Skeleton Flat
HERE’S never a bough to be tossed in the breeze,
For it’s long since the forest was green;
And round all the trunks of the naked white trees
The marks of the death-ring are seen.
The solemn-faced bear, who had looked on the blacks
From his home with the ’possum and cat,
Blinked anxiously down when the death-dealing axe
Was ring-barking Skeleton Flat.
And, strange to be seen in the evergreen south,
The gums for ten summers have stood,
And dried in the terrible furnace of drouth,
Till harder than flint is the wood.
Now tall grows the grass at the roots of the trees,
But a beautiful forest it cost;
And the heart of the splitter is sad when he sees
And thinks of the timber that’s lost.
Here flies, through a sky that is glazed, the black crow,
And the eagle goes circling around,
Or evilly sits on a branch that is low,
With his gleaming black eye on the ground.
And loudly the jackasses chuckle in mirth,
When a comrade flies upward, until
Like a fragment of thread, in its height from the earth,
Is the writhing brown snake in his bill.
O fit for the place are the curlews that wail
On the banks of a distant lagoon,
Or round by the swamps that are shallow and pale
In the light of the nights of the moon;
When glist’ning and white are the frost-covered trees
That dead for ten summers have stood;
And the stranger, benighted, might fancy he sees
The skeleton wraith of a wood.
poem by Henry Lawson
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All Things Decay And Die
All things decay with time: The forest sees
The growth and down-fall of her aged trees;
That timber tall, which three-score lustres stood
The proud dictator of the state-like wood,
I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak,
Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Green Roads
The green roads that end in the forest
Are strewn with white goose feathers this June,
Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest
To show his track. But he has never come back.
Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest.
Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers.
An old man along the green road to the forest
Strays from one, from another a child alone.
In the thicket bordering the forest,
All day long a thrush twiddles his song.
It is old, but the trees are young in the forest,
All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep.
That oak saw the ages pass in the forest:
They were a host, but their memories are lost,
For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest
Excepting perhaps me, when now I see
The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge of the forest,
And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song.
poem by Edward Thomas
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How He Saw Angus, The God
I heard the swallow sing in the eaves and rose
All in a strange delight while others slept,
And down the creaking stair, alone, tip-toes,
So carefully I crept.
The house was dark with silly blinds yet drawn,
But outside the clean air was filled with light,
And underneath my feet the cold, wet lawn
With dew was twinkling bright.
The cobwebs hung from every branch and spray
Gleaming with pearly strands of laden thread,
And long and still the morning shadows lay
Across the meadows spread.
At that pure hour when yet no sound of man,
Stirs in the whiteness of the wakening earth,
Alone through innocent solitudes I ran
Singing aloud for mirth.
Till I had found the open mountain heath
Yellow with gorse, and rested there and stood
To gaze upon the misty sea beneath,
Or on the neighbouring wood,
—That little wood of hazel and tall pine
And youngling fir, where oft we have loved to see
The level beams of early morning shine
Freshly from tree to tree.
Through the denser wood there's many a pool
Of deep and night-born shadow lingers yet
Where the new-wakened flowers are damp and cool
And the long grass is wet.
In the sweet heather long I rested there
Looking upon the dappled, early sky,
When suddenly, from out the shining air
A god came flashing by.
Swift, naked, eager, pitilessly fair,
With a live crown of birds about his head,
Singing and fluttering, and his fiery hair,
Far out behind him spread,
Streamed like a rippling torch upon the breeze
Of his own glorious swiftness: in the grass
He bruised no feathery stalk, and through the trees
I saw his whiteness pass.
But when I followed him beyond the wood,
Lo! He was changed into a solemn bull
That there upon the open pasture stood
And browsed his lazy full.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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Ah The Trees
Ah the trees soothe the mind
Take time to breathe the air
With the breeze the puppeteer with touch so fair
- They duet, with delicate wave and muted joy
A minuet for bygone kings or tinker boy.
Ah the trees, I leave my madness
As I run through crowded street
Diesel perfume will never smell as sweet
-As the meadow kissed by the breeze
Conducted by the trees.
Finding childhood summers I had lost.
Or winter wood with decor frost.
Ah the trees, where we rest our eyes in shades of green
And butterflies now seldom seen
Flicker in the sun.
When your lips touched mine and we were one
Lost in the rat- race we would run.
Beauty now we find in books
Yet Mother Nature has kept her looks.
Ah the trees, charcoal black as tempests
Like to scatter fear with lightning strike
But you stand strong against the sky
Like troops you watch the bullets fly
Swaying until the storms respite
Laying still in the morning light
Revived as hoar frost does yield to sun
Miracles for everyone.
And as birdsong imparts a healing trill
Trees dance, we embrace
And stand so still.
poem by Kevin East
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Watching The Crows
A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North,
And all the long morning the searchers went forth.
