Seeing Off A Friend
Green hills above the northern wall,
White water winding east of the city.
On this spot our single act of parting,
The lonely tumbleweed journeys ten thousand li.
Drifting clouds echo the traveller's thoughts,
The setting sun reflects my old friend's feelings.
You wave your hand and set off from this place,
Your horse whinnies as it leaves.
Related quotes
Taking Leave of a Friend
Blue mountains lie beyond the north wall;
Round the city's eastern side flows the white water.
Here we part, friend, once forever.
You go ten thousand miles, drifting away
Like an unrooted water-grass.
Oh, the floating clouds and the thoughts of a wanderer!
Oh, the sunset and the longing of an old friend!
We ride away from each other, waving our hands,
While our horses neigh softly, softly . . . .
It Really Never Was...
the day is getting darker
painting shadows on the wall
broken wings of blue skies
going for a moment
everything's now in the evening
with longings in the deep
and wishes still not happening
the winter
glasses with frosty roses
and perfect days in somberness
in the white weather
every thought
is now alone
reaching to the mountains
faraway
in silences of time
every hour
is cold and getting colder
with drifting clouds
in northern skies
that can't hold back
how do I not be alone
when times are like these
how do I not feel the blues
when the clouds surrounds me
with few landings
into summer thoughts
every hour
is cold and getting colder
with drifting clouds
in northern skies
that can't hold back
the winter
comes soft and sweet
with clean glisten thoughts
and snowflakes that never stop pouring...
when it gets cold outside
the winter
oh the winter
how fresh it can get
how cold it can get
it really never was...
full of romantic
it just has these surprises
in the weather
that can't hold back
the clouds that surrounds me
it really never was...
just the winter
it really never was...
just the winter
poem by Peter S. Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Hills That Surround A City
There are hills that surround a city,
I do not know if everyone loves these hills as I do,
From a child to an adult, I traveled the roads of these hills,
Through all seasons these hills are inviting, to a city dweller,
There are hills that surround a city,
In summer these hills can be dangerous,
Bush fires, the enemy of all,
But a friend at times,
Trees and plants re-shoot after bush fires,
Foe to animals and residents,
Cool nights, bring summer breezes to these hills,
Autumn colours surround the hills,
And bring the city dweller to visit,
Colours line the ever winding roadways,
Magical colours along the roadways,
Breathtaking trees, so tall,
Falling leaves line the winding roadways,
Around the hills that surround a city,
Log fires creating smoke from chimneys, dot the landscapes,
During winter,
Winter rains flushes the creeks and rivers,
Throughout the hills that surround a city,
Frosts, fog create an old world atmosphere,
Don't forget your scarf, beanie's, or gloves,
It is cold in these hills,
Spring, the hills are coming alive,
Magical gardens, on display,
Watch for the colourful birds, that come alive,
There is still a chill in the air,
Grab a bit of sunshine, feel the warmth,
There is another world in these hills,
A historical world, for those who wish to visit,
The Adelaide hills surround the city,
Many abandon the city, for the day,
Or a weekend retreat,
The many winding roads amongst the Adelaide hills,
Will take you many places,
I have traveled these roads all my life,
Now I am finding many new roads to travel,
Around these hills that surround a city.
poem by Batibchar Mocculta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Exile’s Letter
(To Yüan)
Remember how Tung built us a place to drink in
At Lo-yang south of the T’ien-ching bridge?
White jade and gold bought songs and laughter.
We drank forgetting Court and princes.
Those amongst us, wisest and bravest
On all this side of rivers and oceans,
Hearts high as clouds, and you and I together,
Cared nothing at crossing lakes and mountains
Only to share our thoughts and feelings.
Then I went out south-east to cut the laurel,
You north of Lo River still lost in dreams.
