Very Deep In The Dark Moonlit Night
Very deep in the dark moonlit night
I still hear the sound of doves
where the whole night they coo, whisper and laugh;
I see the yellow moon glowing as a sickle
where it hangs high above the horizon,
there are thunderbolts lashing thundering,
in blinding flashes of blue-white light
with the doves scattering scared over the roof
when the storm walks nearer through the tree branches.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Spice-Tree
This is the song
The spice-tree sings:
"Hunger and fire,
Hunger and fire,
Sky-born Beauty—
Spice of desire,"
Under the spice-tree
Watch and wait,
Burning maidens
And lads that mate.
The spice-tree spreads
And its boughs come down
Shadowing village and farm and town.
And none can see
But the pure of heart
The great green leaves
And the boughs descending,
And hear the song that is never ending.
The deep roots whisper,
The branches say:—
"Love to-morrow,
And love to-day,
And till Heaven's day,
And till Heaven's day."
The moon is a bird's nest in its branches,
The moon is hung in its topmost spaces.
And there, to-night, two doves play house
While lovers watch with uplifted faces.
Two doves go home
To their nest, the moon.
It is woven of twigs of broken light,
With threads of scarlet and threads of gray
And a lining of down for silk delight.
To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves,
Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;—
And one is the kiss I took from you,
And one is the kiss you gave to me.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Seasons
I
As if summer will never end
irises are everywhere in the garden
with opening flower after flower
in light yellow, deep purple and rust-brown.
The bright hot sun hangs day after day
in a cobalt blue sky and even carnations, geraniums
and flame lilies are showing their beauty,
are still holding onto summer.
Doves are still cooing in the oak tree,
their are finches and sparrows cavorting up and down
and it’s as if nature is thwarting autumn
while dew is still shining on the leaves in the mornings
until later the sky becomes dull blue
while the sun is getting much more faint.
II
Slowly the leaves are falling
descending in different colours,
in one’s and two’s and later in a bigger number
tree-trunks become dark brown, red and some pallid
until every tree but for those that are evergreen stand skeleton,
the birds that remain sit next to each other shivering,
wishing for the winter to past
having difficulty to find seeds and other food
and the cold winter wind blows through everything,
filling the air with whirling dust clouds
with stripped branches flinging up and down
and everywhere leaves and branches lie in a jumble
until the wind dies down and the morning fog hangs like vapour,
at times only at noon is dispersed by the sun.
III
Days are cold and grey while the sun hides,
with a owl hunting during the day
searching for hungry mice sneaking around in the yellow grass
and all other signs of animal life is missing
but for doves sitting here and there
on telephone wires,
in disconsolation staring into the distance
and early mornings the grass is covered with white ripe
and it is as if every flower succumbs,
is shrinking crumpled and are folding close
until the first spring rain comes suddenly,
with sprouts and buds appearing and new flowers folding open
when fruit trees are covered with white, pink and yellow blossoms
and the sudden beauty takes your breath away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A spring evening
Outside the irises flower yellow and purple
and I haven’t seen a red one yet
and there are some pink and white blossoms
on the fruit trees
and the streetlights burn continually
glowing orange-yellow
all day and all night
as if the municipality
does not know how to do things right
and in the fading evening light
the moon is full and white
and the evening star is already shining bright
and a hot breeze sweeps in
through the open windows
and I wonder when the first spring rain
is going to fall
and in the distance I see thunder
crashing down
in blue-white flashes, but the storm
is blown away and again the sky is clear
and the black speckled by stars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Doves And The Tree
what i first see are the doves hovering on the tree
they are many and the tree looks as though its leaves are plenty
for one thing
the doves when they hover
they hover together
as a flock
and when they leave
they also leave together
as a flock
and the tree can do nothing about it
and thus it happens
the doves all left at the same time leaving the tree to the truth
of its existence
it has no leaves at all this summer
when hot is really hot in here
when all the doves fly away together
the tree
looks like the thin, worn fingers of a very old man
opening, stretching to the skies
praying for mercies
and what about it God?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death of Dusk
The sun resigns,
bleeds out the vestiges –
remnants of the day.