They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks
And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks;
But, trusting the signs that the blackfellow knows,
A quiet old darkey stood watching the crows.
The solemn old blackman stood silently by;
He stood like a statue, his face to the sky.
Black Billy was out of the bearings—we thought—
If he looked above for the bushman we sought;
For we rather suspected the spirit would go
In—well, quite another direction, you know.
Most bushmen on solemn occasions will joke,
And unto Black Bill ’twas the super who spoke.
He asked, as he cocked his red nose in the air—
“You think it old Harrison sit down up there?”
“I’m watching the crows. Where the white man lies dead
The crows will fly over,” the blackfellow said.
The blackfellow died, and long years have gone round
Since the day when old Harrison’s body was found;
But still do I see, in my vision at night,
A faint figure come like a shadow in sight,
And nearer and nearer it comes till it grows
Like the form of that blackfellow—“watching the crows”.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Forest For The Trees
When youre a young man, down and out
You really need someone to help you out
It looks like life or death is your only choice
Its really hard to see
The forest for the trees
The forest for the trees
And when you get angry and everythings black or white
You should know that it isnt that simple, no ones always right
You know that youre life it worth living
You gotta start taking if no one else is giving
And if youre not afraid to open your eyes
You may be pleasantly surprised
Thigs are never as bad as they seem
You just gotta learn to see
The forest for the trees
So if you need somebody, tell them please
If you want someone, get up off your knees
Things are never as bad as they seem
You just gotta learn to see
The forest for the trees
song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dream Pang
I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
You shook your pensive head as who should say,
‘I dare not—too far in his footsteps stray—
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.
Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide.
But ’tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.
poem by Robert Frost
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Rejoice
(jon anderson)
Rejoice forward out this feeling
Ten true summers long
We go round and round and round and round
Until we pick it up again
Time flies, on and on it goes
Thru the setting sun
Carry round and round and round and round
Until it comes to carry you home
Rejoice forward out this feeling
The white eagle soars
He goes round and round and round
Until the early winds of change
Dawns new light conquering timeless ease
Spread the harvest breeze
Let our hour of passion
Gently hold our heads on high with you
Gently hold our heads on high
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Off the Track
Oh where the deuce is the track, the track?
Round an' round, an' forrard, an' back!
“Keep the sun on yer right,” they said—
But, hang it, he's gone an' got over my head!
“Make for a belt of apple trees;”—
Jist so. But where's yer belt, if ye please?
By gum, it's hot! This child'll melt,
An' there ain't no apples, nor ain't no belt.
“Keep clear o' the timber-getters' tracks,”
But wich is wich, I'd beg to ax?
They forks and jines, the devil knows how—
I wish I'd a sight o' either now!
“Leave the track,” sez they, “when you sees
Some yards to the right two big grass trees.”
Two! It's dozens on dozens I pass—
Most on 'em big, an' all on 'em grass.
Oh where the deuce is the track, the track?
I'm fairly taken aback, aback.
“Keep tow'rd the river. You can't go wrong.”
Whew? Can't I, though! That was rayther strong.
“Follow the lay o' the land,” sez they;
But, Lord, this flat ain't got no lay!
Whew! Ain't it hot on the pint o' the nose?
An' the more I mops the hotter I grows.
“An' when you comes to the foot o' the range”—
WHEN! That's the pint. But ain't it strange,
That the further I goes, to left or right,
The more there ain't no range in sight.
Gum trees, gum trees, slim an' high,
Timber green an' timber dry.
Blackened stumps an' fallen logs—
Lively work as on we jogs!
Oh the devil an' all take the flat, the flat!
I'm one myself for the matter o' that.
I'm mazed, an' so is the brute I rides,
An' the sun's getting over the left besides.
Dash it, I'll follow my nose, my nose!
Step out, straight forrard, here goes, here goes!
Let the sun be left, or the sun be right,
Summat or other must come in sight.
* * * * *
Well, well! If this ain't too bad by half!
Lor', how the beggars 'll laugh an' chaff!
Back to my startin' point? Yes; tis so.
I put up them slip-rails six hours ago.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Ingavar
O, the trees grow straight and the trees grow tall,
And the trees grow all around;
And the long limbs sprout the trunks about,
Where the Davlo owl is found.
And the Davlo bird is most absurd
In the early days of June;
For he sings this song the whole day long,
To a strange, fantastic tune.
'O, ink, ink, ink! I sit and think;
I brood on the Wildwood Tree;
But, near or far, on Ingavar,
No ink, no ink I see.
And late or soon the swift cartoon
Must soar to the Utmost Star.
O, ink, ink, ink! I swoon! I sink!
O, inkless, Ingavar!'
