The Perch
There is a fork in a branch
of an ancient, enormous maple,
one of a grove of such trees,
where I climb sometimes and sit and look out
over miles of valleys and low hills.
Today on skis I took a friend
to show her the trees. We set out
down the road, turned in at
the lane which a few weeks ago,
when the trees were almost empty
and the November snows had not yet come,
lay thickly covered in bright red
and yellow leaves, crossed the swamp,
passed the cellar hole holding
the remains of the 1850s farmhouse
that had slid down into it by stages
in the thirties and forties, followed
the overgrown logging road
and came to the trees. I climbed up
to the perch, and this time looked
not into the distance but at
the tree itself, its trunk
contorted by the terrible struggle
of that time when it had its hard time.
After the trauma it grows less solid.
It may be some such time now comes upon me.
It would have to do with the unaccomplished,
and with the attempted marriage
of solitude and happiness. Then a rifle
sounded, several times, quite loud,
from across the valley, percussions
of the custom of male mastery
over the earth -- the most graceful,
most alert of the animals
being chosen to die. I looked
to see if my friend had heard,
but she was stepping about on her skis,
studying the trees, smiling to herself,
her lips still filled, for all
we had drained them, with hundreds
and thousands of kisses. Just then
she looked up -- the way, from low
to high, the god blesses -- and the blue
of her eyes shone out of the black
and white of bark and snow, as lovers
who are walking on a freezing day
touch icy cheek to icy cheek,
kiss, then shudder to discover
the heat waiting inside their mouths.
poem by Galway Kinnell
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A lane in England
In autumn I walked in England
in a lane full of trees
where leaves lay auburn
on a road wet from rain.
Barren, stripped oak trees
were between other green ones
and it was as if I was going
right through a tunnel
with here and there trees
of which the leaves were more yellow.
In the distance the road bended to the right
where a bush fence
cut neatly square
and telephone poles
ran along the edge of the road
and the green moss banks
were covered with auburn leaves
at places
and on the other side
of the road
a shrub stretched out green and long
like a sausage
that was lying next to the road
and I would love
to have a lane like that
next to my driveway.
poem by Gert Strydom
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You and Yellow Air
YOU, AND YELLOW AIR by John Shaw Neilson
I dream of an old kissing-time
And the flowered follies there;
In the dim place of cherry-trees,
Of you, and yellow air.
It was an age of babbling,
When the players would play
Mad with the wine and miracles
Of a charmed holiday.
Bewildered was the warm earth
With whistling and sighs,
And a young foal spoke all his heart
With diamonds for eyes.
You were of Love's own colour
In eyes and heart and hair;
In the dim place of cherry-trees
Ridden by yellow air.
It was the time when red lovers
With the red fevers burn;
A time of bells and silver seeds
And cherries on the turn.
Children looked into tall trees
And old eyes looked behind;
God in His glad October
No sullen man could find.
Out of your eyes a magic
Fell lazily as dew,
And every lad with lad's eyes
Made summer love to you.
It was a reign of roses,
Of blue flowers for the eye,
And the rustling of green girls
Under a white sky.
I dream of an old kissing-time
And the flowered follies there,
In the dim place of cherry-trees,
Of you, and yellow air.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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What Others May Think.
Apart from the water tower
and the farm
and a few scattered cottages
there were no other buildings
for a mile or more
just you and Jane
and birds in the early morning sky
I like it at this time of day
she said
I like the fresh smell of nature
and the farm
and having few people about
you walked beside her down the lane
that led away from the farm
you noticed how her black hair
seemed freshly washed
and blew slightly in the mild wind
does you father mind
you being out with me?
you asked softly
he doesn't know
she replied
he thinks I came out alone
for a morning walk
why didn't you tell him?
you asked
he was busy writing his Sunday sermon
and it was easier to just go out
and not disturb him
she said looking around at you
her eyes studying you
as she walked on down the lane
would he mind you being with me?
you asked
I don't think he knows you as yet
seeing as you have only moved here
a few months and don't come
to the church
you stopped and took her hand in yours
it was warm and soft
and pulsed with life
she looked at your hand
holding hers and she rubbed
her thumb over the back
of your hand
you wanted to kiss her lips
or cheek just to feel
her flesh on yours
but you didn't you just looked at her
and waited to see
what she would do next
she let go of your hand
and looked around her
there might be people looking
from those cottages up there
she said suddenly pointing up
at the rising bank which went up
to two cottages high up
if they see us they may tell Father
and then it would be awkward
and he might suspect things
and then she went quiet
and looked at the running stream
by the lane
but we haven't done anything
we just walk out and talk
and hold hands now and then
it's not what we do
it's what others think we do
she said softly
and stood looking at you
waiting for you to speak
but you said nothing
just leaned in close to her
and kissed her cheek
and said
even Christ permitted kisses
even the one from Judas
and she smiled
and the early morning sun
pushed through trees
and shone on her hair
and there was the sound of birds
singing in the air.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Ancient Hills Of Toora
The ancient hills of Toora are looking brown today
Yet they were lush and rather green when last I passed this way
But that was last September when the nesting birds did sing
And every where looked greener in the early days of Spring.