Exsanguination edges into twilight:
red-brown hangs;
upwards darkens:
blue-brown,
blue-black,
death-black,
disquiet – furtive,
like ghoul-ridden fog.
A sombre moon assumes its role,
gushing silver-white lymph upon the muted scape –
a prequel of supernatural undertones
to chill the scene,
ice the spine,
kill the brain –
we have unnerved the very firmament.
But now a shadow closing down the globe:
dinosaurian cloud shrouds the moon glaze,
claims the late hour –
declared in a dying crow caw.
I, the hidden owl
– nemesis of claustrophobic minds –
awake! for mammal flesh –
fresh, jerking out its warmth in dance of death.
Rock-still I perch in sculptured oneness
with my crooked night-tree,
emanating nocturnal allure.
Together we scowl
together we play the dark
upon the land and sky
and mind
while you lie as dead in your box.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night dark dark
dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night dark dark
dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Too Sparsely The Light Falls
Too sparsely the light falls through the window on that day,
in splashes here and there, with the park invisible,
with light fading away and suddenly the dark night comes
with stars shining blue-white.
Away into the naught the light of an aeroplane flashes,
when the night bends far over the horizon
and it feels as if God Himself is here,
stretching Him out over the earthly events.
poem by Gert Strydom
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At the hunting lodge
The hunter’s.308 Musgrave hunting rifle
lies next to him in pieces
in the faint light of the hunting lodge
where he is cleaning the weapon
and in the distance a jackal
is calling at dusk,
he notices a swarm of wild doves
landing in the marula tree.
When the parts of the weapon
is joined as it belongs,
he carefully puts the weapon away
before he walks out
joining his wife at the barbeque fire
and the smell of fried lamb chops
makes his stomach growl
while he takes a pair of frying tongs from her,
turning around strings of sausages
above them the stars in the night sky
are shot-gunned into the black,
there are hyenas attracted by the smell
of the frying meat
laughing behind some trees,
somewhere he hears a kudu snorting
and the moon hangs yellow-gold above them
while he stirs the porridge
in the black three-legged pot
and his wife can swear
that a leopard with glowing eyes
is peering at them.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blue Dove
The Blue Dove Legend.
says it's born every hundred years,
Blue Doves are true,
and brings love.
They say if the Blue Dove,
lands on your porch, or
near you, only good fortune,
for ever you'll have
Love always will be,
deep in your heart, so touching,
you with other down trodden
people, for you to reach.
An open heart to others,
a gift you will have.
Blue Doves are true
so if you see one,
do not flee.
Blue Doves are hatched,
in a nest of two
one white, one blue,
mother cuddles
with ever loving care,
she knows this little thing,
is so special and true.
The day that Blue Dove flees the nest,
and flys into the unknown
some lucky soul their fortune,
will change.
Blue Doves may be just,
a legend, but if you,
do see one, hope it comes,
your way, to bring hope,
love, life and better days.
Blue dove, does bring,
true love, and many happy
days, so watch out, look,
search the skys, Blue
Dove may be coming,
your way.
wrote 1-17-07
There Were Late Afternoons As A Child
There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam
with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,
when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.
There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,
when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky
while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.
poem by Gert Strydom
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There Were Late Afternoons
There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam
with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,
when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.
There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,
when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky
while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Between the Now and Then
Upon horizon, night to day ~
there between the now and then,
I often pause along the way,
to tiptoe through the moonlit glen ~
or perhaps take in sun's light,
night to day ~ day to night.
Upon horizon, day to day ~
there between the then and now,
as seasons grow along the way,
to crease the face of timely brow ~
or perhaps steal time away,
day to day ~ day to day.
Upon horizon, day to night ~
there between the now and then,
I stand beneath my autumn light,
bereft as memory calls again ~
to pain the heart with bygone sight,
Night to day ~ day to night.
Upon horizon, night to night ~
there between the then and now,
I know that winter casts its sight,
on one last leaf that will not bow ~
to frost within its golden sight,
night to night ~ night to night.
