The Lake
There was a secluded little lake near
My school when I was young; every
Saturday I would be there, a weekly
Visit to take in the calming effect
Of its tranquility; its miror surface
Which afforded a good view of the
Sprinting of tilapias as they noticed
My arrival and the fallen trees with
Their subteranean upright branches,
Twigs and leaves which when greeted by the wind
Twisted like the tail of an enthusiastic
Dog heralding its master's arrival.
Stones I would throw into the lake
Creating large rings running towards
The riparian field filled with white
Sand, bamboo and rubber trees; a little
Sojourn which refreshed my mind for another
Week of gruelling lessons and homework.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Chicago Sestina
I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.
I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes.
“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes? ”
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.
If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.
And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.
Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?
Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.
poem by Brian Maloney
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Our Arrival
our arrival is greeted by the wagging of a tail
and the jumping of a dog long denied
of company.
our arrival is the opening of the windows
the winds come
and once again kiss the furniture
and the room shows once more
the luster of an almost forgotten
fullness
our arrival shall keep the blankets
warm again
it shall unlock the bolts and shall
once more open a closed door
our arrival shall give us the sounds
of faucets
the flushing of an old water
inside the bowl long silenced by the
kind of absence that
sometimes want a revival of newer
perspectives
our arrival is a reconstruction of ourselves
for once again
we shall make the questions open
and then, if you only know, the meaning of things
that grow again, like seeds, these, all of these
shall make an arrival interesting....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hounds Of Love
Its in the trees!
Its coming!
When I was a child:
Running in the night,
Afraid of what might be
Hiding in the dark,
Hiding in the street,
And of what was following me...
Now hounds of love are hunting.
Ive always been a coward,
And I dont know whats good for me.
Here I go!
Its coming for me through the trees.
Help me, someone!
Help me, please!
Take my shoes off,
And throw them in the lake,
And Ill be
Two steps on the water.
I found a fox
Caught by dogs.
He let me take him in my hands.
His little heart,
It beats so fast,
And Im ashamed of running away
From nothing real--
I just cant deal with this,
But Im still afraid to be there,
Among your hounds of love,
And feel your arms surround me.
Ive always been a coward,
And never know whats good for me.
Oh, here I go!
Dont let me go!
Hold me down!
Its coming for me through the trees.
Help me, darling,
Help me, please!
Take my shoes off
And throw them in the lake,
And Ill be
Two steps on the water.
I dont know whats good for me.
I dont know whats good for me.
I need your love love love love love, yeah!
Your love!
Take your shoes off
And throw them in the lake!
Do you know what I really need?
Do you know what I really need?
I need love love love love love, yeah!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Chinese Takeaway - for David with thanks
The ancient sage, beset with too many thoughts
for one human lifetime,
chooses carefully the place to sit
beside the lake,
under the even more ancient twisted pine
with the view of distant cliffs
where the stork’s cry echoes;
gathers his thoughts.
Out of mercy,
the breeze gently ruffles the surface
of the lake;
the sage, reminded by the ripples
of the stillness of the lake,
smiles from a mind that’s now the lake
reflecting the blueness of the sky;
reflects, beyond the blue,
the space in which immortals live.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Arrival of a child
Arrival of a child marks the
Arrival of a new pleasant path
Arrival of a most colourful horizon
Arrival of a new set of dreams
Arrival of a new ray of hope
Arrival of a new melody in musical notes
Arrival of a refreshing new fragrance
Arrival of a new butterfly in our garden
Arrival of a child marks the
Assertion of nature’s supremacy
Assertion of God’s faith in men
Assertion of sustenance of existence
Assertion of human love
Assertion of a new strengthened bond
Arrival of a child marks the
Beginning of a new philosophy
Beginning of a new set of experiences
Beginning of a renewed valour
Beginning of new ways of learning
Beginning of refined perception
Beginning of the glow of innocence
Beginning of a new set of celebrations
Arrival of child marks the
Formation of new cloud of prosperity
Formation of shower of fresh nutrients
Formation of a lake of vibrant future
Formation of a new pool of gainful talents
Let us welcome the child,
The spark of continuation of human race and
Let the human race celebrate the
Arrival of each child just born
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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My Walk II: Spring
Ducklings floating serene
Over water shimmering glean
Throw in some bread
Ducks now fed
Walk on up to the Grand house
Nothing quiet, save the field mouse
Trickling stream
Down hill on a lean
Flowing water
Calming as we wander
Cool breeze
Through leafless trees
Fallen trees laying about
Birds singing, never a shout
Clouds float by
Masking blue sky
Great Grand Son sits in path well trodden
Clothes dirty, but not sodden
Collecting cones
Not walking alone!
