En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Each to their own..

Across the fields at eventide.
I can hear a choir singing
faintly. As the birds are winging
back to their nests. Now peace abides.

The pipistrelles begin to glide
Across the sky on leathern wings.
From secret places where they hide.
Until the shadows gathering.

Persuade the bats to come outside
The time has come for foraging.
Until they're fully satisfied
with insects taken on the wing.

The soft twilit tranquillity.
Presents an opportunity.
Which men and bats see differently.
I think not unsurprisingly.

Saturday,14 July 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Chirping Birds

the morning here
is always the sound of chirping birds
because the trees
have been their homes at night
when the sun rises
the birds fly away again
and when the sun fades
they come back
to their nests
and home

the night hums the song of silence
bird's eyes closing again
to the golden sheen
of the bright moon

the white owl flaps its wings
on a nocturnal adventure
in harmony with the bats
friends of the night

some shadows lurk in the night
in the pursuit of happiness
some souls are restless
on dreams unfulfilled

some wake up dwindling at dawn
opening the fridge for a glass of cold water
switches on the computer
and begin again
anew to another poem

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bats of Darkness

As I see the sun
my heart floats like a balloon

I'd hate to admit it
but i'm acting like an idiot

We all know that light will die
as darkness creeps up upon the muddy soil under our feet

As the sun goes down
bats are not sleeping

As dusk weaves itself over our sky
darkness awakes with our bats

Most people think the sun will come back
after we wake the next day, not a fact

Darkness will stay as long as we shall live
and we turn into bats

The winged creatures of the night woke up
from the jolly spirit of the day

Bats shall live forever,
will feast on fruit

The sun is gone and the flowers run away
for without the sun they all die

Do you fear us?

poem by Stephen Black
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Remembered

She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'.
(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
The stars were out and the moon it grew
From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue
To a bird thro' the heavens winging.

She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,--
(It was sweet, so sweet the singing.)
As a dove just out of its fledgling nest,
And, putting its wings to the first sweet test,
Flutters homeward so wearily winging.

She sang and I said to my heart 'That song,
That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing,
Shall live with us and inspire us long,
And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong
For the sake of those words a-winging.'

The woman died and the song was still.
(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
But ever I hear the same low trill,
Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill,
And goes forever winging.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Bat

At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...

Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.

And you think:
'The swallows are flying so late!'

Swallows?

Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.

Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.

At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.

Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;

Wings like bits of umbrella.

Bats!

Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.

Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!

Not for me!

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Bats

Bats, the lord of the night
Gives anyone a fright
It is a night spy
But really why?

Majestic mammals, I admire
The animal that links with a vampire
A aura of darkness surrounds it
Why do people believe this even a bit?

It has an inner beauty
Which is beyond morality
It is a creation of the grand
Why don't you understand?

An illusion throws people in a quantity
Into the realms between dreams and reality
It is part of the maltreated party
Can't you hear its plea?

Bats, bats, lord of the night
Gives anyone a fright
It is a night spy
But really why?

poem by Shanthosh Suganthan
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Saturday In The Park

Saturday in the park
I think it was the fourth of july
Saturday in the park
I think it was the fourth of july
People dancing, people laughing
A man selling ice cream
Singing italian songs
(fake italian lyric)
Can you dig it (yes, I can)
And Ive been waiting such a long time
For saturday
Saturday in the park
Youd think it was the fourth of july
Saturday in the park
Youd think it was the fourth of july
People talking, really smiling
A man playing guitar
Singing for us all
Will you help him change the world
Can you dig it (yes, I can)
And Ive been waiting such a long time
For today
Slow motion riders fly the colors of the day
A bronze man still can tell stories his own way
Listen children all is not lost
All is not lost
Funny days in the park
Every days the fourth of july
Funny days in the park
Every days the fourth of july
People reaching, people touching
A real celebration
Waiting for us all
If we want it, really want it
Can you dig it (yes, I can)
And Ive been waiting such a long time
For the day

song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Late at night

Late at night I hear the trees creek
in the woods and bats swooping down
in the valley, I watch slowly till it
comes to dawn every moment savouring
the beauty of the night turning slowly
drifting until dawn start and the birds
start there song whilst the night goes
to bed and the bats sweep into their warm homes.

