The Voice Of A Quill, Now Silent
`
i am but the mottled bark
of a tree once firmly rooted,
peeled from its stately trunk
and within its hollow carapace
echoes an inert drumbeat
that keeps the cadence for
a march of ornate trappings
soon and sooner still, one day
this crepuscular orphelin song
resonant in its languid longing
shall surge with the rising tide
the sound of its condescencion
as it strikes the earth's bosom
ascends to a now-listening sky.
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Kingdom Of The Owl
curled into the trunk
of an old woman tree,
listening to the owl,
and sleeping in the shade.
arms outstretched,
as if touching the sky,
roots deep in the earth,
swaying with the wind.
bark to bark,
he and she intertwine...
till only one remains.
seasons put down and lost
in the steady and sure,
waiting on moonlight and darkness
in the kingdom of the owl!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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As the Pine Cypress tree would say
I want to be like the Cassia tree-
The Cassia tree by the river side
I want to be like the Cassia tree
firmly rooted in the soil inside
so when the winds play its tune of tempest
I will sway left and right as it would have me sway
Sway and not break or lose a footing
as the pine cypress tree would say
I want to be like the Cassia tree-
The Cassia tree by the riverside
I want to be like the Cassia tree
firmly rooted in the soil inside
so when the clouds gather and dress the sky in
dark clothing, for the ritual of the rain
I will stand its pour to the rage of the thunder
Stand and not break or lose a footing
as the pine cypress tree would say
Treecreepers
Elusive birds them one don't often see
Treecreepers build their cup shaped nest of bark behind loose bark of tree
From predators concealed and hidden away
And pinkish spotted eggs the female lay.
Shy woodland birds of humans they show respectful fear
They climb tree trunks in search of insects and when human to them venture near
Of the tree trunk they disappear to the other side
Of watchers eyes they'd much prefer to hide.
They will never be renowned as birds of song
Though their familiar chirps one hardly could get wrong
The ornithologists and bird watchers on studying them don't spend much of their time
And they seldom have inspired the poets to rhyme.
From the day they leave the nest until the day they die
From ground up they climb the tree and then to the next tree fly
To climb again in search of invertebrates such things they like to eat
They must have great strength in their tiny feet
In wooded places they like to reside
And from predators their cup shaped nest they hide
Shy little birds when human to them venture near
To the other side of the tree trunk they disappear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Marula tree trunk
Strong winds blow against the Marula tree trunk,
They come with miscellaneous objects,
Light and heavy,
And use them to break the Marula tree trunk,
But nothing happens to the Marula tree trunk,
Light and heavy rains come,
The Marula tree smiles,
For the plentiful rain water will make
It stronger and taller,
Animals come and sleep under and on top
Of the Marula tree,
Lean and rub their itching bodies
Against the Marula tree trunk,
Relieve themselves against it,
But nothing happens to the Marula tree trunk,
The human race use the Marula tree for shade
Against the merciless summer heat of the Limpopo sun,
And eat or make beer with Marula,
But, alas! One vicious human being returned,
And chopped it,
Off goes the faithless Marula tree trunk,
To be scorched by the everlasting home burning fires.
poem by Niki Nicholas Nkuna
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The Song of Tigilau
The song of Tigilau the brave,
Sina's wild lover,
Who across the heaving wave
From Samoa came over:
Came over, Sina, at the setting moon!
The moon shines round and bright;
She, with her dark-eyed maidens at her side,
Watches the rising tide.
While balmy breathes the starry southern night,
While languid heaves the lazy southern tide;
The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!
The night is past, is past and gone,
The moon sinks to the West,
The sea-heart beats opprest,
And Sina's passionate breast
Heaves like the sea, when the pale moon has gone,
Heaves like the passionate sea, Sina, left by the moon alone!
Silver on silver sands, the rippling waters meet --
Will he come soon?
The rippling waters kiss her delicate feet,
The rippling waters, lisping low and sweet,
Ripple with the tide,
The rising tide,
The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!
He comes! -- her lover!
Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti.
Her maidens round her hover,
The rising waves her white feet cover.
O Tigilau, son of Tui Viti,
Through the mellow dusk thy proas glide,
So soon!
So soon by the rising tide,
The rising tide, my Sina, and the setting moon!
The mooring-poles are left,
The whitening waves are cleft,
By the prows of Tui Viti!
By the sharp keels of Tui Viti!
Broad is the sea, and deep,
The yellow Samoans sleep,
But they will wake and weep --
Weep in their luxurious odorous vales,
While the land breeze swells the sails
Of Tui Viti!
Tui Viti -- far upon the rising tide,
The rising tide --
The rising tide, my Sina, beneath the setting moon!
She leaps to meet him!