Over wooden bridge
On upto to the ridge
His footsteps so light
Eyes shinning bright
Back down the hill
We're running! Almost a spill
Trees flash past
He won, I'm last
Puffing and panting
Just climbed a mountain
Back past the lake
Homeward trek we make.
poem by Robert Green
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Swans
Two swans sit alone on a lake
Looking so peaceful,
Poised on the tranquil waters.
The air around them is calm,
A gentle breeze wafting,
Gliding through their white feathers.
They are caressed by the pine scents
And the delicate balance
Of their surroundings.
The sky above is blue,
Almost cloudless and clear,
But a few pillows float overhead.
The trees stand tall beside the lake,
Watching the swans
Swim on the surface.
They swim majestically,
Beautifully,
In the recreational park.
Under their webbed feet,
Abandoned garbage sifts—
The collected lost trinkets of lazy people.
Twenty feet from the lake,
There is a parking lot
Filled with automobiles
With rust crusting on the hood
And near the synthetic rubber tires.
The people that own the cars
Are feeding the geese bleached white Wonder bread.
They leave their Coke bottles
And Doritos bags on the ground,
Ready to be carried away by the wind.
The swans watch the people.
Later, one of them
Will stick its neck
Into the plastic hole
Of a Coke bottle container
And choke
And choke
And choke
And choke.
It will die.
The other swan will watch,
Helpless and screaming,
Unable to do anything.
Some people will watch,
In awe,
Some excited.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Springs Arrival and Winter Thaw
the sun rises to greet the morning
the ground dew only winters thaw
soft to the touch of the hand
leaves and flowers spread out
centre picture of the setting scene
springs arrival postcard of the season
birds return to roost in trees
naked branches now filling up
rainfall fresh and awakening
its a new beginning, new life
something to grow into
the daylight lasts longer
and the air smells fresher
winter melts away slowly
with the arrival of spring
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Meditations after Li Po for M lady Helen
I
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best
II
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.
III
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.
IV
Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.
21-Oct-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sonnet: Grow Trees
The branches cut the wind fierce to a breeze;
The leaves break sunlight into chequered beams;
The shade of trees affords all travelers peace;
The wearied ones sleep ’neath the trees in dreams!
And birds too build their nests on branches high;
The squirrels eat their berries with great joy;
The trees make verdant all landscape near-by;
And attract rain in which children enjoy!
Trees make the earth greener and beautiful,
Adding oxygen to the air we breathe;
Preserve its trees, man! Nature is grateful;
The leaves and flowers can make us a wreath.
Trees are so useful to mankind always;
’midst good trees, men have spent their earthly days!
7-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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The Mirror
Between the woods the afternoon
Its fallen in a golden swoon,
The sun looks down from quiet skies
To where a quiet water lies,
And silent trees stoop down to the trees.
And there I saw a white swan make
Another white swan in the lake;
And, breast to breast, both motionless,
They waited for the wind's caress. . .
And all the water was at ease.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Autumnale for M lady ernestine
The falling leaves dance in the breeze
and clothe the ground beneath the trees,
in autumn colours rich a rare.
The trees themselves will soon be bare.
Left no defence against the wind.
Their winter plans are well designed,
bare twigs and branches hold less snow
than useless leaves they have let go
The wintry gales to no avail
try hard but they are doomed to fail,
They can’t destroy the sturdy trees;
resisting with apparent ease.
Although they bow before the blast
they know that winter cannot last
The winds will die and fade away
the trees will they’re here to stay.
Spring will return the trees will green
as if the winter had not been.
The trees put on their new spring clothes
along with every plant that grows.
8-Oct-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Death Of The Kapowsin Tavern
I can't ridge it back again from char.
Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores
and shattered glass smoked black and strung
about from the explosion I believe
in the reports. The white school up for sale
for years, most homes abandoned to the rocks
of passing boys--the fire, helped by wind
that blew the neon out six years before,
simply ended lots of ending.
A damn shame. Now, when the night chill
of the lake gets in a troller's bones
where can the troller go for bad wine
washed down frantically with beer?