O, the trees grow long, and the trees grow strong,
And the tress grow good and green,
And the gloomy shades steal thro' the glades
Where the Halgi Tit is seen.
And the Halgi Tit he loves to sit
On the frond of a swaying fern,
And croon, and croon, to a low, loose tune
This nervous, nude Nocturn.
'Chow-white, chow-white! All night, all night,
While the moon peeps thro' the leaves,
And the sad wind soughs thro' inlaced boughs,
Where the shadows creep like thieves.
I cry, and yearn for the Nude Nocturn!
O, I seek her near and far!
Chow-white, chow-white! I croon all night,
Thro' the glades of Ingavar.'
O, the trees grow pale, and tall trees quail,
And the sacred trees whisper soft.
And the startled bush it murmurs 'Hush!'
When the Denawk swoops aloft.
And, as he swoops, he shrieks and whoops
In a ruthless, Rhythmic way;
For twixt the trees and the sobbing breeze
The Denawk seeks his prey.
'Ho, rhyme, rhyme, rhyme! All fat and prime!
I live by rhyme alone!
In bush and town I hunt it down,
And tear it flesh from bone.
With a purpose grim for the synonym
I forage near and far;
And I rend my prey in a rhythmic way
On the gums of Ingavar.'
O, yearning trees! O, burning trees
O, trees that bend and sway!
The good brown earth that gave you birth
Is very damp to-day.
In mire and mud we slid we've slud;
Our boots are filled with slime
Farewell ye gums till summer comes
Farewell till Summertime.
The Davlo hoots, the Halgi toots,
The Denawk swoops no more
Alone to yearn, the Nude Nocturn
Adorns your leafy floor.
But Trees, O, trees, what ecstacies
Thrill thro' you, root and spar,
When the Lord High Pot comes up to squat
In the Glades of Ingavar,
Afar,
Green glades of Ingavar.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Entangled
I STOOD as one enchanted,
All in the forest deep:
As one that wond'ring wanders,
Dream-bound within his sleep.
A thousand rustling footsteps
Pattered upon the ground;
A thousand whisp'ring voices
Made the wide silence, sound.
Some murmured deep and deeper,
Like waves in solemn seas;
Some breathèd sweet and sweeter,
Like elves on moon-lit leas.
Tall ferns, washed down in sunlight,
Beckoned with fingers green;
Tall flowers nodded strangely,
With white and glimm'ring sheen;
They sighed, they sang so softly,
They stretched their arms to me;
My heart, it throbbed so wildly,
In weird tumultuous glee.
I staggered in the mosses,
It seemed to drag me down
Into the gleaming bushes;
To fall, to sink, to drown.
When lo! thro' scared foliage,
A lovely bird did fly;
And looked at me so knowing,
With bright and curious eye;
It broke out into warbles,
And singing sped away;
But I, like one awakened,
Fled down the mossy way.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Halloween Quartet No 2 The Devils Specs
He picked up the glasses
from where they lay
and put them on
and as he looked around
his face paled with his shock.
Everything was desolate and dead.
Building stood black scorched beyond repair,
everything felt cold and dank
as if he were in a city of the dead.
The grass beneath his feet
was withered and brown.
Skeletal trees stood blackened
as if by some great fire.
The sights he saw frightened him.
He made a move to run
and tripped over a rotting corpse.
As he fell, the glasses
were tossed upon the ground.
As he rose his eyes widened,
everything was green again
and the glass were no were to be found.
Was this a vision of his future he had seen?
Only tomorrows knows.
31 October 2009
poem by David Harris
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Graveyard in the snow
Today, I cannot find your grave,
because the stone with your name
is set in the earth,
down, where it is not in the way,
when the caretakers mow the grass,
now you are covered with snow.
Everything is white,
so full of peace, so still,
I sit on the bench,
it is so cold, but
I feel so close to you,
after all, you are cold,
under the earth,
under this white sheet,
hidden, but there, I know.
Only a raven,
shiny in funeral coat of feathers,
black against the white,
sits with me, in a tree,
not far, insistently cawing,
a warning, an emphatic word
of solace.
The trees, dark green
under the snow,
are so silent,
I can hear a soft sliding,
when the clumps of snow
fall on the ground,
startling the raven.
He flies away,
a shadow against the clouds
of winter sky.
I must leave you now,
the deep cavity of my grief
is like the silence
of your snow-covered grave,
enticing me to stay.
But I have promised
a pledge to live,
before I can sleep
under the snow.
poem by Martina E. Elenbaas
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The Two Swans
There's a big park just close to where we live —
Trees in a row
And shaggy grass whereon the dead leaves blow.
And in the middle round a great lagoon
The fair yachts sail
In loveliness that makes the water pale.