Her mouth to greet him
Burns at his own.
Away! To the canoes,
To the yoked war canoes!
The sea in murmurous tone
Whispers the story of their loves,
Re-echoes the story of their loves --
The story of Tui Viti,
Of Sina and Tui Viti,
By the rising tide,
The rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon!
She has gone!
She has fled!
Sina!
Sina, for whom the warriors decked their shining hair,
Wreathing with pearls their bosoms brown and bare,
Flinging beneath her dainty feet
Mats crimson with the feathers of the parrakeet.
Ho, Samoans! rouse your warriors full soon,
For Sina is across the rippling wave,
With Tigilau, the bold and brave.
Far, far upon the rising tide!
Far upon the rising tide!
Far upon the rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon.
poem by Marcus Clarke
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The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Trust Like A Tree
From tiny seed to tall giant
Firmly rooted in one place
Trusting God will provide
Sun, rain, ample space
If man dare learn from trees
Feet rooted in a single space
Trusting God shall provide
Man ‘n Earth could interface
Angels’ negotiate lasting peace
Where once was strife ‘n war
Satan’s grip would then release
God Within supreme once more
The next time you see a noble tree
Offer grateful words unashamedly
poem by Ray Lucero
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Behind The Final Curtain
it is then only this....
the bark peeled from the ancient tree.
the yowl of the cat in hunger,
the slap of wings against gone.
tis the height of passion;
i have turned my deepest colors,
yet my dreams have begun to fall...
i cant stop them.
and the sound of voices like hammers on tin,
be the bottle broken before it hits.
when memory becomes history,
and tired clouds wink and disappear.
the setting sun tastes of vinegar,
as smoke rises in wistful plumes.
and beliefs crawl in empty nests,
while squirrels madly drink and die.
as holiness runs like rain,
down the trunk and into the ground.
the sacred dance of the senses,
while lovers touch in secret closets.
and the world pregnant with desire,
waits behind the final curtain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blue Jay
Tell me of the 'Blue Jay'
who sings from tree to tree in the early hours of the morning.
Has he found his nest and mate well hidden amongst the hanging Moss?
On what Oak tree lies his precious treasure,
his hearts and ever needing desire?
Across the pond close to the waters edge
the Ducks family celebrate Water, Fire and Earth.
Readying for their Sunday walk through Avalon.
Duck~feet firmly on the Earth clutching nail~down into an unbreakable pace, they march one by one making most of time and space...
BLUEJAY lost amidst desire wanders now from tree to tree,
misplace and forgotten by the nights heavy storm....
Tell me!
Tell me of the dreary song of lost souls in morning sun,
are they of the Blue Jay or of your own heart?
Are you home smiling to the stars or on a collision course with desire?
Is getting hot outside but where is home with Moss on every tree and Duck's all around?
poem by Gengis Capote
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The Harp Of The Minstrel
The harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom to-night,
For the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;
But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart
A sorrow to one in an alien clime,
Let the light of the melody fall on the heart,
And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.
The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim
That once were his passionate love and his pride;
And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him
Have fallen away as the flowers have died.
The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath
And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago,
Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath
The grass and the stubble--the frost and the snow.
Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings
Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear,
And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings,
And jewel the song with the gem of a tear.
For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom tonight,
And the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Woodpecker
You loiter and tap me with your hard beak my friend.
But you never find any insect here.
Though you see my tree trunk is strong
It’s almost a hollow.
They have already sucked my sap
And where they were gone?
Do you hear the far away song of storm?
It murmurs to me that I won’t be long-standing.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Matlapanen
Makoros glide swift
On the Thamalakane,
The fishing boys
Cast lines again,
Where the bream lie deep
In the peat brown pool,
By the old bridge
At Matlapanen.
Under gum poles span
Smooth water slides free,
And strong circling eddies snatch
The gnarled trunk
Of a long dead tree,
Past stooped women
Gathering thatch.
The river mist coils
In the searing dawn,
Writhing, ethereal fingers
Dew diamond bright,
The light strikes strong
From arched islands,
Black stones and timbers.
There bulks the wild fig
Thick rooted and high,
Where the night rustling
Fruit bat feeds,
Where the hippo’s bark
Echoes to the darkling sky,
While a thousand moons
Dance in the reeds.
Through Delta to Dau,
Throbs river pulse beat,
Flooding bank and
Wild forest root,
Languorous cattle now
Graze belly deep,
Where dust once
Scuffed underfoot.