No joy in being parted. Soon back again in mountains,
Tracking the thirty-six twists and turns of valley,
By the streams bright with a thousand flowers,
By endless waters,
Hearing pine-trees sighing,
Till we met the Hang-tung Governor
On a gold and silver saddle,
And Hu the True-Taoist drew us with his pipe playing,
Making unearthly music out of the high tower,
Strange sounds of the mating phoenix.
The Governor’s sleeves kept time to the music,
So that he rose, drunk, and danced a little,
Brought his brocade coat, covered my body.
I fell asleep, head resting in his lap.
By day our hearts rose to the nine heavens.
At evening we scattered like blown stars or rain,
I to my far mountain over hills and waters,
You to your own house by the bridge of Wei.
That winter I made your father’s North City,
Loved you for the way you did me honour,
Sharing your wealth, thinking nothing of it.
Wine there - in cups of amber,
Food there - on plates of jade.
I ate and drank, no thoughts of returning.
We went out to the west. The river parts there,
Round the ancient shrine of a Prince of Chou.
Boats on the waters to drums and piping.
Waves made of dragon scales. Jade-green rushes.
We drank and drank, lived the passing moments,
Forgetting how they go like blossoms or snowfall.
Flushed with wine, warm in glow of sunset,
The hundred-foot deep pool mirroring bright faces,
Dancing-girls delicate as willows in the moonlight,
Notes lost in the silken sleeves’ fluttering.
A white breeze blew their song to the sky,
Winding through the air, twisting in the cloud-lanes.
Never again. Never again such joy.
I went west but got no promotion.
White-headed back to eastern hills.
Met once more south of Wei’s bridge.
Parted again north of Tso’s terrace.
And if you ask my feelings at parting,
They were inside me like Spring flowers falling.
No way to say what’s in the heart. Never.
I call in the boy. Have him kneel here, tie this,
To send my feelings through a thousand miles.
Lonely Poplar
LONELY WHITE POPLAR
GROWING UP RAPIDLY TOWARDS HEAVEN
YOU ARE WAVING YOUR HAND TO ME
AND TRYING TO REACH SOMEONE ABOVE
I THOUGHT YOU WANTED ME NOTICE YOUU
ON THESE HOT DAYS OF JULY
DO NOIT THİ NK
I HAVE FORGOTTEN YOU
I EVEN KNOW
HOW MANY BLACK CROWS
CROWS EAGERLY AND OBSTINATELY ON YOU
NESTLING I IN YOUR GREEN
HOW CAN I FORGET YOU
YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
WHEN I BROKE MY THIGH
IN THE COLD WINTER
YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
I SAW YOU DROPPING YOUR LEAVES
I EVEN SAW YOU NAKED WITHOUT THE LEAVES
I SAW YOU LEAFENİ NG IN SPRING
I SAW YOU IN HARSH WINDS
BENDING UP AND DOWN
WHEN SNOW FELL
YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
WHEN I WAS SITTING ON A CHAIR
AND WHEN I WAS WALKING WITH A BATON
STUMBLING HERE AND THERE
TO AND FRO
LONELY GREEN POPLAR IN SUMMER
YOU WERE WAVING YOUR HANDS TO ME
YIU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
IN MY LONELY DAYS
HOW CAN I FORGET YOU
poem by Metin Sahin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Am Nothing!
nothing....
i am nothing,
nothing but the breeze
walking through the trees.
nothing but the caw of the crow,
the echo of the mountains' silence.
nothing but the empty bowl
held by the hungry child.
nothing but the dark face,
the white hands,
spoken in different languages.
nothing but the blood,
of the family killed by the bombs.
nothing but the lonely terror
of the suicide just before dawn.
nothing but the footprints
the lonely traveller follows
on the way back home.....
nothing but the leaf
turned from green to red to brown.
nothing but the memories
of love calling back to you.
nothing but a prayer,
an offered hand, an unknown friend,
a tear, a smile....
the dance of the living,
a small fire on the darkest night!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Road and Hills
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs tramp the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mr. Green
Green leaves tell you
How green your mind is,
Wide boroughs tell you
How broad your mind is,
Velvet grasses tell you
How soft your hair is,
Clean water ponds tell you
How your tears are,
White clouds tell you
How your floating thoughts are,
Birds in group tell you
How you enjoy friend’s company,
Peacock tells you
How you dance in rain,
Lion tells you
How to react with pride,
Deer tells you
How you enjoy your freedom,
And environment tells you
How you can become Mr. Green.
poem by Biswajit Ganguly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just Beyond The Setting Sun
Just beyond the setting sun
lies a land where green leaves grow.