To those ancient hills of Toora the Seasons come and go
And where once were thousands of gum trees only a few gums grow
And the Aboriginals who lived and hunted on those hills are not around today
Time brings with it great changes and it's always been that way.
The ancient hills of Toora as old as father time
And they were millions of years old when Christ was in his prime
The oldest human on Planet Earth perhaps fifteen years with five score
But the ancient hills of Toora will exist forever more.
The ancient hills of Toora overlooking Toora Town
From the long and warm dry Summer have never looked so brown
But I recall last September decked in their wildering flowers
Those ancient hills of Toora lush and green after Spring showers.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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It is Spring Time
It is Spring Time
It is spring time.
I can smell it in the air.
I can smell the flowers.
I can smell the grass.
I can touch the grass.
I can touch and taste the vegetable growing in the garden.
The weather is changing.
The weather is warming up.
The trees are blossoming.
The flowers are blossoming.
It is spring time.
Easter has passed.
Beltane has passed.
Spring and May is here.
This is the time to tend to your garden and planted some flowers.
Some people pray to God to protect their garden.
Some people pray to Mother Nature for protect.
I do both and I thank God for this planet.
It is Spring Time.
The animals and bugs come out to play.
The frogs jump around the pond.
The wildflower comes out.
The sky is clean and blue.
The sun is shining.
The horses are running free.
The sunflowers are growing.
When seasons the earth also changes it is a beautiful way.
Nature is every where.
It is spring time.
There is rain and storm.
The trees have leaves and it arms.
The trees are ancient.
An apple falls down from the trees.
This is what thinks spring time is for me.
Spring time is beautiful.
Spring time is when nature is beautiful.
It is spring time.
Spring time is here.
The rabbits come out, and hop round.
The bees are collection honey for us.
The tulips are blossoming.
The roses are blossoming, and looking so beautiful.
The lavender is purple and bright.
Spring time is a time to celebrate.
Spring time is a time to clean our environment.
It is spring time.
Spring time is a time when rain falls.
Spring time is the time when the seasons changes.
Spring time is when the plants grow.
Spring time is my favorite season.
Spring time is the time to be happy.
It is spring time.
poem by Crystal Chown
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Time of the Oak
At the end of my fence there is a beautiful big oak tree
It has withstood all weathers remaining proud and free
The trees bark is overgrown with wild ivy and faded
It's never alone because many insects and critters invaded
I often see the sparkling eyes of a racoon at twilight
Or an opossum hanging from a branch holding on tight
Thousands of insects and birds visited over the years
Because the tree provides shade and shelter it appears
I often think of trimming it but I do not have the heart
Leaving nature alone seems to be the way that's smart
During fall I usually get mad because of the falling leaves
But I enjoy watching the squirls taking acorns like thieves
The old tree has seen different times and past generations
It has fought with the wind and endured heat with patience
The oak spreaded out and with majestic posture it stands
The tree is a statement of time without making demands
During a storm I know I am safe if the oak tree survives
Because it has conquered time - being part of many lives
I am waiting for whispers of ancient secrets it may shares
Telling me about natures yet undiscovered evolutionary affairs
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Sequoia Trees
Trees so long that it makes a city look small.
Yet they make the Empire state building look tall.
People can climb this massive trees in the winter or the fall.
I saw pictures of people climbing one Sequoia like a mountain.
One of these days I want to climb a Sequoia tree.
I think these trees will last until the end of time.
No one should ever cut them down in their prime.
The Sequoias bark is so thick that it protects itself against fire.
They can last long winters in the Sierra.
Thick bark serves both causes which makes it unwilling to expire.
The fact that they are continually growing is very profound.
Theses trees are so tall and round.
Most people cant see the sky from the ground.
None should chop it down because it will fall
to pieces on the forest floor.
Try to make wood from those trees and you will be poor.
These famous trees are disease resistant.
One Sequoia is called the President.
On earth this is the second greatest tree giant.