East down Boteti
By silent Matopi,
South on Nghabe
Past Toteng,
The dream that returns
Is the Thamalakane,
By the old bridge
At Matlepanen.
poem by Stanley Goodlad Hall
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The Tree And The Butterfly
what i love to see in you
is when you become a huge tree
rooted upon a
muted grass hill
above you is a black cloud
making rain
your leaves are all wet
and your roots are drinking so much water
your bark is thick and your
trunk so hard and strong
and she is there the frail butterfly
clinging softly
beneath the big leaf
fragile and steady
what i love next is when the rain stops
and then the butterfly leaves you
helpless and sad and so poetic.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Vegetable
Does a veg'table suffer in the dirt,
Or tremble timorously while inert?
Do its leaves soak sunlight with vicious pains?
Does breathing life
Make for burdens so rife
Amongst scabrous terrains?
Does a plant still remain firmly rooted
Knowing its soil is thoroughly polluted?
Do its flowers unfold purposelessly?
Does it condemn
The water in its stem
While screaming soundlessly?
poem by Tim Stensloff
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To
Mine is a wayward lay;
And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string,
Proveth a truant thing,
Whenso some names I love, send it away!
For then, eyes swimming o'er,
And clasped hands, and smiles in fondness meant,
Are much more eloquent --
So it had fain begone, and speak no more!
Yet shall it come again,
Ah, friend belov'd! if so thy wishes be,
And, with wild melody,
I will, upon thine ear, cadence my strain --
Cadence my simple line,
Unfashion'd by the cunning hand of Art,
But coming from my heart,
To tell the message of its love to thine!
As ocean shells, when taken
From Ocean's bed, will faithfully repeat
Her ancient music sweet --
Ev'n so these words, true to my heart, shall waken!
Oh! while our bark is seen,
Our little bark of kindly, social love,
Down life's clear stream to move
Toward the summer shores, where all is green --
So long thy name shall bring,
Echoes of joy unto the grateful gales,
And thousand tender tales,
To freshen the fond hearts that round thee cling!
Hast thou not look'd upon
The flowerets of the field in lowly dress?
Blame not my simpleness --
Think only of my love! -- my song is gone.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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Come From Under the Trappings
Come from under the trappings.
Come from under your need,
To feed your gluttony.
Your needs to be strapped,
To that which can not touch you back!
Come from under the trappings!
There is much more to your life,
Than that!
Come from under the trappings.
Let your beliefs,
Remove the strangle hold and squeeze...
Placed upon the young.
Those that have followed you into darkness,
And have shielded from the Sun!
Those you have fed,
All the misdeeds...
That have blocked and shunned!
Come from under those trappings done.
They are shutting off your breath.
And speeding up your untimely death!
Come from under the trappings.
Come from under your need
To feed your gluttony.
Your needs to be strapped,
To that which can not touch you back!
Come from under the trappings!
There is much more to your life,
Than that!
You might as well!
They are being released from you physically!
Now...
It is time to remove yourself from that grind.
Come from under the trappings.
And find yourself that peace that awaits!
Those trappings can not define,
The quality of life when one has peace of mind!
Come from under the trappings.
Come from under your need
To feed your gluttony.
Your needs to be strapped,
To that which can not touch you back!
Come from under the trappings!
There is much more to your life,
Than that!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Psalm 47
Christ ascending and reigning.
O for a shout of sacred joy
To God the sovereign King!
Let every land their tongues employ,
And hymns of triumph sing.
Jesus our God ascends on high,
His heav'nly guards around
Attend him rising through the sky,
With trumpets' joyful sound.
While angels shout and praise their King,
Let mortals learn their strains;
Let all the earth his honors sing;
O'er all the earth he reigns.
Rehearse his praise with awe profound,
Let knowledge lead the song,
Nor mock him with a solemn sound
Upon a thoughtless tongue.
In Isr'el stood his ancient throne,
He loved that chosen race;
But now he calls the world his own,
And heathens taste his grace.
The British islands are the Lord's,
There Abraham's God is known;
While powers and princes, shields and swords,
Submit before his throne.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Our Thoughts Extend From Us To Reach
Our thoughts.
Actions.
And our deeds from us released...
Reflect,
Not only our expectations...
But express as an investment,
None of us should perceive...
Decreases in value.
Our thoughts,
Whether believed faithfully or not...
To be shared as spoken,
Instills...
Significant influence.
As if a seed implanted,
Within a mind open and listening.
Evaluating content.
What was said.
Who said what.
And how what was said to whom...
Has its effectiveness.
Like the Sun coming to rise upon the horizon.
That same Sun sets.
Like a leaf attached to the branch of a tree.
That tree provides all connected to it with nourishment.
And it is rooted...
Grounded,
To the Earth.
This Earth.
Our Earth.
Much like our thoughts...
Extend from us to reach!
Much like our thoughts...
Extend from us to reach!
Much like our thoughts...
Extend from us to reach!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sonnet – Don’t Be
Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.
Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.
Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.
Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.
poem by John Celes
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