So Clear It 'Mints' My Senses
The pine scented trees,
Impresses an image...
So clear it 'mints' my senses.
Perhaps it is the Fall that does this?
With the promise that comes,
Along with those holidays gone
And missed.
As the temperature cools...
And the turning of the leaves,
Seem to be in a rhythm swaying,
Ever so gently.
The wrapping of gifts,
Or just the pleasantness that appeals...
To a healing unsolicited,
And received with anticipated acceptedness.
As the blowing of a brisk wind...
Wished to never end,
With such a majestic breeze...
Blending this scene seamlessly.
To receive and enhale to freely breathe.
And deeply.
The pine scented trees,
Impresses an image...
So clear it 'mints' my senses.
So involved with it...
Quickly I cement my committment.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
A Pine Tree in My House
A tree that grows in my garden
A robust pine tree
Stands big and Proud
Sinks its roots deeply into the Earth
A pine tree in my house
Spreads its seeds every where
Sheds needles all over
Drops big cones onto my lawn
Survives within the sun
Ambles forth in all direction s with each gust of wind
Bends over the roaring storm
Tosses its branches in magnificent enthusiasm
Attracts the colors of a million sunsets into its needles leaves
Sways gracefully with the wind
Whispers with the blowing breeze
Cuddles joyfully with the changing seasons
Tries to reach the sky!
Looks beautiful in a peaceful state,
Is wise in its silence
Grows lush in all seasons
Allows the birds to perch and soar
Never holds them back
Never pines for their return when they fly away
If our hearts were like pine trees
We would have no apprehension in our minds
No one would wish to bring us down
No one would wake us up at night
A pine tree in my house
I Call it the tree of paradise
What I’ve got, I know it matters
For paradise, I wish to pave the way!
poem by Dr Shamim ali
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So Right To Begin
When Autumn comes to go to show,
Just how beautiful this season can be!
And leaves that fall from the trees,
Vivid and bright...
Cools those nights enjoyed peacefully.
So right to begin,
Anticipated holidays.
So right to begin,
A festival of feasts.
and so right to begin,
Preparing for a new year...
As an old one ends.
So right to begin,
Anticipated holidays.
So right to begin,
A festival of feasts.
and so right to begin,
Preparing for a new year...
As an old one ends.
When Autumn comes to go to show,
Just how beautiful this season can be!
And leaves that fall from the trees,
Vivid and bright...
Cools those nights enjoyed peacefully.
And so right to begin,
Preparing for a new year...
As an old one ends,
to welcome fresh beginnings.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
poem by Billy Collins
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There Our Senses Touch
There our senses touch.
In the fields of...
Fresh grass scented.
To glisten with dew,
Lifted,
By a dawning morning...
Clear.
Bright.
And appetizing awakening eyes.
There our senses touch.
With an open window nearby.
Where the 'is' and 'why' of life,
Breezes through fields God gives...
To make the experience of it,
Flagrant with inconsistent fragrance shifting.
From day to day.
As if to outdo each creation made.
There our senses touch.
In the fields of...
All there is to life.
And to know it can not be simply lived,
If not witnessed.
There our senses touch.
Outside of ourselves.
With none of it to be lived,
To sit on fences.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mellow Autumn
Autumns rich mellow flavoured air
Unmasked, the trees are now bare.
Seldom do we hear the birds sing
When the Autumn leaves are falling.
Smoke trails from the burning leaves
Carried on the light cool breeze.
The scent of spiced apple days
In the suns golden haze.
The Pine towering heavenly high
Dropping fragrances on passres by.
Smell the crisp refreshing air
Wind is blowing everywhere.
The leaves they scatter without sound
Gently cascading to the ground.
© Hazel
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Trees
Green with spendour when Summer's here,
Brown contender in Autumn's sphere,
Bare the branches in Winter's embrace,
New growth created, when Spring shows her face.
Stalwart trunks, with many years standing,
Leaves when over, steadily landing,
Branches swaying in the breeze,
How I love all kinds of trees.
Forests of green, where they all meet,
Swaying together as they all greet,
Each morning, when the light appears,
Each growing slowly over the years.
Sentinels of the land they survey,
Strong and upstanding in every way,
Graceful, mighty, powerful and fine,
Tall and sleek just like the Pine.
The Oak, Ash, Sycamore and Lime,
The Rowan, White Beam and Silver Birch sublime,
Each one giving of their glorious best,
To the World - The World's been blest.
What would we do without our trees,
Don't cut them down, will you please,
Remember how they give us shade,
From the sun, within the glade.
Stand and study these majestic creations,
Upright descendants of past relations,
Their dignity, against all weathers,
If it were us, we'd lose our tethers.
But these gallant trees require our care,
They give oxygen, in the air
That we breathe, so, if we want to survive,
Let us keep our trees alive.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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THE Pine
Shaft of beauty towering heavenly high
Dropping fragrances on passers by
Swaying in the Autumn breeze
The tall majestic pine trees
Shedding it's cones to the ground
Swaddled in needles all around
Fragrant and green in the snow
Ancient trees how tall they grow
Cooling dark green pines orth
Evergreen needles reaching forth
Like a sentry standing saluting the sky
Raising up through the clouds so high
Summer and winter under boughs spread
Snows of centuries have crowned your head
The fragrance of virtue of the pine
Rises to the heavens so sublime.
Orth - Straight.
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Once Upon An Autumn Day
Once Upon an autumn day,
Colorful leaves began to fade
In the midst of a chilly, frosty air
As multitude of trees grew steadily bare.
Once upon an autumn day,
The whispering breeze was here to stay
Moving aimlessly through the countless trees
Scattering leaves with the greatest of ease.
