Related quotes: Above the voices of axe...

The Forest Dies

Above the voices
of axe and saw.
Echoing loud and clear
through forest and glade.

'TIMBER! TIMBER! '

Call of the lumberjack.
To some the music of profit.
Others death's mournful wail.
An instant of silence.

Executed a tree topples.
A cracking twisting moan
rustle and swish of leaves.
The earth trembles.

Another noble resident
taken by man.
Taken without remorse.
Selfishly to satisfy his needs.

BEWARE take heed!

Man must not ignore the fact.
These regal giants he takes away
with young must be replaced.
To grow in hope to take another day.

How many of nature's domain
for sacrifice bear mark?
Will there one day come?
Forests are no more?

poem by Kurt Hearth
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Related quotes

Timber

When I first saw you standing there , you set my heart a-reeling
Baby , you gave me such a feeling
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a a-fallin for you
Yeah , yeah , yeah
Well, it happens evry time I look in your eyes
Baby , its paradise
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Yeah , yeah , yeah
Well , I wish that you were mine to be forever and ever
Without you darling I just cant sleep
Im only happy when were together
I guess its time that I told you so
Ill always want to hold you
Baby , have I ever told you
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Yeah , yeah , yeah
I wish that you were mine to be forever and ever
Without you darling I just cant sleep
Im only happy when were together
I guess its time that I told you so
Ill always want to hold you
Baby , have I ever told you
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Whoa , whoa , whoa
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you (fade)

song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forests Of Growing Green Gold

living forests
touristic gold mines
if market mined

diverse flora fauna
sources of memories
seed imaginations

sold not once
as deforestation
but countless

times as living
life tapestries
creative webs

children of forests
bless all eyes all
hearts spirit seen

“weep child
the mighty totara
is (blade) fallen

no longer
forests thick
stretching
120 feet high

above life dense
canopy bird song
broad leaf trees

linear sharp
pointed leaves
(grew) dark
green-brownish

female totara
flowers red swollen
nut embedded”

who will
replant sacred
forests?

who will come
centuries on to
watch totara grow?

living sacred
ancient forest giants
were timber

sold when tourism
was life sustaining
growing green gold

poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Stringy-Bark Tree

There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.

And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.

Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.

Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.

poem by Henry Lawson
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My Orcha'd In Linden Lea

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
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My Orcha'd in Linden Lea

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle auver head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' ther vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush ther zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, auver head,
Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

poem by William Barnes
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Somebodys Trying To Tell Me Something

Breaking me down - lunatic noises
Breaking me down - desperate voices
Breaking me down - phone is blistering
Breaking me down - death by listening
Somebodys out there, somebodys waiting
Somebodys trying to tell me something
Somebodys trying to talk to me
Cracking me up - silence threatening
Cracking me up - storm is deafening
Cracking me up - pressure brought to bear
Cracking me up - now Im getting there
(hirst/rotsey/moginie/gifford/garrett)

song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Voices Cryin Out

Voices cryin out, voices cryin out
Voices cryin out in the night hear them call
Voices cryin out hear them call
Its a night
Like no other night
Its a day
Almost turning grey
Its a heart
Like a broken heart
Its a wheel
At the end of day
Its the plight
Of a boy whos scared
Of the waves rushing out
And the wind in the air
Its the sight
Of one longing to taste
Of life
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Visions that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices crying out hear them call
Its a song
Of a love unsung
Its the pain
Of just being young
Its a cry
Of a voice unheard
Of a face
Speaking silent words
Its the hope
That the time goes by
Take you upon a wing
Teach your soul to fly
Its a wish
That youll live your experience life
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Vision that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices crying out hear them call
Oh do you know how it feels to be free
Walking your path of life
Embracing destiny one day at a time
Voices cryin out...oh cant you hear them
Voices cryin out...listen please, listen to the future
Voices cryin out...millions and millions and millions of voices
Voices cryin out...oh oh oh oh
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Vision that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices crying out hear them call
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Vision that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices cryin out
Voices cryin out
Voices cryin out...

song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Head The Call

Have you been listening, (Listen to the music)
Have you been sleeping (The sermon's in the music)
(The man standing next to you, he must surely be your brother)
(So brother please) heed the call
(The piper he's still piping)
The magic in the music
(The drummer he's still drumming)
The message in the music
(Sweet song of loving you should be singing)
(So brother please) heed the call
Listen to the music, Listen to the music
(Listen to the music) heed the call
(Listen to the music) heed the call
Heed the call of the music
Heed the call of the music
Heed the call of the music
Heed the call of the music
(It's still early in our morning)
There's still time for singing
Let's not waste our morning
Join in the singing
The outlaw of the midnight
He all too soon comes winging
(So brother please, please) heed the call
(Listen to the music) (Listen to the music) yeah
(Listen to the music) (Listen to the music) oh oh
(Listen to the music) oh oh oh (Listen to the music)
(Listen to the music)

song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nature's Call

A bluebird is perching
Upon the fence,
Just beyond it
Is a forest, dense.