Upon horizon, night to day ~
there between the now and then,
I know my spring will fade away,
and summer's soft remember when
will echo gently autumn's way ~
day to night ~ night to day....
Winter's near ~ Winter's near......
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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When the sky domes dull blue
When the sky domes dull blue,
with doves cooing on the roof,
peeping at you through tree branches,
when finches gambol at their nests,
the sun beacons you sparsely through leaves,
a kind of silence comes, a type of serenity
that forever penetrates into your soul.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When dusk creeps through the windows
When dusk creeps through the windows
with the big old oak tree etched against the sky,
the eastern horizon gleams outside,
the morning star hangs is a beacon that bridges the night,
while the golden moon fades away
with the big old oak tree etched against the sky
the night is driven away, chased
by the sun rising burning
while the golden moon fades away,
the morning is fresh like an unfolding flower
while the birds, the insects, the animals are woken
by the sun rising burning
with blinding white light, stretching out its rays
and I am getting awake
while the birds, the insects, the animals are woken
and the day has already belted its gleaming chord.
When dusk creeps through the windows
and I am getting awake
the eastern horizon gleams outside.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Darkness
I
The twilight is framed and covered in black,
drawn closed on the one side,
when suddenly it carries blue-white thunder
that burns sparking, it's deadly risky,
where no sign of any moon
rise up against the closed night sky,
there are only thunder flashes hitting flickering
without a sign of the Southern Cross
and still the earth waits on drops of rain
to start their irrigation
when a shower continuously patters down,
seeping into the deep ground,
thunderbolts reports constantly
while twilight falls silver over the beach.
II
While twilight falls silver over the beach
the neon lights of the night glitter,
cut-off from the whole universe
as if each one is waiting for discovery
and it's as if the backwash wants to
pull you deeper into the sea,
in the space where the great ocean stretches
and there is something in each dream and wish
like that Wide Ocean unlimited
that waits free without any bonds,
as if each day and night
works together in a perfect balance,
as if the darkness keeps you for moments,
here where the dark night now folds around me.
III
Here where the dark night now folds around me.
I hear your steps coming closer
the wild wind jerks some of the windows open,
in thunder I am stripped from you
and grief will after years have an impact
that still strips me down roughly
from reason and all kinds of hope,
to keep you against me once more.
The much deeper pain of only being human
does not want to subside in my heart, in my soul,
and sometimes like now with full fury
it becomes real in each thought, in fear,
outside purity is in everything,
as if the white street light shines with sympathy.
IV
As if the white street light shines with sympathy
the city lies stretched out in the distance
as if it is a gigantic spaceship
that continually draws people to it
of which the lights flash on and off
when travellers in their cars come near,
bright lights are seen from a distance
while people gather at many places.
At places the lights are blinding
where people revel at each kind of place
or as if it wants to takeoff with a wild wind
while the darkness of the city stretches out wide,
I wonder where people go soulless;
it's night with a very small crescent moon.
V
It's night with a very small crescent moon
that hangs somewhat shameful in the darkness,
at places shadows catch my eyes,
with popular branches swishing about,
I can swear something is following me for a while,
somewhere something hisses like a cat or snake,
I stretch my steps and am far too scared
to look back or now to stop walking,
it's as if something is suddenly blowing in my neck,
now I am afraid, my arm hairs raise
and I hear the churchyard gate moaning shrilly
while I am in a much greater hurry,
against my back there's a cold shiver,
with open eyes I pray for God to protect me.
VI
With open eyes I pray for God to protect me,
see some old tramps standing around a fire
when a black cat suddenly moans next to me,
while I see coals with flames rising.
It's only a big cat moving next to me
and I bend down and stroke it gently,
it's no unearthly kind of thing
as I had imagined,
above us stars are blazing the night full,
prostitutes triple on like display-dolls,
on the horizon lights are red, yellow and white
one whistles at me while I pass them,
three stand astride arguing with each other,
one girl draws up her blouse and I walk past.
VII
One girl draws up her blouse and I walk past,
I see breasts in their finest detail,
wonder how people live in this godless city,
every thing is getting worse than it had been.