Last night I went to walk along the road
Beside the park
And feel the kisses of the wintry dark.
It's the best place to watch the evening come
For mists are there
And lights and shadows and the lake is fair
And last night looking up I saw two swans
Fly overhead
With long black necks and their white wings outspread.
Above the houses citywards they went,
An arrowy pair
In secret — white and black and dark and fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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It’s April
It’s April and the autumn rain
patters down for days long,
the Magalies Mountains are covered
by grey-black clouds
and later there are summer days
where the sun still hangs white-hot
and I long, want the summer
to last forever
but the years are already
leaving their marks on my face,
are drawing through my hair
and like some of the trees
in a winter I will also turn skeleton,
become stripped from my better days
and then at a time
will be part of the cold earth.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I am a man of black and white
I am a man of black and white,
my name is written on the gates of the sky.
i am a man of black and white
my origin is united, yet two apart.
I speak the language of the whites,
but lost in the language of the blacks.
i am a man of black and white,
my resemblance is same with the blacks.
I am a man of black and white,
i was brought up in the land of the whites.
i am a man of black and white,
my home is in the south-east, in the abode of my black dad.
I am a man of black and white,
i love the aspirations of life.
i am a man of black and white,
although two apart, we are united as one.
poem by Randy Micheal
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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.
HEart EartH
Beautiful is the smile
That catches every glimpse
No wonder its Nature's art
Sign of the Happy Heart
Sweet are the Fruits that trees bear
Green is the Grass, the land may wear
No wonder its Nature's art
Sign of the Happy Earth
Walking the paths of life apace
Trying to make your own space
Fulfilling the dreams that are innate
Heart is where inner feelings originate
Strong, deep roots hold high trees
Grow free and bounty, as One sees
Seasons change and nothing is strange
Everything change and age
What seems truly beautiful
Needs to be beautiful within
What flourshes and nourishes everything
Needs to be flourished and nourished
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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The Foolish Fir-Tree
A tale that the poet Rückert told
To German children, in days of old;
Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme
Like a merry mummer of ancient time,
And sent, in its English dress, to please
The little folk of the Christmas trees.
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood
Contented and happy, as young trees should.
His body was straight and his boughs were clean;
And summer and winter the bountiful sheen
Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root,
In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.
But a trouble came into his heart one day,
When he saw that the other trees were gay
In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves
Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves:
He looked at his needles so stiff and small,
And thought that his dress was the poorest of all.
Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind,
And he said to himself, "It was not very kind
"To give such an ugly old dress to a tree!
"If the fays of the forest would only ask me,
"I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,—
"In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!"
So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad.
When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad;
For every leaf that his boughs could hold
Was made of the brightest beaten gold.
I tell you, children, the tree was proud;
He was something above the common crowd;
And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say
To a pedlar who happened to pass that way,
"Just look at me! don't you think I am fine?
"And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?"
"Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess
I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress."
So he picked the golden leaves with care,
And left the little tree shivering there.
"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?"
The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves
"Would be sure to rob me in passing by.
"If the fairies would give me another try,
"I'd wish for something that cost much less,
"And be satisfied with glass for my dress!"
Then he fell asleep; and, just as before,
The fairies granted his wish once more.
When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear,
The tree was a crystal chandelier;
And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light,
That his branches were covered with jewels bright.
"Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!"
And he held himself up, very proud and straight;
But a rude young wind through the forest dashed,
In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed
The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound
They broke into pieces and fell on the ground,
Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail,
And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.
Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas
"For my beautiful leaves of shining glass!
"Perhaps I have made another mistake
"In choosing a dress so easy to break.
"If the fairies only would hear me again
"I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain:
"It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,—
"In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!"
By this time the fairies were laughing, I know;
But they gave him his wish in a second; and so
With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet,
The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet.
"I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find
"The sort of a suit that would be to my mind.
"There's none of the trees has a prettier dress,
"And none as attractive as I am, I guess."
But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk,
By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk.
So he came up close for a nearer view;—
"My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too!
"You're the most attractive kind of a tree,
"And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea."
So he ate them all without saying grace,
And walked away with a grin on his face;
While the little tree stood in the twilight dim,
With never a leaf on a single limb.
Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak—
He was so ashamed that he could not speak.
He knew at last that he had been a fool,
To think of breaking the forest rule,
And choosing a dress himself to please,
Because he envied the other trees.
But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late,
He must make up his mind to a leafless fate!
So he let himself sink in a slumber deep,
But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep,
Till the morning touched him with joyful beam,
And he woke to find it was all a dream.
For there in his evergreen dress he stood,
A pointed fir in the midst of the wood!
His branches were sweet with the balsam smell,
His needles were green when the white snow fell.
And always contented and happy was he,—
The very best kind of a Christmas tree.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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