The Old Acacia Tree
Neither daylight nor the darkness
See how silently I wander.
Not on mountain, nor in valley,
Does an old acacia ponder.
The acacia solves all mysteries,
Tells my fortune while I tarry.
I shall ask the tree to tell me
Whom O whom, am I to marry?
Where will he be from, O Acacia,
Is it Poland, Lithuania?
Will he come with a horse and a carriage
Or with staff and sack will he appear?
And what presents will be bring me -
Necklace of pearls and coral flower?
Tell me, will he be fair or dark-haired?
Still unmarried or a widower?
If he's old, my dear Acacia,
I won't have him, please don't try me.
I'll tell my father; you may slay me,
But to an old man do not tie me!
At his feet I'll fall and with tears I'll cry;
To an old man do not tie me.
poem by Hayyim Nahman Bialik
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Around the Acacia Tree
Vertical and pinnate, green leaves
And small flowers of yellow grow
Around the Acacia Tree.
Sun light drapes and the ground receives
The curtain's folding golden glow
Around the Acacia Tree.
The incense scent in the air weaves
The knitted root tangles below
Around the Acacia Tree.
Yet, now, from the bark, cloudy smoke
Lifts like a slumbering ghost awoke
Around the Acacia Tree.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Forgetting The Moon
i invite you
to sit upon a hill
under the acacia tree
to view the moon
it is full tonight
rising from the shadows of
the mountains
i hold your hand
and your long hair
touches my shoulder
we sit tonight
silently admiring the moon rising
from the shadows of the mountains
i gaze upon your eyes
and we kiss under the cool shade
of the acacia trees
after that night
i lay upon my bed inside my room
still thinking about you
and that kiss
i have forgotten about the full moon
rising from the shadows of the mountains
i am the poet
who first scribbles the most beautiful poem about you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fantasy Acacia
seven maidens sang a longing song
with blessed joy it rang in pagoda
they shouted too for eternity
that human was free from hell
and as purple acacia stand on the pond
with its nine leaves and spread among butterflies
the saint said: 'Why do you stand there?
When I talk to you, you are crying! '
'And should I not cry, divine one?
I have broke the harmony of love
I wander and scream bitterly!
O come and mercy me! '
'If you have broke the harmony of love
then take a bow and pray sincerely!
Love only Heart for all time!
so will you accept heavenly truth'
the heavenly truth is a blessed promise
that has no lie, that has no end!
the heavenly truth was granted to purple acacia
through sun and moon and to all mankind for eternal relief
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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The macaco doesn't climb up the acacia tree two times.
Friends On Their Reunion
three friends meet
under the shade of an acacia tree
one hot summer
they tell stories
without the required plots
they are heroes there
on their never ending
wars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Acquaintance Of The Wretched
No one is benefited,
From acquaintance of the wretched,
Just like a vine as if
One trails upon the acacia tree
And gets each bunch of grapes
Wounded.
By Mian Muhammad Translation by Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Amazing Grace Of God
HIS WIFE, and two daughters
and son
and his mother were on that bus
that lost a brake
and banged its head on the old
trunk of the big acacia tree
on the road
to Isabela,
they were visiting the miraculous
church of Manaoag
as a family
all of them died except him
who is now
lighting a candle and offering prayers
to five coffins,
and yet when asked
he says
he still feels the AMAZING GRACE OF GOD.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Nora
Beneath the gold acacia buds
My gentle Nora sits and broods,
Far, far away in Boston woods
My gentle Nora!
I see the tear-drop in her e'e,
Her bosom's heaving tenderly;
I know—I know she thinks of me,
My Darling Nora!
And where am I? My love, whilst thou
Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough,
Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow,
I stand, my Nora!
Mid carcanet and coronet,
Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set—
Where England's chivalry are met,
Behold me, Nora!
In this strange scene of revelry,
Amidst this gorgeous chivalry,
A form I saw was like to thee,
My love—my Nora!
She paused amidst her converse glad;
The lady saw that I was sad,
She pitied the poor lonely lad,—
Dost love her, Nora?
In sooth, she is a lovely dame,
A lip of red, and eye of flame,
And clustering golden locks, the same
As thine, dear Nora?
Her glance is softer than the dawn's,
Her foot is lighter than the fawn's,
Her breast is whiter than the swan's,
Or thine, my Nora!
Oh, gentle breast to pity me!
Oh, lovely Ladye Emily!
Till death—till death I'll think of thee—
Of thee and Nora!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Aikiha
synthesis with enhancement
jactitation
distinction preservation
if they are shootin' at ya
you know that you are
doin' somethin' right, okay?
shhhh you acacia flowers
pride's before a mine
Scrub's your Street, not Wattle Drive
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Love Song
My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled --
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world, --
And I wish I'd never met him.
My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams, --
And I wish he were in Asia.