Just beyond the setting sun
seasons different come and go.
A warmly place
of peace and tranquillity.
Just beyond the setting sun
lies a home for you and me.
A place of no worries
where life is idyllic
to spawn generations to come,
warm in the summer sun
and cool as winter comes.
Just beyond the setting sun
lies a home we always wanted,
a paradise of beauty,
fulfilment and tranquillity.
Just beyond the setting sun
where our dreams come from.
There within those pastures green
lies our future destiny,
just over the horizon,
just beyond the setting sun.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
12. Moonlight River
Black horse, strolling alone, to the river
He lowers his neck and drinks the water
Black clouds, shading the rays from the sky
White horse, treading alone, to the river
She lowers her neck and drinks the water
Black clouds, fusing the shadow into the night
Gradually the clouds disperse, and the moon
Shines warmly on the black horse
It lifts up its head and looks around
The white horse has disappeared.
(Aug 23,2004)
poem by Eugene Issaus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lonely, ,
Lonely and alone I am
my soul's always lonesome
in a crowd of loneliness
it sounds sad and lonely
hiding loneliness alone
the lonely lone alone
Lonely is a single traveller
on a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
of carrying a heavy load.
Lonely is a beautiful song
that no one's ever heard,
and lonely is the wait for death
by a broken winged bird.
Lonely is the emptiness
inside my hollow soul,
and lonely is the sound of the wind
blowing through its gaping hole.
Loneliness is second only
to the darkened void of death
and loneliness is taking
that 'Right' to Hell
when I should have made a 'Left'.
Lonely is the sound
of an infant
who sadly cries in vain,
and lonely is his addict mother
shooting poison in her veins.
Lonely is the boy
who will never become a man
and lonely is the brink of disaster
upon which I know I stand.
Lonely is the poem
which has gone on long enough
and lonely is the sympathizers
who say I've, 'had it rough'.
Lonely is my life
lived without family or friend
and lonely is the last word of this poem
because it's always at the...
End.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
So Lonely Alone
So lonely alone am I
My soul's lonesome in the crowd of loneliness
It sounds sad and lonely
Hiding loneliness alone
The lonely lone alone
Lonely is a single traveller
On a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
Of carrying a heavy load.
Lonely is a beautiful song
That no one's ever heard,
And lonely is the wait for death
For a broken winged bird.
Lonely is the emptiness
Inside my hollow soul,
And lonely is the sound of the wind
Blowing through its gaping hole.
Loneliness is second only
To the darkened void of death
And loneliness is taking
That 'Right' to Hell
When I should have made a 'Left'.
Lonely is the sound
Of a lonesome infant
Who sadly cries in vain,
And lonely is his addict mother
Shooting poison in her veins.
Lonely is the boy
Who will never become a man
And lonely is the brink of disaster
Upon which I know I stand.
Lonely is the poem
Which has gone on long enough
And lonely is the sympathisers
Who say I've, 'had it rough'.
Lonely is my life
Lived without family or friend
And lonely is the last word of this poem
Because it's always at the...
…End.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Swan, Lake, Leaf, Moon....
