Procession of All Souls
Gnarled and blessed
be the hour of autumn
when spotted pears sink
into wet sod, and blessed be
the songs of virgins rising
into the hunchbacked trees.
November dawn.
Down damp stone stairs
we followed the priest,
past leaf-choked wells
and jagged trees,
past the red rage of dogwood
ringing a black lake.
Dies Irae, he intoned,
Dies Illae, day of wrath.
We followed his swinging
censer, trail of smoke:
schoolgirls in gray, novices
in white veils, nuns in ragged black
tapping tortoise canes.
What joy to bear the fear,
to smell orbs of incense
perfuming the rot of leaves,
to cross the stubbled field
as crows rushed and whirled,
pecking at windfall seeds.
We arrived, rainsoaked, awed
to watch young nun-brides
kneel, and spread their thin bodies
across green doors of graves.
poem by Geraldine Connolly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Alex Descends Into Hell For A Bottle Of Milk/korova 1
Dies irae, dies illa
Dies irae, dies illa
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Decet in inferno
Dies illa, dies illa
Translation:
A day of wrath, that day
A day of wrath, that day
The amazing sound scattering from the trumpet
As is fitting for hell
That day, that day
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Fruit
Lewis allen, sonny white
Seven trees
Bearin strange fruit
Blood on the leaves
And blood at the roots
Black bodies
Swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin
From the poplar trees
Pastoral scene
Of the gallant south
Them big bulging eyes
And the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia
Clean and fresh
Then the sudden smell
Of burnin flesh
Here is a fruit
For the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the leaves to drop
Here is
Strange and bitter crop
As singed by billie holiday
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter cry.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Fruit
Lewis allen
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Autumn Becomes Winter
Autumn is becoming Winter,
And as it does everything dies.
Autumn is a slow decay in warm colours,
And Winter is grey and absent.
Some of the redy-brown leaves sit on the trees,
Yet the cold chill sings a song
That could only be the Winter.
It is scarf weather now.
I turn my collar up against the cold and damp.
The Sun has stopped shining all day,
Now we see it for a few hours a day
And then we are entombed in darkness.
You could run to catch up with the Sun,
But you’d never make it.
Be left like ship smoke on the horizon,
Just a spot in the distance.
You cannot escape the Winter.
Autumn is becoming Winter,
And as it does everything dies.
poem by Charlie F. Kane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strange Fruit
(l.allen)
Originally performed by billie holiday. jeff performed it live on air at kcrws man in the moon, on january 1994.
Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shades Of Grey
If you start here late no one will know what you did
No the streets are straight its the soul thats crooked
Ive been treated fine Ive been treated elegantly
But Im not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is east west is west
And bowery is screaming while delancey rests
Well Im south of the skating but Im north of the cash
I could sure use the money but Im ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last nights rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
Theres at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all to prove I was there
And I love the curses but Im not one for the trenches
And I do love the walking but thank God for the benches
Its hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second had is working but the minute hand is broke again
I know time will pass but I dont know when
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here but where I cant tell
Theres dreams here a plenty but theyre being withheld
And Im more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock thats broken
The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures
And trash is art and cash is culture
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Home Is Where My Heart Is
my home is where my heart is.
the white furniture are the veranda
the black umbrella at the side of the door
the green grass the lush trees
the pathway filled with pebbles
the ceiling with a fan
the stairs without dust
the railings with shellac
mahogany smell of walls
the well at the backyard
the smell of bacon at the kitchen
scrambled eggs and fresh milk
every morning
the smoke rising to the roof
of white steam rice
mother calling us all
and father waiting
praying for grace
and then this hearty meal
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Meditations after Li Po for M lady Helen
I
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best
II
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.
III
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.
IV
Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.
21-Oct-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Mute Pain of Trees
Cezanne’s rough, jutting trees
slashing the blotted sky,
at the dark bridge at Mainte,
stone arches stoically standing
as scarred trees hang low,
over the still, black Seine;
while in the Grove of Heroes
an ancient redwood
twisted trunk,
tense muscles,
aching, rising,
spiraling past scars,
past clean cuts of
amputated branches,
beyond the tops
of lesser trees,
all pain forgotten,
spreads its green crown
and shoves the blue July sky
a little higher.
poem by Steven Federle
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Strange Fruit
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is a fruit for the crow to pluck
For the rain to wither, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Birthday Poem
Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
poem by Ted Kooser
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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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Amber Mist
An imigrant of Dawn, i rise-
I search the roses and trees for thee-
Comes Spring and Summer joy of Love-
Where warmer shadows hide the last freeze...
