bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone is knit
to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, but upright still,
and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line.
Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow stillness is on the trees.
The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four yellow ways,
saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl of dust
blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to do more;
it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl of wind
comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and feet.
The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post.
Wind again, wheels and feet louder. Wind again - again - again.
A drop of rain, flat into the dust. Drop! - Drop! Thick heavy raindrops,
and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their leaves.
Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, up Tilbury road,
comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for the graveyard
at Wayfleet. Feet and wheels - feet and wheels. And among them
one who is carried.
The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There is a quiver
through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together
in a little puffing of dust.
Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down behind the procession,
now well along the Wayfleet road.
He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like smoke,
his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in the pouring rain,
he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down
the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It flickers
among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, under,
blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following smoke.
There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear,
and after it laughter - laughter - laughter, skirling up to the black sky.
Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap of thunder.
Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On and On
By long leagues of wood and meadow
On and on we drive apace;
In the dreamy light and shadow
Veiling earth's autumnal face.
Rosy clouds are drifting o'er us,
Rooks rise parleying from their tryst,
And the road lies far before us,
Fading into amethyst.
On and on, through leagues of heather,
Deeps of scarlet beaded lane,
Like a pheasant's golden feather
Golden leaves around us rain.
On and on, where woodlands hoary,
In October's lavish fire,
Flame up with unearthly glory,
Beauteous summer's funeral pyre.
On and on, where casements blinking
Lighten into transient gules,
As the dying day in sinking
Splashes all the wayside pools.
On and on; the land grows dimmer,
And our road recedes afar;
While on either hand there glimmer
Setting sun and rising star.
Would I knew what thoughts steal o'er you,
As the long road lengthens yet:
Ah, like hope it winds before you,
And behind me like regret.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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A moonlight embrace...
You come to me in the dark of night
We hold each other in the soft moonlight
A shadow of love the two of us do cast
As we hold each other hard and fast
Observed by the moon and shining stars
We have come together from afar
Do you feel the love and harmony
The pleasure and the tranquility
We stand beneath the strong oak trees
Our heartbeats rise and fingers tease
Leaves drift by as they are blown
We embrace in the moonlight all alone
Although we two are far apart
In dreams we hold each others heart
Oh moonlight hear my passionate plea
Light up the heart that beats for me...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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My Life's Burden...
My life’s burden’s for me light and shone,
I won’t you to be baffled or wound;
And not God, who had thought on a stone –
I do pity the stone he’s found.
I do pity the violet, faded -
Just in vain – just forgot among pages,
And the mist, by which glass has been laden,
Then – dissolved by hot tears for ages.
Not the mad woman’s pain, but the willow
Is awaking my heart’s even sadness,
‘Cause, while lulling this pain on leaves’ pillows,
It was tired and cut by winds merciless.
poem by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky
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Stone, Mirror and Mist
Stone, mirror and mist;
All enrapture me.
I can’t resist
Time’s trinity.
As I try in the mirror
To change the stone,
Mist draws nearer
Till I can’t see on my own.
Then I turn my attention
To the mirror at hand;
Stone in mind, but not mention;
Mist shifting like sand.
I battle the mirror.
There can be only one.
When image is clearer
I’ll know I have won.
Only then will mist clear.
Stone will have no say.
A bygone will be fear
And I’ll be on my way.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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September Stream
Fallen to the wash
Dead leaves in September
There only to float away
A sign of seasons change
Autumnal picture postcard
In the landscape which we walk
Pathways losing shade and shelter
Bare branches rise above
Flower heads falling away
Leaving bowed stems
Tall grass and broken sticks
Leaves blown to the water
To be washed away
The world in all its movement
The world amid its change
The cycle of everything
Now seen in the dying leaves
Falling and taken away
In a September stream
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Beside The Sea
ONE time he dreamed beside a sea
That laid a mane of mimic stars
In fondling quiet on the knee
Of one tall, pearlèd cliff; the bars
Of golden beaches upward swept;
Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.
The full moon swung her ripened sphere
As from a vine; and clouds, as small
As vine leaves in the opening year,
Kissed the large circle of her ball.
The stars gleamed thro' them as one sees
Thor' vine leaves drift the golden bees.
He dreamed beside this purple sea;
Low sang its trancéd voice, and he-
He knew not if the wordless strain
Made prophecy of joy or pain;
He only knew far stretched that sea,
He knew its name-Eternity.
A shallop with a rainbow sail
On the bright pulses of the tide
Throbbed airily; a fluting gale
Kissed the rich gilding of its side;
By chain of rose and myrtle fast
A light sail touched the slender mast.
'A flower-bright rainbow thing,' he said
To one beside him, 'far too frail
To brave dark storms that lurk ahead,
To dare sharp talons of the gale.
Beloved, thou wouldst not forth with me
In such a bark on such a sea?'
'First tell me of its name.' She bent
Her eyes divine and innocent
On his. He raised his hand above
Its prow and answering swore, ''Tis Love!'
'Now tell,' she asked, 'how is it build-
Of gold, or worthless timber gilt?'
'Of gold,' he said. 'Whence named?' asked she,
The roses of her lips apart;
She paused-a lily by the sea.
Came his swift answer, 'From my heart!'