poem by Nelly Wilder
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Bats have no bankers and they do not drink and cannot be arrested and pay no tax and, in general, bats have it made.

quote by John Berryman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In July Far away

The pleasant natural aroma of meadows mown for silage or hay
Come wafting to my memory from places far away
And the sun at intervals shines through the gray clouds of the sky
And cattle in lush fields chew their cuds at ease in the warmth of July
Young birds chirping in the hedgerows near where the stream goes babbling by
And dark winged swallows chasing flying insects above the valley fly
It does not seem that long ago or a long gone yesterday
Since I walked in the old grassy fields in July far away
In the knee high rushes hidden from view the male pheasant cuck and crow
And dipper the dark brown river bird with breast as white as snow
Is singing in the babbling stream that flows down from the lake
His scratchy notes familiar once heard one cannot mistake
And white butterflies flitting in the breeze make for a pretty sight
Above the wildflowers in the fields in the Summer sunlight.

poem by Francis Duggan
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I Weave My Cocoon, Only For Own Metamorphosis!

Strangely life looks like a web,
Knitted by Sunlight,
Light of distant stars,
And light Reflected by moon and planets..

I could have survived and cut the web,
but the web is strengthened by more layers,
May be light absorbed and reflected by me,
And bouncing back from my Kiths and kins,
Mosquitoes and bugs,
My own blood relatives,
Sharing my blood or may be I am sharing thiers!
Life is like ground under fruit bearing tree,
Full of smashed fruits by its own fall,
Half eaten, half ripe, may be fully ripen and may be rotten!

Delicious and sweet fruits it bear,
Sometimes by cosmic friends, parrots and bats,
May be monkeys and niebours,
Test me and tease me,
My ability to access the fruits,
They have better nose and eyes than me,
They observe changes faster than me,
They peck or take a bite,
before I can wake up and see,
Birds are better than bats and monkeys,
Birds just eat enough and fly,
Monkeys and bats are horrible,
They taste one, pluck many,
Take to their friends and relatives,
And throw on their path
as a route map to others,
Rotten fruits smell bad,
Flies and mosquitoes,
Flies spread disease, are better,
Mosquitoes spread disease
and feast on my blood too,
Just like juice after meal!
All these knit web around!

All I have that is my own nest,
My own shining shine,
Where I weep, laugh and workout my own plans,
Which becomes my shield,
And what look like shield is my own cocoon,
Where I sleep or meditate,
Only come out completely metamorphing myself,
cutting cocoon With flying colours!

I feelfree now with coloured wings,
Antennae and suckers,
I fly over flowers,
But gather nectar and I help flowers to live fruitful!
But I am innocent
I sing and dance in air,
With my coloured wings
I am a flying flower
Found in garden or in wild!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Creativity And Illusions...

in the most noisy world
you can close your ears

and the sights you see
can have your own music from your soul

you can choose
what to hear and you can also pretend about what to see

or feel
you started doing this a long time ago

on that day when the birds of dawn broke their wings
when the light from the moon bent a little to have the illusion

of quiet, too early to learn
how is it to be a dove amidst the bats

how is it to be a lamb around the foxes
the world since then has become one big square

and then you create a scene: a green river flowing inside the forest
singing like a maiden

nude as she arranges her black hair
long enough to cover her breasts... and then

you place a man along the banks
paddling a boat towards her nipples

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Because We Have Never Told Them

there is a straight path
and you want to walk straight to it
you cannot, there is this desire to
go inside a circle and hide
behind those curves,
there is this wish to find a resting place
a glass cage
a one-way mirror where you see all of them
and then
no one sees you
sometimes i look for some reasons why
this behavior is sought

there is this straight path that nobody wants to take
it is too tight in there
and everyone sees you
and their gaze hurt a lot
and you do not deserve to suffer upon their causes

no wonder birds travel on clouds
and build their nests
how men made walls
how women hide their faces on hats and
winter coats

there is this secret that we keep
that we bring even to our death
it is this secret that makes us what we are

others miss us
because we have never told them
the trees wish to look inside the nests
where birds have already flown away

