Smart Apes
The trees are leaving;
lurched away;
heading magnetic north;
sap cooled
and cold.
The elms,
uproot themselves;
and go.
Shade is gone.
The house is warm less;
night prolonged.
I see birds laboring west
unclear and direction-less.
Nature's abandonment
is profound.
I see no humming bird
at the outside feeder
now for weeks.
A tragedy.
Sorrow is a hoof-less stag,
the stunted bud on the flowerless tree,
the wind that weeps.
The bad air is Grey Green
'Beware of Smart Apes
wielding intelligence
uncontrolled.'
Hope is the mutantcy
which may overcome Smart Ape Tendencies-
how likely
how unlikely
much depends
upon the answer
to the query.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Willow tree by the lake
Willow tree by the lake standing tall since the day one
Home for birds and squirrels, place of fun
Breeze will come and play with her branches
Whistle at them before they move on
Any time, at mid day, at night or at the crack of dawn
Humming bird feeder and bird house hanging all over the tree
They swing back and forth and hang free
All summer it is a fun house as the birds come and go
Rabbits will hop around on the ground below.
Ducks will sit idle or sleep under her shade
Squirrels will carry food up the trunk, not afraid
During winter when nature sleeps no life around
Willow tree will shelter the birds, the squirrels
and even the worms under it's ground.
Many yrs ago I planted the tree, saw it grow day by day
Sat under it, wrote poems, it made me happy and gay
I know one day my time will be up and I will be gone
But my willow tree will still be here, singing with the wind at each dawn.
poem by Syed Karim
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A Visit to Qiantang Lake in Spring
Gushan temple north Jiating west
Water surface first flat cloud base low
Several places early orioles fight warm tree
Every house new swallows peck spring mud
Disordered flowers gradually almost confuse person eye
Light grass able hide horse hoof
Most love lake east go not enough
Green poplar shade in white sand causeway Gushan Temple is to the north, Jiating pavilion west,
The water's surface now is calm, the bottom of the clouds low.
In several places, the first orioles are fighting in warm trees,
By every house new swallows peck at spring mud.
Disordered flowers have grown almost enough to confuse the eye,
Bright grass is able now to hide the hooves of horses.
I most love the east of the lake, I cannot come often enough
Within the shade of green poplars on White Sand Embankment.
Which is better?
A genius knows when to dumb it down
A smart man knows when to know nothing
And an idiot can be all three
Well what does that mean?
Your only as smart as others allow
So if your too smart to be understood,
To others your intelligence level goes down
So to truly be a genius you must know when dumbing it down is good
To know nothing isn't unintelligence
It's best for different situations
Though very different from a genius,
A smart man recognizes when on his knowledge to put limitations
An idiot is in the best position,
Because it's second nature for them to put it in layman's terms
An idiot has the best potential for genius if it's his intention
And being an idiot is how others feel their intelligence is confirmed
poem by Martin McCollugh
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Time of the Oak
At the end of my fence there is a beautiful big oak tree
It has withstood all weathers remaining proud and free
The trees bark is overgrown with wild ivy and faded
It's never alone because many insects and critters invaded
I often see the sparkling eyes of a racoon at twilight
Or an opossum hanging from a branch holding on tight
Thousands of insects and birds visited over the years
Because the tree provides shade and shelter it appears
I often think of trimming it but I do not have the heart
Leaving nature alone seems to be the way that's smart
During fall I usually get mad because of the falling leaves
But I enjoy watching the squirls taking acorns like thieves
The old tree has seen different times and past generations
It has fought with the wind and endured heat with patience
The oak spreaded out and with majestic posture it stands
The tree is a statement of time without making demands
During a storm I know I am safe if the oak tree survives
Because it has conquered time - being part of many lives
I am waiting for whispers of ancient secrets it may shares
Telling me about natures yet undiscovered evolutionary affairs
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Wind Of Prediction
As the trees play in the breeze
Do you wonder what it may mean.
Does the wind coming from a certain direction
Mean something we should heed.
North wind blows cold and dry
Originating from the elements of earth
Read as the wind of death, colour black
Time to abondon issues no longer needed
Heed the news from the North.
West wind blows moist and fertile
Elements of water, coloured blue
Soothing, sensitive and healing.
Touch the cleansing power of the West.
South wind blows hot and dry
Of element fire, colour red
Usethe initiative and passion
To boost the ideals
Haste to feel the southern breeze.
