Once Rechargeable Batteries
`
Who can tell the difference
between gallantry and deceit;
that is clear only to
the querying breeze?
Who could not smell
the pungent heavy cloud
before the pulling of
the petulant wind?
Further, afar off, no one inquires
about foreseen mornings unseen
dreams once winged zephyrs
echo in forgotten hallways.
Perched high on rock faces grim
beneath the humming of the bird,
awash on porous promontories -
failure now permeates the abject soul.
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Brewding Storm
`
No one can tell (the difference is)
clear to querying mind(s) :
How is it I could not savour
the pungent heavy clouds
before the pulling of the breeze?
Further afar off, one imagines
future life daily waiting - awash
tranquil staccato whispers -
permeate my porous soul
after the pelting of the rain.
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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A Night-Piece By Millet
Wind and sea and cloud and cloud-forsaking
Mirth of moonlight where the storm leaves free
Heaven awhile, for all the wrath of waking
Wind and sea.
Bright with glad mad rapture, fierce with glee,
Laughs the moon, borne on past cloud's o'ertaking
Fast, it seems, as wind or sail can flee.
One blown sail beneath her, hardly making
Forth, wild-winged for harbourage yet to be,
Strives and leaps and pants beneath the breaking
Wind and sea.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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A Room with a View! ! ! !
A bird perched on the tree top surveys urban scene.
Wind sneaks in through crevices in winter unseen.
Autumn leaf aboard the breeze without a sound falls.
sights and quiet help me unwind on instant recall.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Is There A Difference?
Is there a difference between yes and no
Is there a difference between up and down
Must I fear what others fear
What nonsense
Some people are content
Enjoying things that belong to tradition
With the seasons they cast their lot
Without a question
Other men are clear and bright and solid
Other men are sharp and clever and jolly
And we go wo oh oh wo oh oh oh wo
Is there a difference between high and low
Is there a difference between then and now
Do we have to live in pain and fear
What nonsense
People are drifting like the waves on the sea
Without direction like the restless wind
Not knowing forward not knowing back
Just existing
Other men are strong and full of courage
Other men are witty and full of knowledge
And we go wo oh oh wo oh oh wo
Other men are clear and bright and solid
I alone am drifting on the sea
Other men are sharp and clever and jolly
Restless like the wind
And we go wo oh oh wo oh oh wo
Is there a difference
Is there really a difference
Yes and no
Is there a difference
Up and down
Is there a difference
High and low
Is there a difference
Then and now
Is there a difference
Yes and no
Is there a difference
Up and down
Is there a difference
song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode to the bird in the cypress tree
Ode to the bird in the cypress tree
~
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
shaded from the heat of the midday sun
yet still free to ride upon the ocean breeze
whenever it chooses to blow from time to time
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
and chirp my own little song aloud to the world
or to fly amongst the clouds so high above
and look down to watch the world below
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
for all my wishes and day bought dreams
I am here and I am still me writing a poem
about that lucky bird perched in the cypress tree
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Erotica
i am telling
you i have the smell
of something
pungent
but you say
you do not mind
in fact
you like the smell
of pungent
substances
the wet one
you even
like to lick
and swallow
and then you
hold me
as you kneel
like i am
a god
and you plead
that i be
hard
and so unforgiving
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Forest Sprite
There was a little fairy
Sat beneath a tree -
Humming to her tiny self
A haunting melody;
Just a little tinkle
Was all that I could hear
Floating on the evening breeze
High and crystal clear;
Surrounded by a rainbow,
Sparkles lit the air -
Tiny wings did flutter
Sprinkling gold dust in her hair;
A tiny little forest sprite
Had slipped the bonds of space,
Perhaps a mere imagined thought
Had brought her to this place;
How sweet the sound she echoed
Within this forest spot -
Though I had never seen a sprite
Her image now I caught;
This tiny little fairy
Sat beneath a tree -
Humming to her tiny self
A haunting melody.
I Know
She's out there
Heart beating
Like the wings of a bird.
For me.
Sent by Aphrodite
I heard
Her symphony
- Winging through the ether
As her fragrance lingers long.
A million stars beneath her
She pours out our secret song.
Truly
Only in moonlight glow
Do I feel.
I know
It's real.
Her kiss
Would heal the scars where I bled
When bells rang in my head.
Would cut the thread where I hung
Above abyss.
To drown in bliss
In her arms.
Where all hope had clung.
Her smile
That lights a butterscotch sky
Ignites
Dark stars that drift by.
Healing me from afar
Her promise I keep in a jar.
Her touch
An electric breeze
So softly, I sink to my knees.
And smell the jasmine of her hair.
Sounds of our love
Echo somewhere
I know.
poem by Kevin East
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The Feast of St. Francis
from 'Canticle of the Sun, ' by St. Francis of Assisi: 'Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air, and clouds and storms, and all the weather, through which you give your creatures sustenance.'
Bird-song rises
in clear, liquid waves
as golden leaves arc
twisting
to the ground.
Heavy gold
must fall.
