The Ripening
I picture you,
opening the door,
walking up the orchard rows,
in the caramel of evening light.
A giant's shadow peers at you
from in between the trees,
trudging silently with you
as you lift the sun-warm fruit,
cup in one work-seasoned hand
an apple, rich and scarlet ripe.
I picture you,
opening your door,
treading the dew drenched grass,
the raucous song of wattle birds
spritzing the crisp dawn air.
Your hands busied at the basket
gently placing, one by one,
harvest fixed by darkness chill,
all glossy, sweet and unblemished.
I picture you,
opening my door,
singing to the hallway ceilings,
eyes creased deep in blissful smile,
tide of sunshine flooding in with you,
the giant heralding you in silence
as you tenderly bestow
your joyous gift for all seasons,
proud and precious gems of autumn.
poem by Maggie Munro
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Related quotes
Buddhist Lesson # 2
enlightment,
the act of opening,
like a rosebud,
like a mother,
opening the door...
like a child
opening a present,
like a woman
opening to a man....
opening...
all the hidden chambers,
every door to every
secret kingdom of the soul.....
opening the box that holds
your secret thoughts, desires....
opening...
the door of the cage,
letting the winged breath fly....
opening....
your heart to itself,
and to all hearts beating....
opening....
the vault of conceptions,
the entrance to the tomb
of past lives and memories....
opening...
your hands to the world
as if it were your neighbor,
and you, it's home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The closing of a door can bring blessed privacy and comfort - the opening, terror. Conversely, the closing of a door can be a sad and final thing - the opening a wonderfully joyous moment.
quote by Andy Rooney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eve
Eve, with her basket, was
Deep in the bells and grass,
Wading in bells and grass
Up to her knees,
Picking a dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Down in the bell and grass
Under the trees.
Mute as a mouse in a
Corner the cobra lay,
Circled round a bough of the
Cinnamon tall. . . .
Now to get even and
Humble proud heaven and
Now was the moment or
Never at all.
'Eva!' Each syllable
Light as a flower fell,
'Eva!' he whispered the
Wondering maid,
Soft as a bubble sung
Out of a linnet's lung,
Soft and most silverly
'Eva!' he said.
Picture that orchard sprite,
Eve, with her body white,
Supple and smooth to her
Slim finger tips.
Wondering, listening,
Listening, wondering,
Eve with a berry
Half-way to her lips.
Oh had our simple Eve
Seen through the make-believe!
Had she but known the
Pretender he was!
Out of the boughs he came,
Whispering still her name,
Tumbling in twenty rings
Into the grass.
Here was the strangest pair
In the world anywhere,
Eve in the bells and grass
Kneeling, and he
Telling the story low. . . .
Singing birds saw them go
Down the dark path to
The Blasphemous Tree.
O what a clatter when
Titmouse and Jenny Wren
Saw him successful and
Taking his leave!
How the birds rated him,
How they all hated him!
How they all pitied
Poor motherless Eve!
Picture her crying
Outside in the lane,
Eve, with no dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Haunting the gate of the
Orchard in vain. . . .
Picture the lewd delight
Under the hill to-night -
'Eva!' the toast goes round,
'Eva!' again.
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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Opening The Door Of Existence
Opening the door of existence
I entered non-tense balanced
Satisfied and content
Coming to the mother
Feminine mystique I am feminine
And I live and live in the moment.
Opening the door of existence
I read history I read fables
That are one and the same
Coming to the mother
I forget to put questions
Relating to the very existence.
Opening the door of existence
I became more elemental more natural
Without having corners
Coming to the mother
I enjoyed like birds rivers
And trees and resent and future.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Loud Is The Cry Of War
Loud is the cry of war
Many people shall it smite
Opening up death's dark door
Our people shaken to the core
As we feel our enemies bite
Loud is the cry of war
Many soldiers now implore
If this battle was worth the fight
Opening up death's dark door
Many hearts lie broken and torn
An Endless number of sleepless nights
Loud is the cry of war
Crowded will be heaven's shore
As the dead now take their heavenly flight
Opening up death's dark door
Although we won, we lost much more
As empty cries echo through the night
Opening up death's dark door
Loud is the cry of was
poem by Cat Winder
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St. Peter and the Angel
Delivered out of raw continual pain,
smell of darkness, groans of those others
to whom he was chained--
unchained, and led
past the sleepers,
door after door silently opening--
out!
And along a long street's
majestic emptiness under the moon:
one hand on the angel's shoulder, one
feeling the air before him,
eyes open but fixed...
And not till he saw the angel had left him,
alone and free to resume
the ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads of
what he had still to do,
not till then did he recognize
this was no dream. More frightening
than arrest, than being chained to his warders:
he could hear his own footsteps suddenly.