East wind blows from the orient light
Assaulting with cold dry feel
Symbol of air, coloured white
Trust new starts from the East.
North South East and West
Thus the world changes
From whence it blows
That is what it will show
Predictions blown around.
poem by Alison Smith
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A Ballad of Dreamland
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
ENVOI
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Poo Secrets
Poo Secrets
Are never kept..) It(s..adored
...) it(s..sharing....) it(...with..you
) it(s my deepest darkest fears you out found here.
If I am so smart why does It rant? you
are feeling this.
If I am so smart how did I end up inside
those cold, fast thighs?
I was smart enough to dodge, your slap.
Then the abuse really started....
I kept going back for more...
her verbals became more than Pascals.
My body became more, than her work of art.
It just, was not very smart enough, it became...
Her very own, personal....toy to hurt to maim..
just for joy..as it became dumber she became
smarter in waves...smarter so smart, she
could even stick knives in...it, > it
poem by Is It Poetry
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Smart.
So you think you are smart huh?
Then tell me why you allowed her to play with your heart,
Why you fell into her trap,
And forgot about me all at once.
So you say you are smart,
But yet you didn't know why i tried to forget,
All the lies that you said.
You say you are smart
But yet you don't know why what you did was wrong.
Leaving the person you love for some one you like,
I'm sorry but that's the dumbest thing out of all.
1/8/10
poem by Klaudia Ortiz
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Autumn's Grace
The autumn’s dream may keep its dying grace
With flecks and shades of bleeding leaves and yellow.
The cold wind's scorch may wither the green’s space,
When fruits of green a bit more need to mellow.
And autumn’s tear on every leaf perceives
The cold wind, which scorches green so cruelly,
Till glass fleck shade of bleeding yellow leaves
The living world to meet its ground so coolly.
And autumn’s red may silence the bird’s voice,
When shivers of the tree the rain embrace
And nature's hide, having no other choice.
The winter slowly comes showing her white face.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Stag (ballad)
The Stag it ran through fields and woods
Flitting here darting there
Running fast from men with hoods
Fast as a hare
A bird over head cries a warning song
A warning song cries the bird
For the stag the bravest stag
Who is torn away from the herd
The gun trumpets on the still air
This frightens the stag that runs like a hare
He runs through the trees and to a pool
He stops to take a breath but then he hears, leaves fall
The gun cries again and the stag he falls
By the trees and the pool
he makes one last cry and his body goes cool
The spirit of the stag
Leaped up and flew
And frightened the men
As he galloped across the dew
poem by Cheetah Girl
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Heading West
I drop my hat
To a restless wind
This time I'm not gonna chase it again
In a jigsaw dream with soft spoken words
I woke up crying and no one heared
You're looking through me like I never was real
You say you love me but you won't let me feel
So I'm gonna take a chance this time
I'm gonna find myself a place where i can heal
And I'm heading west
Without a sad goodbye
And I'm heading west
I'm like a letter with no address
Just like a book i read
I'm heading west
I said my name
Under my breath
He turned me down a twisted road
I won't forget
I'm gonna fly my kite and let out all the string
Hold on to hope
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper from A Night To Remember
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Love All Men Who Think '! (victor Hugo)
That's a smart thing to say,
And it is a clever point of view !
When we listen, to what a person has to say,
And are attracted, as to a bird's –eye view!
Some deny, and don't listen at all,
But only the behalf of a half, and nothing else!
Others are occupied with themselves,
And don't appreciate what you think , at all,
If you are open minded, and do believe,
That everyone has what to say,
You can write a smart book and achieve,
And Never, get your hair grey!
poem by Yoseph Lupu
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Smart Like Camus
All my life I felt I should apologise
because I’m smart.
Like Camus,
as though my intelligence
was an insult to someone.
I’m not that smart you know
it’s an act.
When I stand in front
and you see smartness,
you reflect.
All it is,
is hunger.
poem by Maureen McManus
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The Day For November Quite Warm
The day for November quite warm with only the faintest sign of breeze
And starlings from the trees to the garden railings flying and flying back again to the trees
The weather temperature in the high twenties from 27 to 29 degrees
And in the shade of the gum in the paddock the cow sits and chews her cud at ease.
White butterflies out in the sunshine they do not like the wind and the rain
Why they like the calm sunny weather do not ask me since I cannot explain
Anything of the workings of Nature of Nature's ways so little I know
Of Nature's ways I know as much now as I did five decades ago.