The Sequoias are Americas living monument.
I find the Sequoias so hard to describe,
because they are so magnificent.
Thanks God for creating trees that cause so much excitement.
Nils Finn
Now little Nils Finn had away to go;
The skis were too loose at both heel and toe.
--"That's too bad!" rumbled yonder.
Then little Nils Finn in the snow set his feet:
"You ugliest troll, you shall never me cheat!"
--"Hee-ho-ha!" rumbled yonder.
Nils Finn with his staff beat the snow till it blew
"Your trollship, now saw you how hapless it flew?"
--"Hit-li-hu!" rumbled yonder.
Nils Finn pushed one ski farther forward with might;
The other held fast,--he reeled left and right.
--"Pull it up!" rumbled yonder.
Nils' tears wet the snow, while he kicked and he struck;
The more that he kicked there, the deeper he stuck.
--"That was good!" rumbled yonder.
The birch-trees, they danced, and the pine-trees said "Hoo!"
They more were than one,--were a hundred and two.
--"Know your way?" rumbled yonder.
A laugh shook the ridge till it made the snow fly;
But Nils clenched his fists and he swore 't was a lie.
--"Now beware!" rumbled yonder.
The snow-field yawned wide, and the heavens came low;
Nils thought 't was now time for him also to go.
--"Is he gone?" rumbled yonder.--
Two skis in the snow looked about everywhere,
But saw nothing much; for there was nothing there.
--"Where is Nils?" rumbled yonder.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Remembering Marie A.
It was a day in that blue month september
Silent beneath the plum trees slender shade
I held her there
My love, so pale and silent
As if she were a dream that must not fade
Above us in the shining summer heaven
There was a cloud my eyes dwelled long upon
It was quite white and very high above us
Then I looked up
And found that it had gone
And since that day, so many moons in silence
Have swum across the sky and gone below
The plum trees surely have been chopped for firewood
And if you ask, how does that love seem now
I must admit, I really cant remember
And yet I know what you are trying to say
But what her face was like, I know no longer
I only know I kissed it on that day
As for the kiss, I long ago forgot it
But for the cloud that floated in the sky
I know that still and shall forever know it
It was quite white and moved in very high
It may be that the plum trees still are blooming
That womans seventh child may now be there
And yet that cloud had only bloomed for minutes
When I looked up
It vanished on the air
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song - Monie a Smile, Monie a Tear
There’s monie a smile and monie a tear
On the mystery tour that brings us here
It’s monie a mile and monie a year
Since you and I sailed fae the crumbling stane pier
It’s time noo tae quit the ocean o’ dreams
Tae gan hame tae the village by the trees
And the wun was fair; we had followin’ seas
Your een were glowin and your heart was free
I lost myself in an whirlpool of words
In a world of hunger, egos and swords
I searched for a song to make it alright
Way back whun everything was black an’ white
And time was wi' us for monie a mile
When the starlight was bright and filled the night
Our hopes reached the sky, and strangers were friends
The waves weren’t breakers between us back then
When we were the morning, fresh as the breeze
Blowin’ oot fae the village by the trees
Noo the loch and glens, and the trees and the hills
The oul stane harbour, they’re all waiting still
And roon the ledges o’ galloway’s cliffs
There’s flocks o' herring gulls and razor bills
And doon by the surge at the Yellow Isle
There’s monie a curse and monie a smile
Or is this me back to the dreamin’ again
Oe'r the bridges of time consigned to flames
When kids fell in love by the oul village shop
And stole tender kisses doon by the White Loch
Tae set them aff doon the road that leads here
Windin’ far fae the village by the trees
After Rain
The rain of a night and a day and a night
Stops at the light
Of this pale choked day. The peering sun
Sees what has been done.
The road under the trees has a border new
of purple hue
Inside the border of bright thin grass:
For all that has
Been left by November of leaves is torn
From hazel and thorn
And the greater trees. Throughout the copse
No dead leaf drops
On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern,
At the wind's return:
The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed
Are thinly spread
In the road, like little black fish, inlaid,
As if they played.
What hangs from the myriad branches down there
So hard and bare
Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see
On one crab-tree.
And on each twig of every tree in the dell
Uncountable
Crystals both dark and bright of the the rain
That begins again.
poem by Edward Thomas
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The Old Lane Through The Woods
There’s a track through the trees from the White to the Black
that I walked as a kid and I often went back.
Now the years slip away and the distances grow,
but if time gives us time and we get to change tack
if the notion should take you then I’d gladly go:
in wildest November before winter’s trance,
at the height of the spring when the daffodils dance.