Once upon an autumn day,
The leaves whirled freely in every way,
Until at last they came to rest
Finding a haven in which to nest.
Once upon an autumn day,
The trees were dormant, and the leaves lay
Waiting for the winter snow to fall
To quickly obscure them one and all.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Mystery Obscured
Far away from nothing,
The trees in the sky is what I see.
I hear the wind - it's coming,
Stirring up the pine trees.
I hear the ocean behind -
Smell salt in the air.
The wind it finally reaches me,
Mixing pine with salt air.
The sky is steely grey,
The sun obscured by clouds.
It casts a mysterious light,
On trees and ocean alike.
poem by Aimee Nell
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June Mooned Normandy - 0102 - For Annie Boudet
Near sand dunes gently rolling in June mooned Normandy,
on starlit strands went strolling salt scented, silvery,
while sightless eels swam shoaling, silk ribbons on the sea.
Soon midnight peals rang tolling to twelve from one, two, three,
till roosters rose, cock-crowing, we talked on tenderly.
Pine trees in gren groves growing most gnome-like seemed to me.
Brine breeze the billows blowing, froth-foaming fretfully
sent spent spray wavelets spewing, coast-combing ceaselessly,
‘neath tent-grey egrets mewing, ghosts roaming silently,
repined, our steps pursuing in restless jealousy.
(3 October 1975)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Easy to Indulge
Moist and sweet,
Like a Macintosh can be in Spring!
An apple bitten dripping juice...
Savored as the brisk warm breeze blowing,
Upon the sight of blossoming flowers.
And the young budding leaves,
On an assortment of swaying trees!
Enchanting images imagined and seen.
Quickly I eat every morsel before I leave.
So much of this feeds my appetite.
And yet this is the beginning...
Of a new season delight I witness!
It will be here for me to enjoy even more.
Mother Nature teases to peak my interests...
Knowing I am easy to indulge Her every move.
She is delicious...
And She satisfies that need in me!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Requiem
Far too many are forgiving.
And sacrificial.
Positioned to allow,
Breath as we know it to breathe.
They feel.
Bleed and silently scream.
Few are seen being thanked.
Or properly are they given a requiem.
These are our trees!
Protecting.
And cringing...
From the mindless disrespect.
And yet...
From Sunrise to Sunset,
Each raindropp that falls upon them...
Whether Pine needles or leaves,
Of the Oak, Birch or Maple.
And so many others unnoticed.
Or caring less,
If they aren't addressed by name.
Still they stand tall through it all!
Receiving a nourishment that feeds.
And they remain steadfast...
Even if they are not given,
The benefit of a passing glance.
With loyalty...
They are in support,
Of our unconscious values!
We have abused!
And willfully aborted.
These are our trees!
Our trees on this Earth...
Allowing us to breathe,
Freely.
As they protect.
And probably cringe...
From the mindless disrespect.
With a neglect,
And a thoughtlessness accepted!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My House
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
My house is very beautiful at night
My friend and teacher occupies a spare room
Hes dead, at peace at last the wandering jew
Other friends had put stones on his grave
He was the first great man that I had ever met
Sylvia and I got out our ouija board
To dial a spirit, across the room it soared
We were happy and amazed at what we saw
Blazing stood the proud and regal name delmore
Delmore, I missed all your funny ways
I missed your jokes and the brilliant things you said
My dedalus to your bloom, was such a perfect wit
And to find you in my house makes things perfect
I really got a lucky life
My writing, my motorcycle and my wife
And to top it all off a spirit of pure poetry
Is living in this stone and wood house with me
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Silence Shall Be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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84
my silence shall be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Are Images Created For?
The answers to questions,
Are there.
The answers have always been there.
Impatiently glaring.
But what has been absent...
Is a quitting to dispense,
The distribution of pretentions...
Of those defining who is qualified,
With credentials certified...
That impresses with appearances,
Images relied upon...
That those knowledgeable oppose.
And refuse to masquerade to disguise.
The answers to questions,
Are there.
The answers have always been there.
Impatiently glaring.
But those who stare...
Seek something there that impresses.
And if it is not an image dressed,
To impress expectations...
The answers that are there,
Will continually to be ignored.
What are images created for?
If there are not there to enhance pretentions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Wait For You...
I wait for you. The years in silence pass
And as the image, one, I wait for you again.
The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass,
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain.
The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast,
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet,
And will initiate the challenging mistrust
By changing features, used, at long awaited end.
Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine,
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set!
The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine!
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.
poem by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
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Deserted Island
This island is deserted
It is very hot
like the desert
with tons of sand
only theres trees
the trees sway in the breeze
like a cool wind blowing through the village
the water matches the sky here
It's clear blue
you can see everything right down to the sand
under the forever going ocean
there's coral and bright colored fish
it's as warm as
the hot sand under my feet and the summer sun
the isolation is unbelievable
it is unspeakable
the only movement is of the ocean and the trees
there is only me
this island is deserted
poem by Kristen Otto
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Senses Reminisced
Summertime...
Nights with fireflies,
And hives with nestled bees.
Amber flickers...
Crackling sparks!
Sizzles wood chips
Crisping logs tossed,
In fireplaces.
Frosted windows...
Snow on pine trees.
Covers leaves left,
And chestnuts collected with cones
To be found lying around on the ground
Finding themselves in someone's home!
Patched seasons and holidays glimmer.
Simmering
New beginnings to manifest...
As those that pass linger.
And memories hatched detach,
When the marketing of sentiments
Are put away to settle on shelves
With other condiments stored...
Until needed to enliven
A taste to enhance the palate,
And senses reminisced!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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