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Night Bats Play Catch

click I snap
click my fingers
bats fly past

my face a few feet
away bats like
love the audience

scaring them not
teasing them not
minds apart not

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Our Secret Sonar Romances

bats are back
their fruit trees in fruit
night feast flight

flit flit flutter flight
fruit passion consumed
in tree dance flight

season past season
come dance our night
under shades of moon

I click my fingers
a few bats flit flight
fly up circle come

fly past my face
a few feet away
flit flight greetings

they like the audience
sonar image my face
thought whisper greet

ink veil night magic
moon crescent night magic
arch phases paint magic

dark building backdrops
stand tall solid frame trees
in background night prayers

silhouette shadow salutes
sky heaven altar glorious
heart stirs in night shades

friend bats flutter flight
disappearing back into trees
feast feed ripe flower fruits

friend bats I know
your ways of disappearing
friend bats I know

your night vision trails
your night vision paths
your night cycle dances

flowers fade into rebirth
organic petal forget me nots
out of sight out of mind

love is bat night flight born
bats my rest break companions
we share night flight visions

this realm of darkness
our mind flight mansions
our secret sonar romances

Dedicated to Miroslava Odalovic who shared a few of my nights with conversation between ritual night writing songs of creativity.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Differently

Wish you told me by and by,
That my life would come to this,
That I'd have to find a way
to let things go,
That my friends would turn to foes,
And my love would come to blows,
Then I would have done some things
differently.
Differently...
I would ask you out every night.
Differently...
And I would make you feel so good.
Differently...
And appreciate the things that
you bring to me, babe.
Differently...
Oh yes I would, oh yeah.
Yeah, I know you tried and tried,
But your signal I just missed,
When you said my little girl
would soon be gone,
Yes I didn't hear you then,
And it might be too late now,
That's another thing I'd do
differently.
Differently...
Like trying to make you feel
loved every day.
Differently...
And saying little things to
let you know how I feel.
Differently...
Yes I can hear your young
voice calling me, babe.
Differently...
Oh yes I can.
When I 'm away I call you up,
And you don't seem to miss me as much,
But I know our love
is still there in your heart,
Just differently.
Differently...
Oh yes, I can hear your young
voice calling me, babe.
Differently...
Oh yes I can.
Differently...
I'd appreciate the things that you
bring to me babe, yes I would.
Differently...
Oh come on back to me babe,
bring your love back to me.
Differently...
Oh yeah I need your love,
I need your love.
Differently...
Yes I can tell you babe,
I need your love.
Differently...
Today is a brand new day, yes it is.
Differently...
Got to get your love back, babe,
come on now bring it back to me.
Differently...
Turn it around babe, turn it
around and bring it back.
Differently...
Yeah, yeah, oh yeah, got to get
your love back, come on babe.
Differently...
Yeah I can hear your young
voice calling me babe.
Differently...
Come on back to me, come on back,
yeah yeah, turn it around.
Differently...
Oh yes I can, yes I can.
Differently.

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Morning

the house is surrounded by trees
and birds sleep there
some of those who do not have fears
made their nests
and this early morning i hear them sing

chirp if you may call it
but there is this feeling that nature is there
in the songs of birds
and the hush of the wind and the coming
bright rays of the sun

my dog is beside me
still asleep as i begin my prayers and rituals
for the day

behind the black shadows of the trees
the gray horizon starts
to brighten and now the mountains begin to
appear in view

their peaks touching the skies
as the clouds hang and float and drift....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When Days Get Long

I

When summer days get extremely long
the sky becomes a much deeper hue,
a myriad of birds fill the cobalt blue,
constantly singing their gorgeous song

it is as if everything do belong
to the coming spring, are singing true
like some beautiful birds and insects do,
while colourful swarming in their great throng

over the gentle meadow and the valley
filling the tranquil grey evening sky
softly singing a sweet kind of medley
while in jubilance they still do fly
over fields of hay and fields of barley,
sunny day after sunny day pass by.