We could stand on the bank where the rhodies convene,
like the first of our kind who looked down on that scene,
on a loch with no name, with no castles around,
or old burial ground of the meek and the mean;
though the rich bled the poor, by the sod they’re all bound.
Or we’ll maybe just stay on the old woodland road
and head north to the Black with the odd jumping toad.
There a whole constellation of things we can view.
In the summer there’s herons and sometimes deer too,
and there’s dodging and weaving through armies of leaves.
Though the foxgloves are rare I’ll find one just for you,
and then swing on the Ivy through Sycamore trees.
If you ever have time we could wander off down
that old lane through the woods whether wintry or lown.
But I know all too well that this life is a crush.
There’d be too much to do if we didn’t all rush.
And I wonder sometimes how it all went so wrong;
but they’re calling it progress with hardly a blush -
in a world where rich hippies can still sing along.
There’s a place where that craziness doesn’t hold sway;
if you’re ever back home we could go there some day
14 12 11
Winter With a Question
The aging trees will creak and groan
To find themselves ringed by frost in sleep
And snow by the wind already blown
Cast upon snow already deep.
The cold is echoed only by silence all,
And the leaves of Autumn entombed in white
At the place where leaves fall
And passing time, vanish from sight.
Who is it that judges these—
Sends leaves beneath the snow
And trees to shiver alongside trees? —
And where do they go?
poem by Ronny Self
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Archibald's Example
Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,
Where trespassers, whatever their degree,
Were soon frowned out again, was looking off
Across the clover when he said to me:
“My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down
Without a scratch, was once inhabited
By trees that injured him—an evil trash
That made a cage, and held him while he bled.
“Gone fifty years, I see them as they were
Before they fell. They were a crooked lot
To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time
In fifty years for crooked things to rot.
“Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy
To God or man, for they were thieves of light.
So down they came. Nature and I looked on,
And we were glad when they were out of sight.
“Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so,
So much for that.” He twinkled in his chair,
And looked across the clover to the place
That he remembered when the trees were there.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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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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Nothin' Shakin'
I tried to find out
What love is all about,
And every day
It sure lets out.
I see my baby
I get week in my knees.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
My pappie told me
There'd be times like these.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
We meet the gang
And go to rocking joes.
The cats are something
On the heels and toes.
I grab my baby,
Tried to give her a squeeze.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
Why must she be
Such a doggone tease?
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees.
She's got a way
That makes me act like a fool.
Spent my money,
Then she plays me cool.
I beg her for kisses
On my bended knees.
Oh won't you give me
Some loving, baby,
Please please please.
Though i keep trying hard
To make her mine,
One day the wind will blow
And the sun will shine.
Till that time
She puts my heart at ease.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
She locked my heart
And threw away the keys.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees, yeah.
She's got a way
That makes me act like a fool.
Spent my money,
Then she plays me cool.
I'm begging her for kisses
On my bended knees.
Oh won't you give me
Some of your loving, baby,
Please please please.
Though i keep trying hard
To make her mine,
One day the wind will blow
And the sun will shine.
Till that time
She puts my heart at ease.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
She locked my heart
And threw away the keys.
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
There's nothing shaking
But the leaves on the trees
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trees of Darkness
The trees of darkness are tall, wise and livid with rage,
A cheese slice is covering our eyes then the tree-cage.
Black trees are not yellow, red and orange
But the slice of fun moved like a lunge.
I plunge into leaves of Autumn, faults of time,
Carrying my food with my mouth and crime.
Trees grow forward in time, and we shall be divine
In different places, diverse views are taken to align.
Dark places will spoil the view and place,
But why do some people define this space?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Portofino Sounds So Far Away!
It is the story of nights
When love somnoles for a while
While near the window, a dogwood tree
Blossoms in white, in flowers, in time
It is the story well known
When I hold your hand
To stay where we are, or just
To stay
For with time, between two kisses
Suddenly, love leaves for a while
In lavender, in tears, in promises
All goes, between two kisses
On an August night
It is the story others only know
The story which, with time, becomes ours
Between two goodbyes, at a train station
On an October night
And, as I look back
To the times we never had, alone,
To the fears that kept us up, alone,
After a promise was shared, alone,
I smile. For it is the story
I was told when young
When date trees grew near
Fig trees, and when high tide
Brought the bluest sea to our door
When we were told that with time
All goes, between two dogwood white petals
Falling
Or when in your eyes I lost
The times we never had
Alone
October 31,2008
poem by Vahe Kazandjian
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