Squirrels are chasing
Each other,
Scampering and racing
With much luster.

A stream is slowly running
Past.

I draw some out,
And water the plants.

All is growing wild...

Wild is the cat,
And so is the bear.

Wild is the honey,
And so is the fish.

Wild is the bat,
And so is the hare.

Wild is the bee,
And so is the tree.

Wild is everything
That you can see.

A scream from the cat,
A roar from the bear.

Silence honey,
And splash from fish.

The screech of the bat,
The thump of the hare,
Buzz of the bee,
The sweet rustle of the tree.

Many sounds,
Made by one
And all-

Thes are the sounds,
Nature's call.

poem by Macy Dvirnak
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The Poet Tree

Rustle, little leaves above, rustle in the breeze...
Rustle, little leaves of love, rustle mid God's peace!
Rustle, every night and day, rustle every hour...
Rustle, rustle, come what may, rustle mid God's power!
Rustle, for then wise words are formed,
Great expectations made!
Through such as these, men's hearts are warmed
And children's prayers are prayed!
Rustle upon the Poet Tree,
Above the poets' ears,
So they may learn each melody,
These God-picked volunteers...
Rustle sweetly, and gently on,
Persist from age to age -
Let all God's poets write upon
Their separate nearby page...
Rustle until all humans die
And no more poets live!
Until no soul would question, 'Why? '
And there's no cause to give!
Rustle until God tells you stop,
'Dear friends, at last, be free...
'Tis time for you to fall, to drop...
Beneath the Poet Tree...
I've loved each poem, every one...
And Jesus loved them, too!
You've blessed the world! Your task is done!
Your rustle days are through...'

poem by Denis Martindale
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Sir Walter Raleigh to His Son

Three things there be that prosper up apace
And flourish, whilst they grow asunder far,
But on a day, they meet all in one place,
And when they meet, they one another mar;
And they be these: the wood, the weed, the wag.
The wood is that which makes the gallow tree;
The weed is that which strings the hangman's bag;
The wag, my pretty knave, betokeneth thee.
Mark well, dear boy, whilst these assemble not,
Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild,
But when they meet, it makes the timber rot,
It frets the halter, and it chokes the child.
Then bless thee, and beware, and let us pray
We part not with thee at this meeting day.

poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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Gaia’s Plan

Please, don’t sweep the leaves away –
Their essence gives to life’s decay.

Never hack the flowers down –
Their colours bless the laughing clown.

Now why the mowing of the lawn?
The severed grass will lie forlorn.

Let our flora live undressed,
Or under Man, will toil repressed!

I, the tree of standing still –
Erect and proud, and stout of will,
Aglow with motley bark of earth –
Advance my roots for all they’re worth,
Internalising Nature’s bowels
To snag the devil, tweak his jowls
And pull his hairs from whence they grow!
I’ll destroy his pagan show
Of Homo sapiens’ disrespect!

The humble ape must reconnect
With Gaia’s plan!

nature nature nature nature nature nature's creature
nature nature nature nature nature nature's creature
nature nature nature nature nature nature's creature
nature nature nature nature nature nature's creature
nature nature nature nature nature nature's creature

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.

quote by John Millington Synge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There's a basic kind of tension here. It's between those who say, I'd like to clear cut this forest and reduce it to saw timber because that's an economically productive thing for me to do.

quote by Bruce Babbitt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tree Out My Window

Taller taller
than last year
Greener greener
than last shower
there is a tree out my window

stouter stouter
than previous year
stronger stronger
no wind can steer
the tree is standing out my window

birds, crawlers
vines and creepers
children, farmers
artists and passers
sharing prosperity with this tree out my window

calm, silent
when spring is pleasant
violent, firm
when it's autumn
the tree out my window

varying moods and tone
with season
varying acts and chores
with changing sun
the tree shows out my window

true friend
true bond
mystic impression
full of motivation
the tree out my window

older older
still looking tender
timber timber
for good timber
they cut the tree out my window

vines, creepers
birds, crawlers
artists, passers
children, farmers
forgot the tree out my window

poem by Tarun Sharma
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Sonnet: By God's Grace, the New Dean is One Year Old!