And when wise men are in style again
will one recount the two-mile glide of cranes
from dead pines or the nameless yellow
flowers thriving in the useless logs,
or dots of light all night about the far end
of the lake, the dawn arrival of the idiot
with catfish--most of all, above the lake
the temple and our sanctuary there?
Nothing dies as slowly as a scene.
The dusty jukebox cracking through
the cackle of a beered-up crone--
wagered wine--sudden need to dance--
these remain in the black debris.
Although I know in time the lake will send
wind black enough to blow it all away.
poem by Richard Hugo
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The Country Wife
She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
Following their voices on the breeze,
She makes her way. Through the dark trees
The distant stars are all she sees.
They cannot light the way she's gone.
She make her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
She cannot see the winds that break
The night reflected on the lake
But knows they motion for her sake.
These are the choices they have brought her:
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
poem by Dana Gioia
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Hugging trees has a calming effect on me. I'm talking about enormous trees that will be there when we are all dead and gone. I've hugged trees in every part of this little island.
quote by Gerry Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rainy Day
Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the
forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry
is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Rainy Day in Chicago
Rain sprinkles the ground
damping the fallen leaves.
Grey clouds fill the sky
hiding the sun.
The wind blows off the lake
shaking the trees.
I sit inside trying to fight my boredom
so I don't fall asleep.
Wow it is just another rainy day in Chicago.
The Different Twigs On Rooted Trees
The different twigs on rooted trees,
If noticed...
Expands concepts of possibilities,
If approached...
With an opened mind.
If one accepts the meaning of consciousness,
Life given to live will display...
An array of qualities,
Humanity blesses us to receive.
This Universe beholds many complexities,
Out of our control.
Although we demand with selfishness,
To insist we can rule and suppress...
What we choose and refuse what is detested!
Feeding a continuum of conflict and unrest.
A divine design,
More complexed than our self centeredness...
Is not blinded by the fuss we make as specks of dust.
It knows we leech disrespectfully.
It knows we show an ungratefulness...
With beliefs our insignificance,
Is the cause and effect of the 'heavens' progress.
And 'not' the creators of upsetting conflicts and diseases,
Left!
Like pests.
And not the self righteous 'saviors' professed!
A divine design,
More complexed than our self centeredness...
Is not blinded by the fuss we make as specks of dust.
It knows we leech disrespectfully.
It knows we show an ungratefulness...
With beliefs our insignificance,
Is the cause and effect of the 'heavens' progress.
The different twigs on rooted trees,
If noticed...
Expands concepts of possibilities,
If approached...
With an opened mind.
However...
Too many of those are still enclosed,
In shells too hard!
And too thick to birth from the surface to bloom!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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How The Leaves Are Blown By The Wind
did i not tell you that these leaves come from the trees?
no dispute about it
about them, they grow out from there, those twigs
of the trees of life,
they get their glow, their sheen, though they have given more honor
to the sun
rather than the roots and the phloem
the season for them to mature and fall has come
and they all wait for the wind, the great strong wind to blow them all away
to their respective destinies
some find their way to the river
some to the thick heap of other leaves destined to rot
and only if you hear them
they say they come from nowhere
not from the tree of life
not from me
the leaves, my poems, the wind my way of throwing,
the tree, myself, my roots my mind, my phloem my blood
i made them all, but now, they are on their own
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Hunchback in the Park
The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water
From the opening of the garden lock
That lets the trees and water enter
Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark
Eating bread from a newspaper
Drinking water from the chained cup
That the children filled with gravel
In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship
Slept at night in a dog kennel
But nobody chained him up.
Like the park birds he came early
Like the water he sat down
And Mister they called Hey mister
The truant boys from the town
Running when he had heard them clearly
On out of sound
Past lake and rockery
Laughing when he shook his paper
Hunchbacked in mockery
Through the loud zoo of the willow groves
Dodging the park keeper
With his stick that picked up leaves.
And the old dog sleeper
Alone between nurses and swans
While the boys among willows
Made the tigers jump out of their eyes
To roar on the rockery stones
And the groves were blue with sailors
Made all day until bell time
A woman figure without fault
Straight as a young elm
Straight and tall from his crooked bones
That she might stand in the night
After the locks and chains
All night in the unmade park
After the railings and shrubberies
The birds the grass the trees the lake
And the wild boys innocent as strawberries
Had followed the hunchback
To his kennel in the dark.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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