Had the angel's feet
made any sound? He could not recall.
No one had missed him, no one was in pursuit.
He himself must be
the key, now, to the next door,
the next terrors of freedom and joy.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Could You Picture Life?
Could you picture life?
Could you picture life?
Misty morning with birds singing melodies,
Could you picture life in the clouds,
The Morning star,
The comets,
The ufos,
The foolishness in racism,
Could you see CNN,
The crimes and the bursting that we play everyday,
The religious crimes,
Could you picture the negation in man?
That we die everyday is sin,
Could you picture?
Love is worth the New World Understanding,
Picture my eyes and see that we all be crying,
My brothers and sisters are dyeing and suffocating,
Picture the New World,
Where the True Understanding will dwell in our heart,
Could you picture?
You and I are no different,
We same creatures that creep for Bread,
Could you picture?
No man better than other,
Could you picture?
The credibility of Human Trust.
poem by Maxpoet Beauty
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A Repost Of The Past Poem
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not open
it is humid and cold
i step out of the door the windows are still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades and shaken
i look upon the sky
and there is this star still shining
despite the opening of the mouth of the morning
i was in deep slumber
i close my eyes
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Looking For An Opening
the guide for an opening is light
or water
on some crevices they always know
how to whisper
that in there there is an opening
and you must see it
and start from there
the message has always been
let there be light
so your eyes can see
let there be water
so you shall not thirst
darkness at the end had always been a loser
and dampness glows to a warmth of the spirit
what lies there soon flies
and the silence always turns into a very sweet song
there is hope
like a flower that grows in the wild
soon there shall be this meeting
of the most beautiful day
your feet shall begin to dance
your mind flying like a hawk
the skies all embracing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Guardian-Angel, The
A PICTURE AT FANO.
I.
Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find performed thy special ministry,
And time come for departure, thou, suspending
Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,
Another still, to quiet and retrieve.
II.
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,
---And suddenly my head is covered o'er
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Now on that tomb---and I shall feel thee guarding
Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
III.
I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?
IV.
If this was ever granted, I would rest
My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,
Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
V.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
I think how I should view the earth and skies
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?
VI.
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
(Alfred, dear friend!)---that little child to pray,
Holding the little hands up, each to each
Pressed gently,---with his own head turned away
Over the earth where so much lay before him
Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,
And he was left at Fano by the beach.
VII.
We were at Fano, and three times we went
To sit and see him in his chapel there,
And drink his beauty to our soul's content
---My angel with me too: and since I care
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power
And glory comes this picture for a dower,
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)---
VIII.
And since he did not work thus earnestly
At all times, and has else endured some wrong---
I took one thought his picture struck from me,
And spread it out, translating it to song.
My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.
poem by Robert Browning
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The Guardian-Angel
A PICTURE AT FANO.
I.
Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find performed thy special ministry,
And time come for departure, thou, suspending
Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,
Another still, to quiet and retrieve.
II.
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,
---And suddenly my head is covered o'er
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Now on that tomb---and I shall feel thee guarding
Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
III.
I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?
IV.
If this was ever granted, I would rest
My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,
Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
V.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
I think how I should view the earth and skies
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?
VI.
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
(Alfred, dear friend!)---that little child to pray,
Holding the little hands up, each to each
Pressed gently,---with his own head turned away
Over the earth where so much lay before him
Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,
And he was left at Fano by the beach.
VII.
We were at Fano, and three times we went
To sit and see him in his chapel there,
And drink his beauty to our soul's content
---My angel with me too: and since I care
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power
And glory comes this picture for a dower,
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)---
VIII.
And since he did not work thus earnestly
At all times, and has else endured some wrong---
I took one thought his picture struck from me,
And spread it out, translating it to song.
My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.
poem by Robert Browning
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Picture Picture by Tanya Markova
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Nang gabing masilayan ka...
Dala-dala ko pa
Ang aking lumang camera
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Campus gig noon at nag-aya ang tropa
Maraming bebot ang nagsasayaw
Nang biglang mapansin kita
What a beautiful face
At kinunan kita
What a beautiful face
Angat ka sa iba
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
What a beautiful
What a beautiful face
I saw her face
Mukha syang taga-a a outerspace
Si Mang Roger ako'y kinalabit
Ang sabi
Halika na balot muna
Bago ka mag-konica
Na seramika gawa sa pabrika
Lagot ka na ang kamera may mahika
Ano ang lohika kung bat nahilo ka
Mekaniko si Moniko ng makina ni Monika
What a beautiful face
Bigla kang nawala
What a beautiful face
Ako'y natulala
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
What a beautiful
What a beautiful face
Meron syang look alike na
Meron syang look alike na
Meron syang look alike na
Meron syang look alike na
Meron syang look alike na
Meron syang look alike na
Meron syang look alike na
Mekaniko si Moniko ng makina ni Monika
What a beautiful face
O nasaan ka na
What a beautiful face
Hinahanap-hanap ka
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
What a beautiful
What a beautiful face...
poem by Shi Yelami
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I Step Out Of The Door
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not opened
it is humid
it is cold
and i step out of the door the windows still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades
and shaken
i look upon a sky
and there is this star still shining despite the opening of the
mouth of the morning
after a deep sleep
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Movie Magg
(Perkins)
Now, let me take you to the movies, Magg, so I can hold your hand.