Your hands are leaves
Leaves that float on the water
The water is the body
I am the body
Where your dead leaves
Float
I cannot in this
Be the sun
And you cannot be the green
Comforting Grass
of the Hills
Those lonely hills that stay awake
at Night
The moon shines on the lake
Waiting for the Swan
She is the Swan
and He is the Moon
You are a dead Leaf
and I am the Body of Water
We are somehow
Nothing but
Spectators to the Swan
Moon Affair
But sad is this game of Irony
Again some love
more Love have remained
Unrequited....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
109
a view of this place that i remember
the back space of this house
used to be a green ricefield
and there was that tall mango tree
where i used to sit underneath
shading me from the scourging sun
i always remember
the view
of the carabaos grazing
with white herons standing on their back
and blue cottony clouds drifting above
the place is now cemented
with a wall as high as three men added-up
high buildings rise from here
reaching the cottony clouds out there
and the river is no longer a hype
but a big silent hard steel pipe.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I look at Rome; She has nearly three thousand years of civilization, but she flows as if she were new, looking as young and carefree as water when she makes water. A city where art and culture predominate more than anything else.
Overall, Rome is a mysterious city. The ancient ruins on the one hand suggest the glory of the Roman Empire, on the other they strike the opulence and grandeur of the Baroque buildings. And last but not least, be captivated by the speed and crazy rhythms of today's civilization translated into the huge number of tourists in the city, flooded with people, cameras and souvenirs. Everyone chooses his Rome, be it imperial, baroque or modern. But for everyone the city, once the center of the world, is a real historical symbol.
Camelia Oprița in book Wall of thoughts (We look for the past to invent the future) (2000)
Submitted by Livius Ciocarlie
Vote! | Copy!
We Are One
If this blue earth reaches for the sun
And doves sail the breeze, so white and true
Then silver waterfall did run
As our hope lay with morning dew.
If darkest night is lit by creeping dawn
Bereft of flowers our gauntlet run
Both standing as the pistols drawn
Our tapestry would then be spun.
When breathing in the empty sky
Both hills and thoughts did mask our view
Years locked you from my loving eye
In grey room where all hopes were few.
If pain of heart on troubled road
Whispered promise like a mute
Lonely dreams on white charger slowed
Only by your distant flute.
As our emotions came undone
Small voice declared that we are one.
If your sweet kiss lingers soft with scent
As nightlights disappear from view
Your hand in mine, if only lent
One second, as our love first grew..
If candlelit, your eyes seek mine.
When insecurity pulls a gun
Our sweetest fruit still on the vine.
Freedom like a wild horse will run.
And parting slaps the face of love
Then dying in mundane abyss
It's then we both must look above
Our shooting stars collide to kiss.
poem by Kevin East
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Leaving White King City
White King City I left at dawn
in the morning-glow of the clouds;
The thousand miles to Chiang-ling
we sailed in a single day.
On either shore the gibbons' chatter
sounded without pause
While my light boat skimmed past
ten thousand sombre crags.
Horse and Rider
The prairie blows the grasses
And whips the horse’s mane.
They travel, horse and rider,
Through the sea of amber grain
Hills roll by, and clouds pass
But steady are the horse’s hooves
Upon the wind blown grass
As they travel, horse and rider
There is no trail that they follow
No path that can be seen
There they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless blowing green
poem by Horse Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A View Of This Place That I Remember
the back space of this house
used to be a green ricefield
and there was that tall mango tree
where i used to sit underneath
shading me from the scourging sun
i always remember
the view
of the carabaos grazing
with white herons standing on their back
and blue cottony clouds drifting above
the place is now cemented
with a wall as high as three men added-up
high buildings rise from here
reaching the cottony clouds out there
and the river is no longer a hype
but a big silent hard steel pipe.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Changing Light
The changing light
at San Francisco
is none of your East Coast light
none of your
pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
is a sea light
an island light
And the light of fog
blanketing the hills
drifting in at night
through the Golden Gate
to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
after the fog burns off
and the sun paints white houses
with the sea light of Greece
with sharp clean shadows
making the town look like
it had just been painted
But the wind comes up at four o'clock
s weeping the hills
And then the veil of light of early evening
And then another scrim
when the new night fog
floats in
And in that vale of light
the city drifts
anchorless upon the ocean
poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!