October heat
gives way
to winter rain
yet inevitably life flows
like the breeze
rising from the broad sea
to the high Sierra;
grey clouds rise
and heavy snow falls.
All the living waters
give praise.
poem by Steven Federle
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There's Milk Beneath This Poem
there's milk beneath this poem, and blood
aswirl, like a marble cake of moments half-baked;
there's blood beneath this poem, and tears
unmixed like oil in a rain barrel of thoughts;
there's tears beneath this poem, and come
awash with a million squirming attempts to awaken;
there's come beneath this poem, and the sea
unforgiving, with its undertow of fears, unknown and unsought.
there's milk beneath this poem, and silent screams
unheard for years and moments, draping the hallways;
there's silent screams beneath this poem, and mad laughter
adrift in the corrridors of the family myth, undone;
there's mad laughter beneath this poem, and choking sobs
unmoving in my throat, like a chicken bone, unloved, always;
there's choking sobs beneath this poem, and gnashing teeth
awash with the bitter taste of sweet defeat, like bile, or yesterday's onions.
there's milk beneath this poem, and time
like the blank white page before me;
there's time beneath this poem, and space
where the emptiness is reborn as room to move;
there's space beneath this poem, and thought
rumbling like the very voice of god himself, imploring that
there's thought beneath this poem, and all
is like nothing else, so much as the need to love;
there's milk beneath this poem, and all
the death on earth can't change that.
© Copyright 2010 christo (UN: christo13 at Writing.Com) . All rights reserved.
poem by Christo Andrus
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The Two Children
Heavy hangs the rain-drop
From the burdened spray;
Heavy broods the damp mist
On uplands far away.
Heavy looms the dull sky,
Heavy rolls the sea;
And heavy throbs the young heart
Beneath that lonely tree.
Never has a blue streak
Cleft the clouds since morn;
Never has his grim fate
Smiled since he was born.
Frowning on the infant,
Shadowing childhood's joy
Guardian-angel knows not
That melancholy boy.
Day is passing swiftly
Its sad and sombre prime;
Boyhood sad is merging
In sadder manhood's time:
All the flowers are praying
For sun, before they close,
And he prays too—unconscious—
That sunless human rose.
Blossom—that the west-wind
Has never wooed to blow,
Scentless are thy petals,
Thy dew is cold as snow!
Soul—where kindred kindness,
No early promise woke,
Barren is thy beauty,
As weed upon a rock.
Wither—soul and blossom!
You both were vainly given;
Earth reserves no blessing
For the unblest of heaven!
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love Song
My love, we will go, we will go, I and you,
And away in the woods we will scatter the dew;
And the salmon behold, and the ousel too,
My love, we will hear, I and you, we will hear,
The calling afar of the doe and the deer.
And the bird in the branches will cry for us clear,
And the cuckoo unseen in his festival mood;
And death, oh my fair one, will never come near
In the bosom afar of the fragrant wood.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Kid Inside
There's a kid inside
And I have him with me always
There's a kid inside
Walking down old high school hallways
There's a kid inside
At a desk, at a dance, in the halls,in the showers
There's a kid inside
To this very day
And he makes a try for that high pop fly
That I fumble one september
And he makes a fuss
Over some A plus
That I shouldn't still remember
And he goes along
Getting hurt,getting mad,fighting fights that are over
And unless I'm strong
All my senses are carried away
I could fell my hand
My tremblin hand
On the shelf angora sweather
I can hear my band
That awful band,only now it sounds much better
I can see the kid
The kid I use to be
On the stage,on the field,on the lunch line
I can feel him tugging at me
Every time I think I don't care I blink
And he's there again
He's there again
Fighting ancient wrongs
Humming old hit songs in my head
Singing come along,come along
Come along for the ride
To a time and place
I could not forget if I tried
And I never know when the breeze'll blow
With a rush of old sensation
Why the kid should wake
And my heart should ache
Everytime I smell carnations
Something rings the bell
Any thing at all
All it takes is a slam of a locker
Of the switch from summer or fall
A change in season
Seems better than reason
But there he goes
He's there again
Fighting ancient wrong
Humming old hit songs in my head
Singing come along, come along
Come along for the ride
To a time and place
I could not for get if I try
There he goes again
Hummin his songs
He's there again
There's a kid ins
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What is the cloud to the sun?
For what is the cloud to the sun,
It is nothing. The wind has always
Driven it away and the sun does not
Care. For want of love and care, the
Cloud plays with the fields and the
River and the sea. Impregnated it
Has conceived, and gives
Birth to the rain. The fields and the
Sea and the rivers feasted. The fields
Grow the grass and the flowers.
The sea and the rivers have
Seeded its waters with more fish.
The cloud does not like it. It has
Always dreamt of the sun but the
Wind has always blown it away.
At night the cloud talks to the moon.
And seeing the likeness of its light
To the sun that it loves, the cloud
Makes love with the shining moon.
It has given birth to the stars.
