The baboon
Bouncing buoyantly, rushing along
the young African baboon
greyish-brown with a green tint
came to the fence of the game reserve
it rushed up that fence till almost
at the top where it stopped.
First one hand, then another,
then one more and then the last
carefully came over the electric wires
on the top before it cheered in joy
bobbing and hobbled on.
The orchard with peach
and apricot trees
was its aim and in a rush
it went up a peach tree
plucking two or three
and pushing them one
after another into its mouth.
The stupid little bush sprite
couldn’t get another peach
into its mouth
and gave it one bite
and dropped it to the ground
and did the same with the next
and the following peach
and so it almost stripped the tree.
Having eaten to its satisfaction
it went back from where it came
and two hours later
I saw a whole troop of baboons,
some mothers with babies
riding on their backs
and big males
with long white exposed fangs.
Danger was lurking in that orchard,
danger of being stripped totally
and danger for me,
as a baboons can easily
rip a leopard apart
with claws and fangs.
As eight year old boy
I knew it well,
picked up a broom
and to the orchard I rushed
and the big male baboons
glared at me,
but when I brought the broom
to my shoulder like a gun
the sentry barked its warning
and baboons fell from trees
and there were baboons everywhere
running away and bellowing their dismay.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The Little Peach
A little peach in the orchard grew,--
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
It grew.
One day, passing that orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue--
Them two.
Up at that peach a club they threw--
Down from the stem on which it grew
Fell that peach of emerald hue.
Mon Dieu!
John took a bite and Sue a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,--
Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.
Too true!
Under the turf where the daisies grew
They planted John and his sister Sue,
And their little souls to the angels flew,--
Boo hoo!
What of that peach of the emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.
Adieu!
1880.
poem by Eugene Field
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A troop of baboons (Terzanelle)
I saw a troop of baboons gather
with mothers inspecting for ticks
in a group coming together
feeling through heads with finger nails making sharp clicks
and small mouths finding nipples
with mothers inspecting for ticks
and two old cripples
came hobbling along
and small mouths finding nipples
and some female baboons howling as if in song
and babies
came hobbling along
and some were agitated as if having rabies,
and there were large females
and babies
and as guards a group of huge males.
I saw a troop of baboons gather
and there were large females
in a group coming together.
[References: Les Chercheuses de Poux by Jean Arthur Rimbaud and The Sisters by Roy Campbell.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Peach Tree On The Southern Wall
The peach tree on the southern wall
Has basked so long beneath the sun,
Her score of peaches great and small
Bloom rosy, every one.
A peach for brothers, one for each,
A peach for you and a peach for me;
But the biggest, rosiest, downiest peach
For Grandmamma with her tea.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Ripest Peach
The ripest peach is highest on the tree --
And so her love, beyond the reach of me,
Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow
Her heart down to me where I worship now!
She looms aloft where every eye may see
The ripest peach is highest on the tree.
Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!
I may not reach here from the orchard grass.
I drink the sunshine showered past her lips
As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips.
The ripest peach is highest on the tree,
And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.
Why -- why do I not turn away in wrath
And pluck some heart here hanging in my path? --
Love's lower boughs bend with them -- but, ah me!
The ripest peach is highest on the tree!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Old Peach Tree
Under the old peach tree
Hearing the buzz of bees
Looking up at pink blossoms so sweet
Watching pink petals fall at my feet
Under the old peach tree almost fallen down
I can hear every sound as the sun goes down
I hear somewhere the song of a mocking bird
The sweetest song I ever heard
As I lean against the old peach tree
I think of things that used to be
This old tree brings me back to my childhood
And the many peaches I ate that were so good
Old peach tree I wish you could talk
Whisper to me some of your thoughts
But instead you fill my heart with your beauty
As I smell the perfume of your blossoms so fruity
I wonder how much longer you'll be here.