Oh, it ain't that I don't like your house, it's just that doggone man
and that double barrel behind the door that waits for me, I know.
Oh, climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
I only see her once a week and it's when my work is through.
I break new ground the whole week long but my mind's set straight on you.
And I polished up my old horse Beck, and she looks good, I know.
So climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
Now won't you let me take you to the show so I can hold your hand.
Oh, it ain't that I don't like your house, it's just that doggone man
and that double barrel behind the door that waits for me, I know.
So climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
Well, I break new ground all week long with my mind's set straight on you.
And every time I try to smile, my heart it breaks in two.
I slick myself for Saturday night cause there's one thing I know,
I'm gonna take my Maggie dear to the western picture show.
Now won't you let me take you to the show so I can hold your hand.
And it ain't that I don't like your house, it's just that doggone man
and that double barrel behind the door that waits for me, I know.
Oh, climb upon old Becky's back and let's ride to the picture show.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Goodfew, Regarding the Poems I Sent
Don't worry about reading them.
If good enough they will keep.
If bad they will linger like old garbage
placed outside a neighbor's door
in the middle of the night only to
wrap tightly around when opening
a morning door to leave for work,
pushed back, turned off, sour,
5 flights of breathless descent
cursing the occupant in 5A.
The front door slams behind.
Stepping into sunlight and shadow
the day is won, has worn away the
mal-odors of morning. Burn now
instead to live, to leave a strong
rot when put out a lover's door
because of laziness,
a partial rejection hung upon a knob.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Listening
'T is you that are the music, not your song.
The song is but a door which, opening wide,
Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong
Sings but of you. Throughout your whole life long
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
One music with a thousand cadences.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Ode to The Scent Of Cinnamon
The heady scent of cinnamon
Upon the opening of the door
The tugging out of memories
From the mind’s musty store
The warm, soft smell of pie crust
Upon the opening of the oven
The revisiting of the memories
The huggin’ and the lovin’
The aromatic aura of apples
Baked with a crispy honeyed glaze
The remembering of the memories
Kitchen memories, happy days
The Smell of hot peach cobbler,
The tantalizing odor of allspice
The callin’ back of the memories
Kitchen memories, warm and nice
Red and white checkered aprons,
Flour dappled, love lined faces
The tearful tug of way old memories
Memorable kitchens, happy places
The heady scent of cinnamon
Upon the opening of the door
Is one of the bestest of my memories
And likely will be… forever more
Ahhh…The heady scent of cinnamon!
poem by David Whalen
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A Nude Picture
Your love is like a nude picture in my mind and,
It is sweeter than a candy pie;
You are real and i am here to stay.
Like a nude picture,
Your taste is sweeter than the candy;
For it makes me feel so high!
Your love is like a nude picture in my mind and,
I am dying for your love my sweet one;
Oh girl, throw me an apple of your sweet love to run for it.
True love knows no boundary and,
Sweet love knows no barrier;
You are my precious one and, what is your hot-line? !
The only picture i have in my mind is your nude body.
I will wait for you always!
Even in the rain;
I will sing for you always!
Even on your bed;
My nude lover,
My nude picture,
What a beauty that you are! !
Like Romeo and Juliet.
Do rebounce on me always,
For your love is like a nude picture in my mind;
With the reflections of you in the mirror.
You are sweeter than the candy pie,
With much hope and dreams to the world of roses;
I will wait for you always my sweet one.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Straight Pathway
My opening of the doors created folly,
Abhor those who sit and wait, with ice.
The life of plenty condemns nobody,
Letting fences be built for the gardens.
Return to the grass, if a straight course
Means a pathway to the enemy.
Buildings of bricks and mortar
Shall make offerings to Nature.
My opening of the door to Nature
Is like that of the entrance to Time.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Picture Of You
I have got the picture of you inside me and,
I can figure you out like the sweet love of an apple;
For love baths your nakedness daily like,
Your sweet bed of roses.
I have got the picture of you inside me and,
I am waiting for the day that we will meet;
Oh, how the birds do sing to your beauty,
For your sweet aroma is in the air.
I have got the picture of you inside me and,
I will search all over the world to look for you;
For this beauty of yours should not pass me by,
Because you are all that i need.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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