I am alone and almost late
to get bread and milk at the Spar
and I cross the busy street,
hear them call in a choir at me
where one of the girls pulls her skirt up
showing her legs and a white panty,
trying her best to arouse desires,
I catch the smell of vinegar, chips and aniseed
while she begs: Come along with me;
the twilight is framed and covered in black.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On Two Sisters Whose Deaths Were Together
IN woods remote, hid in the mountain hollows,
Doves there are that have a gentler beauty,
Doves that are marked as by a poet's image,
And hence are called Doves of the Wounded Heart.
And such ye were, and we could never learn the
Call that would bring you to our breasts, our hands!
And such ye were, and ye were aliens in our
Barnyard-world Doves of the Wounded Heart!
You who were proud no storm had ever turned your
Flight, and you who were her cherished one
May ye have found, hid in your mountain hollows,
Your wood remote, Doves of the Wounded Heart!
poem by Padraic Colum
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There’s An Inaccessibility
There’s an inaccessibility
in the steel-blue sky,
a chilly winter cold that comes without modesty
and I see doves turning in their gambolling flight
in a swarm gathering around me
and they seem hungry
when I spread crumbs of bread from a paper-bag
but in this winter all heat is missing
while the wind is pulling on tree branches,
making a dust cloud of leaves and sand,
blowing things higher than the roofs of the houses,
causing the blue to disappear.
Still I can stare in wonder,
where doves gather dog tame around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sweet Dream
I weave sweet dreams
of twinkling light
in moonlit night
I entwine a garland of stars
in moonlit night
I do all so
to embellish you to look
like a fairy queen
and cherish you in moonlit night
I do so all
to see you like second moon
for graceful moment in moonlit night
I weave sweet dreams
of my thoughts and
make a garland
to vesture you to look
like a fairy queen
The rapacity of moon
will increase to see your beauty
then I will cover you
like the cloud
in moonlit night
I will ask the moonlit night
not to leave us alone
and be with us
throughout life.
poem by Ramesh Rai
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Beautiful Is..
Beautiful is..
The money plant having drops of dew
The stars lit night with moon blue
Beautiful is..
A chubby child's cherubic smile
The rain drops which wet a mile
Beautiful is..
The rainbow in the sky above
The early morning chirping of doves
Beautiful is..
The inimitable serenity of sea
The first kiss under a tree
Beautiful is..
The yellow butterfly on a red rose
And yes may be this little prose.
Moon Glow
The darkest night, flows with a
wind hush through open blackness.
Ya'ever see the moon glow?
Ya' ever hear the wind whisper?
Rivulets spill with water
across the mountain plains;
as liquid rolls down along the steep slope-
ya'ever see the moon glow?
Ya' ever hear the wind whisper?
Stars glitter through sparkles
of the darkest night.
Wind cold breeze swifts;
swiftly into space.
Laughter engulfs the moon light.
Ya' ever see the moon glow?
Ya' ever hear the wind whisper?
Moon light angles corners,
as sweet melodies swell into air,
of silence.
You ever sight the bird dance,
as shadow flicker
upon the moon?
Ya' ever see the moon glow?
Ya' ever hear the wind whisper?
poem by Celine Berghmans
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Lone Traveler
Lone howl under the great blue night sky
A pack of wolves running through the forest
Chasing down crying little rabbit looking for a hole
Doesn’t know that every damn hole is full of corns
Lone howl under the great blue night sky
The moon shines like there is no other night
To make the curve she had to follow the relenting howl
As time runs in circle, the night goes faster than before
Lone howl under the great blue night sky
A child walks down the street of the city of angels
Knows no bond to depend on, no rope to hang on
He raised his hand for a dime, he’s only got reservation in heaven
Can you catch the notes floating with the sound
Within the cold air that freezes your bones and brain
With the snow that falls like storm,
And nothing but the white emptiness before your soul
And I’m walking with my bare two feet, listening carefully
To the sound of cars driving on the streets at night
To the sound of babies crying out their heart
To the sound of waves washing the shore, the sound of loneliness
To the sound of traveling stars, the sound of the universe
poem by Alexander Foald
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