A sanctuary of green paints itself free-
Comes the dusks past twilight all-
The brick wall with Autumns climbing ivy-
With two mysteries remaining-
The Amber Mist and Black Rose Of Fall...
Answers are not forthcoming-
Insidious and hidden in times past-
The seasons of blustering winds comes calling-
All leaves from the trees are cast...
Succumbing in days to the chill-
The Amber Mist and Black Rose decay-
Irrevelant now in this day and time-
For Winter White has gotten his way...
April 12,2009
poem by Theodora Onken
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An Ode to Autunm
Death becomes beauty when autumn
Kisses the forest trees
Creating a sea of brilliant colours
As far as the eye can see
Summer dies that fall may live
A death be not all in vain, for we
Welcome fall with its harvest bounty
Knowing summer will once more shortly reign
For autumn is the time trees they weep
Their treasure of red and yellow golden leaves
Whilst Jack Frost paints his icy portraits nightly
Upon any window canvas he can see
Autumn is a magical time
T'which we are truly blessed
Of all the seasons that come and go
Tis fall I like the best
poem by John A. Hancock
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Autumn Leaf Fall
Colourful leaves fall through the air,
Red, orange and yellow.
The ones on the ground start to rot,
Black, brown and purple.
Some get caught in the winter bared trees,
Gold, green and silver.
Leaves of the autumn,
The autumn rainbow,
These are the colours of the autumn leaf fall.
poem by Thistle Wargul
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Autumn Passed Through Paris
Autumn sliped into Paris yesterday,
came silently down Boulevard St Michel,
In sultry heat, past boughs sullen and still,
and met me on its way.
As I walked on to where the Seine flows by,
little twig songs burned softly in my heart,
smoky, odd, sombre, purple songs. I thought
they sighed that I shall die.
Autumn drew abreast and whispered to me,
Boulevard St Michel that moment shivered.
Rustling, the dusty, playful leaves quivered,
whirled forth along the way.
One moment: summer took no heed: whereon,
laughing, autumn sped away from Paris.
That it was here, I alone bear witness,
under the trees that moan.
Shades Of Gray
If you start here late, no one will know what you did
No, the streets are straight, it's the soul that's crooked
I've been treated fine,
I've been treated elegantly
But I'm not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is East,
West is West
And The Bowery is screaming while Delancey rests
Well, I'm south of the skating, but
I'm north of the cash
I could sure use the money but
I'm ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last night's rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
There are no shades of gray in between
There's at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all, to prove I was there
And I love the curses, but I'm not one for the trenches
Yes I do love the walking , but that God for the benches
It's hard to tell where green begins, and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second hand is working, but the minute hand broke again
I know time will pass, but I don't know when
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here, but where I can't tell
There's dreams here a plenty, but they're being witheld
And I'm more impressed with the closed doors
Than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock that's broken
The pigeons are ravens, and the gulls are vultures
And trash
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once Upon An Autumn Day
Once Upon an autumn day,
Colorful leaves began to fade
In the midst of a chilly, frosty air
As multitude of trees grew steadily bare.
Once upon an autumn day,
The whispering breeze was here to stay
Moving aimlessly through the countless trees
Scattering leaves with the greatest of ease.
Once upon an autumn day,
The leaves whirled freely in every way,
Until at last they came to rest
Finding a haven in which to nest.
Once upon an autumn day,
The trees were dormant, and the leaves lay
Waiting for the winter snow to fall
To quickly obscure them one and all.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Ending [Final]
The memories invade my brain
As crows in poplars build their nest,
While clouds go by and come again,
Like smoke, above the lake and plain,
And never rest.
It's gone the autumn with its shine
Of faded green an vivid gold,
With purple grapes, which look so fine,
And now the park, my soul divine,
Are bare and cold.
The frozen lake will be resigned
When the last leaf falls to the ground
And wind through branches gently blows,
So that you know you left behind
A field of snow, which makes no sound,
And wailing crows.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Daybreak in Alabama
When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.
poem by Langston Hughes
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