The following morning, the cloud
Is exhausted. It floats with the
Chastisements of the wind. There
Is no more direction. It still dreams
Of the sun. It dies and becomes
Taken as part of the wind. The
Cloud has become a white, clear
Sky. It is nothing. It is what you
See, when love is unrequited.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem Of Syntax
A poet and his bird, his dog, his cat and his tree
A poet and the bird in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree and the wind and the cloud
The bird in the tree, the dog in the tree, the cat in the tree,
The bird in the tree, the dog on the tree, the cat under the tree,
The bird on the tree, the bird in a tree, a bird in a tree, a bird in the tree,
And the wind and the cloud and the poet and his dog and his cat and the tree
The dog chases the cat the cat chases the bird
And they all arrive in that tree
Where the poet is sitting under that tree
The poet takes the dog and the cat was envious
And the bird looks at them in silence
The silence looks at the poet in the eye
Of the cat and the bird flies away
The poet and the dog is the poem of friendship
The cat and the dog is the poem of the endless natural quarrels
And the bird that flies away against the cat and the dog and the poet and the tree
And flies against the wind that the bird is now fighting
And the clouds that seem so blue and blue
The bird that actually flies away
Is actually me
I was not the poet with the dog
I am not the tree I am not the wind I am not the cloud I am not the poet there who had a dog as friend and I was not the quarrelsome thing from the blue and out of the blue
I am the bird with wings and I always fly away to places
Against the wind to places where I can be as always be the bird with wings in silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Island
An Island
Am I.
Caressed by the sea.
Blessed to be free.
Mellow.
Yellow,
My buddy the sun.
Bloody his sunsets run.
Like the end
Of my tapestry spun.
Hung,
In gallery
Of an open sky.
Flung,
Clear of embrace and tears
Am I.
Silent fears fly by.
Unseen at night,
But moonlight
Wraps me in blanket blue.
A rhapsody of wind chimes.
That bird of paradise flew
From distant stars.
With new rhymes.
Scars,
Only remind me
I did feel!
That hitman of love
Would shoot me down,
Then reveal
Promises to a wounded clown.
They buzzed around
No longer than
The Mayfly's dance.
I bled in a trance.
To be healed in the skies.
My soul evaporated
To rise
And glide.
Hide,
Outside the silver curtain of Heaven.
Ride,
From the Aurora
On a plethora
Of forgotten dreams.
To finally wave goodbye,
- It seems.
My heart gave
Just one sigh.
As my tears
Left a rainbow on high.
Lonely years
Now
An Island am I.
poem by Kevin East
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This Little Bird
John d loudermilk
Theres a little bird that somebody sends
Down to the earth to live on the wind.
Born on the wind and he sleeps on the wind
This little bird that somebody sends.
Hes light and fragile and feathered sky blue,
So thin and graceful the sun shines through.
This little bird who lives on the wind,
This little bird that somebody sends.
He flies so high up in the sky
Out of reach of human eye.
And the only time that he touches the ground
Is when that little bird
Is when that little bird
Is when that little bird dies.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Turning Dawn
Skipping daintily on dew drenched mornings
She wakes up the enigma in sleeping flowers
Purple lilacs and yellow buttercups open
As the sun rises on her delicate morning radiance
She rides the gentle breeze, first kiss of a new day
Touching sleepy minds, their worries brushed off
Nurtured by her soothing glow, the day climbs up again
To the waiting world, jaded from all the nights gone
She is the fragrance of new promises on the horizon
She cleanses little regrets, shaping them around
Breathing her freshness into their porous memories
A day unleashed for new beginnings from old songs
She is our heritage from the sun's own treasure trove
Gracing our mornings, hewing its myriad possibilities
She paints afresh tirelessly though our churn is high
Turning dawn, working magic into the brilliant sun…
poem by Bindu Vijayan
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From this High Window
From this high window
the invisible wind
moves silent trees:
motion without sound,
dance without song.
Behind painted walls
and heavy curtains,
I cannot not hear
the tumult,
but opening the heavy door,
at last I hear the trees sing,
stirred to passion
by unseen hands
waving branches
swept up
by the compelling wind,
and drawn outside,
exposed and complete,
finally I face the clear maelstrom,
my own hair flying free,
and gaze at the trees,
wild men
dancing as they chant
savage hymns
to their howling god.
poem by Steven Federle
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Has She Forgotten?
I.
Has she forgotten? On this very May
We were to meet here, with the birds and bees,
As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees
We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away
The vines from these old granites, cold and gray--
And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they
To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstacies,
Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies.
Has she forgotten--that the May has won
Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree
Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun
Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly?
Has she forgotten life--love--everyone--
Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
II.
Low, low down in the violets I press
My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear,
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness
Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress?
Has she forgotten thus the old caress
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer
Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep
In memory of days that used to be,--
Has she forgotten these? And, in her sleep,
Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
III.
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
I mean to weld our faces--through the dense
Incalculable darkness make pretense
That she has risen from her reveries
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
Of every longing nerve of indolence,--
Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun
My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
Across mine own, forgetful if is done
The old love's awful dawn-time when said we,
'To-day is ours!'.... Ah, Heaven! can it be
She has forgotten me--forgotten me!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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