She laid her light palm in his hand:
'Let loose the shallop from the strand!'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Leda and the Swan
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Falling Leaves
it is not the leaves you care about
but the falling
it is not that the trees have become leafless ribs
or that the thorns and scabs have become so visible
it is not
but the falling you want to know
how does falling fall how does this falling feel
the past that pains you
the present that you do not give space
the future that you refuse to dream
i see you falling falling and falling like the leaves
that you are seeing this summer afternoon
for whom you love
they leave like birds flying away from the lonely tunnel
where you have long resided
i see you hugging the fallen leaves
feeling what falling means
treasuring the failures unnecessarily
tonight i see no stars like you seeing none in the skies
black night silent night dead night
i got this last stick of this match
i light this cigarrette i sigh i live some more
i sleep i dream i have this candle still
that tomorrow i may begin to light
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Falling
In love, in love
In love, in love
Slower than the sun goes down
Softer than the autumn rain
Surer than the earth is round
Gentle as the moring breeze
Warm enough to sleep and dream
There is no doubt in my mind
Im falling, (in love), Im falling, (in love)
Leaves that are falling around me
Make sense to me, a reality
Leaves that are falling surround me
Make all this seem, a reality
Clearer than the morning light
Darker than the deepest night
There is no doubt in my mind
Im falling, (in love), Im falling, (in love)
Leaves that are falling around me
Make sense to me, a reality
Leaves that are falling surround me
Make all this seem, a reality
In love, in love
Leaves that are falling around me
Make sense to me, a reality
Leaves that are falling surround me
Make all this seem, a reality
song performed by by Olive
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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[Month of] June
Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset fades into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
The way was waiting for your own adorning
That should complete the broad adorned day.
Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple grey:
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;
It is the very promise of the morning.
Lux Tua Via Mea: your light's my way -
Then do rise up and make it perfect day.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
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An Autumn Crown
Watch the leaves turn
yellow, red and brown
Changing the sky too
And putting on autumn's crown
And letting in the joy
And happiness of sunshine
And filling the world with
The light and warmth of wine
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And reflecting serenity and peace
And putting on autumn's crown
And spreading joy and passion
And enthusiasm and hope
And clearing away the dust
And all pain and mope
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And creating a new life
And putting on autumn's crown
And showing you how to reach
The bright horizon afar
And nature glowing with colors
A twinkling like a star
Watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
Reflecting God's blessings
And putting on autumn's crown.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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When The Leaves Come Falling Down
I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face
And you were thinking bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
And at night the moon is shining on a clear, cloudless sky
And when the evening shadows fall Ill be there by your side
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place beside the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space before the twilight and the dawn
Oh, the last time I saw paris in the streets, in the rain
And as I walk along the boulevards with you, once again
And the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place between the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space between the twilight and the dawn
And as Im looking at the colour of the leaves, in your hand
As were listening to chet baker on the beach, in the sand
When the leaves come falling down,
Woe in september, when the leaves come falling down
Oh when the leaves come falling down
Yeah in september when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falting down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From: Dedicatory Ode
I will not try the reach again,
I will not set my sail alone,
To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.
But I will sit beside the fire,
And put my hand before my eyes,
And trace, to fill my heart's desire,
The last of all our Odysseys.
The quiet evening kept her tryst:
Beneath an open sky we rode,
And passed into a wandering mist
Along the perfect Evenlode.
The tender Evenlode that makes
Her meadows hush to hear the sound
Of waters mingling in the brakes,
And binds my heart to English ground.
A lovely river, all alone,
She lingers in the hills and holds
A hundred little towns of stone,
Forgotten in the western wolds.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Evenlode
I will not try to reach again,
I will not set my sail alone,
To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.
But I will sit beside the fire,
And put my hand before my eyes,
And trace, to fill my heart's desire,
The last of all our Odysseys.
The quiet evening kept her tryst:
Beneath an open sky we rode,
And passed into a wandering mist
Along the perfect Evenlode.
The tender Evenlode that makes
Her meadows hush to hear the sound
Of waters mingling in the brakes,
And binds my heart to English ground.
A lovely river, all alone,
She lingers in the hills and holds
A hundred little towns of stone,
Forgotten in the western wolds.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Shallow Days
Mary jane says its all right
Shes just around the corner from the main light.
Any day now, its all right
Shes standing on the precipice of big time.
And I know Im a little uptight,
Ive got to go before the sun shines.
Were just a couple small people squeezing out a life,
We need a little good time.
Its not far from here,
Mary comes and goes.
Drifting through the scenery of the shallow days below,
That is anybody knows.
You follow trains out of town and they vanish somewhere under the horizon.
Yeah well I saw mary jane dragged her shadow down the tracks,
Stare off in the distance.
Its not far from here,
Mary waves hello.
Smiling though shes sinking in the shallow days below,
I cant find a way out of here.
Out on the road again,
Im much, much too concerned about mary jane.
Im all alone again,
I like what she said, not what it means.
She leaves me drowning through the shallow days, down below.
You know I heard a band playing waltzes in a grange hall
The sun is sinking lower.
People staring, mary jane humming softly to herself,
Nobody really knows her.
Any day now its all right,
She tells herself that this will be the last time.
Mary jane pulls her hair back and wonders what shell do with all her
Freetime.
Not too far from here,
Mary turns to go.
Smiling while the waltz begins, dancing down the road
Hey hey mr. freedom,
What are we supposed to think?
cause Im a very tiny person and it worries me.
Im all alone again,
I like what she says, not what it means.
She leaves me drowning in the shallow days way down below.
Im sorry, she said,
I know its not the kind of thing you want.
Im falling, falling down.
Im sorry, she said.
I know Im not the kind of girl you want.
Were falling, falling, falling, falling down.
song performed by by Counting Crows
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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