My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart, --
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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The Prime Of Your Life
In the prime of your life you went to the grave,
Because you were robbed off by the remainder of your years!
And the pine trees and the acacia trees beard your witness,
But you were gone too soon like how a potter treads the down clay.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Under The Acacia Tree
that afternoon under the acacia tree
the irony of life confronts them
she is beautiful, a single mom
with a chinese lover
she's lonely and does not speak much
he is married and his wife cannot bear him a child
he weaves a conversation
words allure him more
he appears happy and sometimes he sings
alone
the sound of the whistle delights him
in the bathroom
the night came
they kiss and then they part ways
looking for their home
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One summer when the wind was strong
This is the place, now we are here again
I remember that summer when the wind was strong
And everything around us was dry,
The acacia trees towered and showered us with
Round leaves falling and falling and falling
Some birds were there and they flew away
Some cars were there and they speeded away
It was getting dark and it was a dry summer
We stayed there for a while when the leaves fell
Then we went under the trees not seeking shelter
But to catch those leaves falling and falling and falling
We are trying to feel again what falling was
We are here on this summer, we see the leaves
Falling and falling again to the dry wind,
We try to recall about us, but there is simply
Nothing about us anymore, but just the same
The leaves fall and fall and fall, we see them reenacting
There is that meaning; there it is in the falling
But we have outgrown it, we look for more, we hope
We can find some more, something beyond us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Francis Turner
I could not run or play
In boyhood.
In manhood I could only sip the cup,
Not drink --
For scarlet-fever left my heart diseased.
Yet I lie here
Soothed by a secret none but Mary knows:
There is a garden of acacia,
Catalpa trees, and arbors sweet with vines --
There on that afternoon in June
By Mary's side --
Kissing her with my soul upon my lips
It suddenly took flight.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Among The Orchards
Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry
Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops
Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops
The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry;
And ever as the sun mounts hot and high
Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes
The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks.
Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die.
I hear far in among the motionless trees--
Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod--
The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach
Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees
Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod,
Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Oil And Garlic And Peanuts
past aroma of
garlic sticking to the oil
to crunchy peanuts
on that tryst
under the acacia trees
on a line of electric lamp posts
we watch the sea
the salty winds touch our faces
we were pure
we only want some company
we had nothing to do
it was the last day
of the garlic flavored peanuts
and then we parted
we were like the winds of the sea
on a short stay
at the boulevard
cooling off some broken dreams
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Re-awakening
My Africa breathes blood.
Let her bathe her wounds
in the sweet waters of understanding,
let ubuntu warm her heart,
let her sing in unison with the voices of her rainbow nation,
let her savour forgiveness on her multi-coloured tongue,
let her fly with the masekhane eagle
into the hazy blue of the new South Africa
and let her breathe golden acacia blossoms of all time.
(13 November 2000)
poem by Diana van den Berg
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Oh, mother...[O, mamă...]
Oh, mother, dearest mother, although you passed away,
Through all the leaves that tremble, you call me every day;
Above your holy grave, the autumn gentle breeze
Shakes off the withered boughs of the acacia trees,
Which seem to hum along with your forgotten voice...
You will be sleeping always, they always will rejoice.
The day I die, my darling, for me, please, do not cry
Instead, break from the lime tree a twig scratching the sky
And put it in the ground, somewhere beside my head,
Then wet it at the roots with all the tears you'll shed;
And when it grows, its shadow will be just like a veil...
I shall be sleeping always, its shadow will prevail.
But if we die together – it's possible, who knows? –
They shouldn't put our bodies in graveyards to repose,
But let them dig a hollow somewhere, on open land,
And in a single coffin to put us, hand in hand;
For ever you will settle your head upon my chest...
We shall be sleeping always, the open land will rest.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Biblical Audiology
prophetic verses set like smooth stones
past the camels dry chiseled steps.
next to a parable and a jawbone.
the dead sea testamental tongues
leaflike water the valley of acacia
transposing thier verbal vernacular.
the oral traditions passed down
by the giver of ghost
and imprinted on the skull
bones of martyred saints.
down where bone becomes papris,
the course stones shed thier skin.
and under the fingernails of an old
god the fossils prophesy.
yes the dry bones prophesy...
speaking in ancient acrostic constructs,
verse by verse their biblical audiologies
unfold in an east wind.
poem by Nathan Martin
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Chessboard
dark matters are floating
like bowls made of leaves
spilling hunger, make me upset, figures moving
like ghosts wrenching out the fish plates
from rails, nothing will move now except
the eyebrows of stone faces, bodhisattvas
sitting in scorching sun, unshaven, crosslegged
waiting for realization to come, not to
them but tormentors, a milky way in ever
night, the dry wind slaps on the faces
to remind them not to sleep, the shade
of the Cacti and Acacia seldom stubborn
to give you the shadow of the blades, the
sun ultimately compresses you in the
waist- high grass of death trap.
poem by Satish Verma
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