II

Sunny day after sunny day pass by
with almost a kind of smothering heat
the fields, the open veldt and dirt road lie
far to hot to tread with just bare feet.

Everything shimmers, the poplars that rears
like huge fingers pointing to the sun,
massive broad oak trees of many years
and grass and flowers where life has just begun

glitters in a new emerald green sheen,
the wind rustles things touching one by one
as if finding things where there had not been,
between huge black boulders rocks and stone

the sun blazes on every day the same,
I see the sun making wings of hot flame.

III

I see the sun making wings of hot flame
on the few white clouds in dazzling colours
and in the west there are some small wild game
drinking water while the evening hours

brings the white and blue stars out dazzling clear
with night predators in the pitch black sky
and some more wild game are drawing near,
I hear the hyenas laughing, wild dogs cry,

the growls of lions, the howling of jackals,
I get the smells of the earth and the bush,
I hear some leopards growling, their calls
that are where they are lying in ambush,

at night the predators are hunting prey,
making a living in the dying day.

IV

Making a living in the dying day
swarms of birds fly calling with flapping wings
poplars, cedars and many trees do sway
while the twilight is grey, full of life, brings

as if by some magic, all at play
flying leaves, bats insects and flying things
with a few that lonesome away stray,
most are flying to nests in trees that swings

and eventually places of rest receives
the many small things that are fluttering,
the wind settles among the moving leaves,
the numerous evening birds start to sing

until the full moon shines its silver rays,
when night fades slowly as on other days.

V

When night fades slowly as on other days,
man is still bound by nature and destiny
to the world in which he works and plays
as it probably will be to eternity.

The yellow sun, the cobalt blue heaven
is like it has been from its very birth
with its joyous bright splendour even
like any other day upon this earth

but a time will come when man will be free
from all death and all kinds of destruction
from heartache, the sorrows that he see
with a new amazing introduction

to a place that’s holy, pure and bright;
now suddenly it is silver twilight.

VI

Now suddenly it is silver twilight
and the sheer darkness of night flees away
before the coming new breaking day
with the blazing sheer redness of sunlight

constantly reflecting against the bright
unclouded sky open in its solid grey
with the red blossoming as if its to stay
and in the veldt guinea fowl flees in fright

while a small jackal laughs out its delight
and the few milling dark clouds do stray
before a strong wind as if in spite
and through bushes and grass rocking it plays
churning up eddies before going out of sight
while the hot sun rises with its golden rays.

VII

While the hot sun rises with its golden rays,
you come from a country where rivers meander
where the rain sieves down for many days
where some beautiful wild birds do wander

in lush overgrown tranquil water-meadows,
far away from the busy big city,
filled with thick green living hedgerows
where many bright wild flowers are pretty

but I still do wonder what you will see
in a land where vicious savage beasts
have no civility and do roam free
where the natives have very weird feasts,

where the flaming sun does spare no one,
when summer days get extremely long.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I Am Free I Choose The Peace And Quiet Around Me

i am free. i rest below the light of stars.
i look for the peace of the things around me.
trees that do not move, waters on the pond that are still,
birds resting on the nests with their wings clipped in sleep
i wait for nothing. i do not think about taxing things.

and when despair comes to meet me i simply move
and take refuge in other places where there are no obstructions
to the peace and quiet that i decide to choose.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bats Shadow Fly Feed

treetop height
in dark of night
fruit ripe to bite

bats shadow fly by annual feed
balcony two stories up my whistle lead
back night souls flit spirit mead

in these ink hours soul breathe
in these night whispers soul seethe
in these fruit feasts bats weave

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Little Birds

at the cave
one afternoon when the day is closing
a breath of bats

on the hillsides
a string of little birds
like tiny stones
thrown to the fields

the sun is through
the moon rises from the hills again

we sit side by side
watching this gentle glow
this nature's show

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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