How much longer my heart you'll cheer
I hope to lean against you many a spring
And feel the peace that you bring.
poem by Grace Riffle
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To His Two Children
In the land of Wu the mulberry leaves are green,
And thrice the silkworms have gone to sleep.
In East Luh where my family stay,
I wonder who is sowing those fields of ours.
I cannot be back in time for the spring doings,
Yet I can help nothing, traveling on the river.
The south wind blowing wafts my homesick spirit
And carries it up to the front of our familiar tavern.
There I see a peach tree on the east side of the house
With thick leaves and branches waving in the blue mist.
It is the tree I planted before my parting three years ago.
The peach tree has grown now as tall as the tavern roof,
While I have wandered about without returning.
Ping-yang, my pretty daughter, I see you stand
By the peach tree and pluck a flowering branch.
You pluck the flowers, but I am not there
How your tears flow like a stream of water!
My little son, Po-chin, grown up to your sister's shoulders,
You come out with her under the peach tree,
But who is there to pat you on the back?
When I think of these things, my senses fail,
And a sharp pain cuts my heart every day.
Now I tear off a piece of white silk to write this letter,
And send it to you with my love a long way up the river.
Not all the baboons that enter a maize field come out satisfied.
In Heidelberg
In Heidelberg we stayed in a white house
against the ranges
and there were always
sweet yellow corn that Mom had planted
and nice juicy green beans
that crept up the canes
and I planted rows of onions
and pulled orange carrots
from the ground
and washed them at the tap
and bit pieces from them
and the trees
were heavy with peaches
and we had to
chase the baboons away
that came to strip the them,
but those times
has long passed
and I wonder what is left
of that old white house?
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Peach
Mamma gave us a single peach,
She shared it among seven;
Now you may think that unto each
But a small piece was given.
Yet though each share was very small,
We owned when it was eaten,
Being so little for us all
Did its fine flavour heighten.
The tear was in our parent's eye,
It seemed quite out of season;
When we asked wherefore she did cry,
She thus explained the reason:-
'The cause, my children, I may say,
Was joy, and not dejection;
The peach, which made you all so gay,
Gave rise to this reflection:
'It's many a mother's lot to share,
Seven hungry children viewing,
A morsel of the coarsest fare,
As I this peach was doing.'
poem by Charles Lamb
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This peach my teacher
This peach
that I’ve just eaten,
been graced by,
been blessed by,
been taught by,
been transformed by…
it’s as if some
Messenger of the Gods
had arrived, stopwatch in hand,
saying, everything holds in perfection
but a little moment -
as William Shakespeare noted:
so I’m going to arrange things so that
as the stopwatch ticks out
ten seconds to that moment,
you’ll reach out your hand to the fruitbowl,
take it, feel its yielding softness under velvet skin,
cut it carefully twice through the poles,
once equatorially… and as it falls apart,
spear one segment; eat…
this peach
was full of what even Rilke
could say no more than, peachness..
it was a living proof of Plato:
its perfection taught me
where essence meets experience,
where actuality meets the ideal of peach;
where a singular perfection speaks of
all perfections; where perfection
leaves from perfection, naught else but perfect…
how could such a perfect thing
have been invented by one
who does not love? Who is not love?
This peach is love itself, and I the worshipper
must needs make of myself a living God
to whom to kneel, to offer praise and gratitude
for all perfection known..
this peach my teacher.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sexy Peach
You're a sexy peach.
Delicious on the eyes!
Igniting my taste buds...
To get close enough,
To eat as my treat!
Sexy peach...
I'd love to rub against your fuzziness.
And cuddle on the beach.
Sexy peach...
I wish to feel what now appeals,
And even lick the pit of it!
I'd like to bite every slice...
With the dripping of the nutrients done,
Provided by the succulent Sun.
And your fuzzy on my lips...
Inviting you to kiss,
That sweetness I can not resist.
Let's share it and strip away...
Those inhabitions exciting the addmission,
We both desire to pleasure and ride.