The poets love Spring for Nature's greenery her beauty them always inspire
In their words they always laud the Earth Mother of singing her praises they never do tire
And the artists try to capture some of nature's beauty on their canvas the flora and fauna of the woods and the hills and sea shore
I know of so many fine artists in fact there has never been more.
The day for November quite warm even warm for the time of year
And on the wattle tree in the garden the song of the blackbird I hear
'Tis said when birds sing in warm sunshine that rain cannot be far away
The radio weather forecaster says the weather is changing with thunder showers later today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Rain at Night
North of Solitary Mountain Temple
and west of Chia Pavilion
the water's surface is flattened
by the wet feet of clouds.
Early warblers dart and flutter,
squabbling amid warm trees;
around someone's house new swallows
peck mud for their nests.
Wildflowers will soon flourish
enough to overwhelm one's eyes,
but now the shallow grass
barely submerges a horse's hooves.
I love the east lake most--
I don't come this way often enough;
in the shade of green willows
lies White Sand Embankment.
Remains Of The Night
Summer's Fog
Morning is not here yet
I cannot see
The sleeping town in front of me.
A refreshing air comes from the west
Palm trees stand in the fog
While contemplating
On what is left of the night
I hear sounds of birds.
Bare feet
And the house's roof is cold
A little bird
Comes flying and lands
On the long palm's frond.
It gazes toward me
I feel it is asking
What happened?
Why didn't you sleep last night?
poem by Khalid Albudoor
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I Once Write To Follow An Idea
writing has a purpose. Words can preach.
Or they are like a wind vane, giving you the
north, and south and east and west.
You ask: why am i heading west? What is
in the snow as thick as my agnosticism?
and you follow, and ask what is it that i
really mean about the sound of a frog
croaking? I put some leaves, and twigs
and pretend that i am composing a tree.
I like the sound of a hush, the wind and the
silence of the mists, the insistence of frost.
Too early, yes too early to conclude that
words must, and must have no other purpose
but to convey and idea. About myself. Looking
for Myself. I am an idea.
Sooner i am told, by this star and this moon,
there is no idea, and there is no purpose either.
Just seasons. Cold and warm. Humid and Dry.
Desert and snow. Wet and Arid. Acidic sometimes.
Smooth. Rough. No reason at all, why prey? What
caused the depredation of feelings? Outbursts and
explosions. Cry. Shout. Bohemian rhapsody.
Yes, this is nothing but colors. Feelings I mean.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The First Of 08
The first day of 08 a warm and a humid day
And weeks of weather such as this on the way
A furnace like breath in the afternoon breeze
In a forecast high of 39 degrees
From the constant heat their only form of ease
The sheep congregate in the shade of the trees
The renowned chirpers house sparrows the only birds one does hear
On the first day of January in the Southern New Year
In towns and in cities from here near and far away
The revellers of last night are hung over today
A cool change is coming in the forecast we do hear
As to the prime of Summer we are drawing ever near
The first day of January and so warm is the sun
And another New Year has already begun.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Seasons of Hope
I wonder if the wind will blow from the east,
When we rise in the Spring to a promising feast,
To welcome the buds as they gently unfold,
And my Rose of all flowers the queen.
I wonder if the wind will blow from the south,
With the heat of the sun like a furnace's mouth;
And the roses of June braving colours so bold,
In contrast with verdure green.
I wonder if the wind will blow from the west,
When Autumn is heralding Summer's bequest,
And the last rose of summer as in centuries old
Fades away, lacking lustre and sheen.
I wonder if the wind will blow from the north,
When the flurries of snowflakes come sallying forth;
And my loved one and I will bend to the cold,
Though inwardly warm and serene.
Let the wind blow its will, be it gale, be it light,
Let it blow itself out in the dark of the night;
Let the sky be dark azure or glorious gold,
There's no hope in a future foreseen.
poem by Pius Dapre
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Within The Shade
Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those famous dwellings called nests:
Bird’s eggs and twigs gathered.
Stay near me, as I uproot
This monument of Nature
With hands of health.
That is work! This matters to us,
The eggs taste special from the wild.
I consume and spare them at will,
The people answer with loud acclaim
That my eggs clad with gold
Are the better waste, the better health.
Behold, within the shade of dwellings
Is a bird’s work, my work,
And the work of people.
poem by Naveed Akram
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