Most trees that grew around were cut for wood!
Just one escaped, as massive was its trunk!
If cut, it would have yielded timber good,
For, it was huge enough for making plank!

The campus has been efforested now –
The buildings seen from outside with much ease;
That one tree looks gorgeous all the more, wow!
It seems to live for years without disease!

The same soil, rain and sun nurtured all trees;
Just one managed to grow surpassing rest;
It brought the wood-cutters down on their knees!
It won the race on earth and stands the best!

God treats alike all creatures, great and small;
’Tis each one’s choice to heed the divine call!

Dedicated as a thanksgiving to the one living, loving God
By Dr.Celestine A. Raj Manohar MD.,
Dean, IRT-PMC, Perundurai

poem by John Celes
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Timber Ho!

Im gonna pull this timber 'fore the sun go down
Get it 'cross the river 'fore the bars come down
Drag it on down that dusty road
Come on jerry, lets dump this load
I said timber, ho!, timber, woah this timbers gotta roll
I said timber, ho!, timber, woah this timbers gotta roll
My old jerry was an arkansas mule
Been everywhere and he aint no fool
Weighed nine hundred and twenty-two
Done everything a poor mule can do
(chorus)
Jerrys shoulders stood six foot tall
Pulled more timber than a freight could haul
Workin heavy old jerry got sore
Pulled so much he couldnt pull no more
(chorus)
The boss said jerry and it made him jump
Jerry ran and kicked the boss on the rump
My old jerry was a cool mule
Had it been me I woulda killed that fool
Boss tried to shoot old jerry in the head
Jerry took that bullet and he stomped him dead
Stomped that boss til he heard him scream
Sure dont care he was so damn mean
(chorus 2x)

song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is the God the saviour?

I grew a tree and sold it for timber.
I reared a goat and sold it for a feast.
Can I be to them the god of saviour?
The God sees I live, and takes me by death.
Can He be to me the god of saviour?
1711.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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As If They Have Their Own Identity

All of the Autumn leaves that fall from their mother tree
Are shaped so very differently
As if each has their own identity
At least that's how they seem to me.

In the cool gusts of the freshening winds they blow
Along the footpath fast and then quite slow
As if searching for a final resting place
On the Nature strip or in stormwater drain for to hide their wrinkled face.

Their span of time is brief so quick to meet decay
And in Nature's bosom within weeks they rot away
And off of their compost insects and beetles will live
When Nature takes in other ways she give.

Leaves too have life despite what some might say
And all things of life return to earth one day
And though they have life cells they do not have a mind
But they serve some purpose just like human kind.

I hear them rustle on their invisible feet
The dead dry leaves that are blown down the street
All of different shapes and sizes though from the one mother tree
As if they have their own identity.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Cui Bono

Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles,
Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf;
Why should he labour to help his neighbour
Who feels too reckless to help himself?
The wail of the breeze in the bending trees
Is something between a laugh and a groan;
And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore
Is a dull, discordant monotone;
I wish I could guess what sense they express,
There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound,
Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well —
Whom would it profit? — The world goes round!

On this earth so rough we know quite enough,
And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much;
The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser,
Is he more to be envied for being such?
Neither more nor less, in his idleness
The sage is doom'd to vexation sure;
The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool,
That he calls his throne, is no sinecure;
And as for the clown, you may give him a crown,
Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not,
And before you can wink he may spend it in drink —
To whom does it profit? — We ripe and rot!

Yet under the sun much work is done
By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage;
All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap
Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age.
By sea or by soil man is bound to toil,
And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide,
For awhile may shirk his share of the work,
But he grows with his dream dissatisfied;
He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge,
Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels
'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail —
What does it profit? — Wheels within wheels!

Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust,
And eat we must our bodies to nurse;
Some folk grow fatter — what does it matter?
I'm blest if I do — quite the reverse;
'Tis a weary round to which we are bound,
The same thing over and over again;

Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble,
That rises and bursts, is the best we gain;
And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get
What good we deserve — can we hope for more? —
They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves —
To whom do they profit? — Let them roar!

poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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