Sexy peach...
I'd love to rub against your fuzziness.
And cuddle on the beach.
Sexy peach...
I wish to feel what now appeals,
And even lick the pit of it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Peach Grove Next To Abbatoir
Next to an abbatoir
grows a peach grove.
The former has screams.
The latter is silent.
The slaughterhouse
stinks of blood and urine
and solid waste.
The peach grove is fragrant.
The slaughterhouse yields
a maximum 1000 pounds an acre of
food.
The peach grove yields in
trilevel agriculture four hundred
fifty thousand pounds an acre.
The slaughterhouse is labor
intensive and causes many worker
injuries and deaths.
The peach tree requires nothing
but a seed beneath dirt. The sun
and rain and mother earth
do the rest.
The slaughterhouse food causes
cancer, heart disease, food
poisoning, kidney failure, arthritis,
food poisoning fatalities.
The peach grove is God-designed.
poem by Saiom Shriver
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The Spring Wind And The Peach Farmer In The Farm
Spring wind
why do you have to blow
so hard?
Are you angry with me?
Don't you want me
to remove the peach buds
from this peach tree?
Spring wind...
Okay, you win
I'm going home
I'll come back tomorrow
when your anger is gone.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Peach Munching
harvesting peach
can't wait 'till breakfast
peach munching.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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City Of Peach
Flowers, flowers
peach flowers everywhere
in the mountains and lowlands
of the city of peach.
How lucky I am
to see this beauty everyday
and that's because
I have not given up
I struggle to survive
the cold and lonely winter
of this city of peach.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Suddenly A Shadow Falls
Suddenly a shadow falls from above
where a rock-rabbit bathes in the sun,
it moves to the fountain in the mountain,
hear baboons barking higher up on the cliffs
stops in fear, would have run if it could,
against the rock that animal is very small.
The shadows gets shape, it gets dangerous,
with deadly, piercing claws, beak stretched out
lightning quick and precise something falls,
the rock-rabbit screeches and just escapes,
disappears into a split of rock
waits for moments that lasts a eternity
but the flying danger is still there,
with yellow-gold eyes staring from the heights.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Chief executives, who themselves own few shares of their companies, have no more feeling for the average stockholder than they do for baboons in Africa.
quote by T. Boone Pickens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peach
Soft is the
Skin
Of the ripe peach,
So gently,
I will coarse
My
Innocent hands
Through
It's fine hair
Caressing
It's
Curving surface.
How
I wish for a bite.
Soft is the
Skin
Of the ripe peach.
Sweet it is
To savor.
In
My hand, I hold
It,
Waiting to
Treasure it's
Taste.
My tongue is teased.
How
I wish for a bite.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Baobab Tree
under whose branches lions lie down
dreaming in the sun,
where baboons sometimes play,
where elephants rip off some bark
and when you walk around it,
its branches look like rows of spears,
and birds do fly up, and bees buzz around it,
and when you come in its shade, smell its fruit,
its leaves and bark does not look similar
to any other tree.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The old farm yard
I see a spade making holes
and shoots of peach trees
Appearing in rows in an orchard.
There’s a hot sun
that hangs above in a bright blue sky
and sweat flow in streams,
from under the old dark brown hat.
The old red Massi Ferguson tractors
machine has turned for a last time
and red dirt lies blown thick,
where it stands on the side against an old oak tree.
At the shed there’s a big silver tank
full of expensive diesoline
and I hear the boreholes
pump humming monotonous
and I see spill points in the distance
spraying water on the field
and the smell of wet ground
hangs like a blessing
in the air.
An old big Cock
raise its white wings
and crows angrily,
when the green John Deere tractor
with its trailer full of workers
stop in front of the homestead
Where it stands and scratches.
It’s great to eat country fare,
but the peace and tranquillity
on the old farm yard
me desire
to also live at such a place.
poem by Gert Strydom
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