En.Citatepedia^®.ro

0198 Buddha Meets Christ, Says Nothing

The Buddha (is that one or multiple, theologically?)
sits at his total ease in our back garden
such as it is
in his plastic only partially disguised
pool, with today a white ranunculus
floating at his feet

he’s externally nicely moulded of fine concrete
and since the fig tree with its leaves
big enough to make yourself an apron of
though you’d need apronstrings, –
has been cut down, he’s emerged
from the shadow of it which made him
unpleasantly greeny-mouldy; but now the sunlight
has dried him into a light and Springy green
which is almost fluorescent and sorta floaty

he gives interest to the garden, makes a space
of his own and also makes the garden
shapely, a focal point or some such
decorator term. He seems very happy there
-perhaps anywhere; he certainly makes me happy
to see him; he wipes thought away.

It would be poetic to say that
he was already contemplating all peacefully
when dawn broke this day of solemn days,
the Good or Bad Friday depending;
but then he seems not to worry about time anyway
under his demure, downcast eyelids

but he’s so there he’s here, and was and is,
no mere garden ornament and whatever
he sees inside, it’s there in me too
as Emerson said of this sweet contemplation

what he makes of the events of this day
is certainly a question – just suppose he’d been there
discreetly in the crowd, saying nothing, just
contemplating the scene;
and the roving cameraman spotted him
and asked for a quote

big answers deserve big questions;
maybe this half-formed question
deserves more contemplation.
I’ll just shut up and go look at him again

as the evening light reflected from
the windows of the house opposite
bathes him in an intense sunset burst of glory
with no apparent source so that he
glows with a radiant promise of peace forever
to all men; a promise as Christ’s prayer-book
puts it so memorably –
past all understanding.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Childhood Garden

my childhood garden

my childhood garden
lush and green
it was so happy it made me scream
my joy and hopes
and all my mopes
my childhood garden

my childhood garden
with the ups and downs
when i jumped i could not touch the ground
with my purle ponys
it made it homey
my childhood garden

my childhood garden
flying high
with the little lies
the grass fine
up in the sky my kite
my childhood garden

my childhood garden
now in the past
i now know that it can never last
now as i get taller
it was differnt when i was smaller
my childhood garden

poem by Danielle Eager
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Garden

I know a garden like a child,
Clean and new-washed and reconciled.
It grows its own sweet way, yet still
Has guidance of some tender will
That clips, confines, its wilder mood
And makes it happy, being good.

Around the lordly mountains stand,
For this is an enchanted land,
As though their splendours stood to grace
This little lovely garden place,
Looking with wise and keeping eyes
Upon the garden sanctities.

Box borders edge each little bed,
Paths narrow for a child to tread
Divide the kitchen garden, dear
And sweet with musk and lavender,
And water-mints and beans in bloom.
Be sure the honeybee's at home.

How should I tell in a sweet list
Of beauties, rose and amethyst;
The little water-garden cool
On sultry days, and beautiful
The wall-garden, the shade, the sun,
Since they are lovely, every one.

Hot honey of the pines is sweet,
And when the day's at three o'clock heat
A winding walk will you invite
To a new garden out of sight.
And a green seat is set so near
The sluggish, stealing backwater.

The Spirit of the garden plays
At hide-and-seek an hundred ways
And when you've captured her, she will
Elude you, calling backward still,
A silver echo -- a sweet child,
Demure and lovesome, gay and wild.

poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Make you happy

Things that make you happy
Aren't supposed to be bad
Right? Then how do I play in
Where would it all come together
I know what makes you happy,
I know what makes you sad
But how come everything I do
Is always so bad?
Why do I make you happy
How come its so bad
Everything is suppose to be okay
It should all be fine
But even though I make you happy
I also make you feel like dieing
Then how do I make you happy
Why am I so bad?
Why don't you just ley me love you
Let yourself be happy?
Why can't you just let things fall into place
The way everything is supposed to be
Sometimes I hate myself
Because of the way you say I make you feel
At the same time I know you hate yourself
And are waiting to make things real
So why dont you?
Why can't you let yourself go
Don't worry about what they say
Eventually they will all just fade away
I wont ever fade away
I will always be here waiting for you
Waiting to make you happy
Because things that make you happy
Aren't suppose to make you sad
And they're definately not going to be bad
I just dont understand
How am I bad for you?
How could I even be good for you
When I'm not even good for myself
I can't explain whats going on with me
I can't tell you how much I wish
For you to be happy
But at the same time
I hope that you are miserable without me
Because I was suppose to make you happy
I was going to be the one to make your day
Now it makes my day when you
Just stop to talk to me
Or make sure I'm doing okay
Until I make you happy I will always be bad
And you will always be sad
That's how it goes
But that wont be enough
Not to make my world go 'round
I need you to let me be the one...
Let me be the one to make you happy
Because if it makes you happy
It can't possibly be that bad.

poem by Beautifully Unknown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

So What Makes Desire Of All Kinds?

So what makes one desire
What is that which propagates interest
What makes us love to rest?
Or love to rise, love to run and love to walk?
What makes us love to talk?
How do you decide what you like?
Everyone is different, but how do we arrive
At the conclusion of what we like, or from what do we derive
Enjoyment, what makes it fun, why ride a bike?
Why play a video game, why take a nature hike?
What makes us like heat or cold
Or love to buy that is sold?
How do we decide our own interests?
What is it that I do to digress?
From reality- and the pervasive question
Why? this is my source of depression
Loss of identity, what do i like and why?
What makes me love the sky
At sunset, what makes it beautiful?
The final question i must ask is just
Just what is love? and makes us love?
Why do I love her, was it all a dream
What is love? ! Not what does it SEEM? !

poem by David Knox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

In the Garden, With My Father

It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.

I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.

But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.

It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.

poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Broken

You can close your eyes
And see a picture perfect life
Inside of your mind
Dreaming only of the days ahead
Wanted and wished for more than now
Or the days behind
You waste your time
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
You can never think
You cant even stop yourself
Before the words have been spoken
And youve already said
You would give everything
And something for nothing
Everybody thinks youre joking
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
You want to be the one
Made over be your own
Before and after
And a supermarket
Beauty in a bottle queen
Wholl one day grace a check-out counter
Magazine front cover
Though the fine print reads
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
Lets it be broken
Lets it be broken
Lets it be broken
Lets it be broken
Lets it be broken
Broken
Broken
When your life is never what you wanted
Not even halfway normal
Just tarnished and soiled
When in your reach
A framed and frozen moment
So far from perfection
Not truth or transcendence
Will set you free
Still you dont believe
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken

song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

It Makes Me Happy, To Be With You

It makes me happy, to be with you.
To watch you smile and hear you speak
and see your eyes turn softly warm,
makes me happy to be with you.
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To watch you spreading jam and butter
on your home made scones,
makes me happy to be with you.
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To be able to put my arms around you
and draw you gently close to me,
makes me happy to be with you.
And it makes me happy, to be with you
when holding your cheek close to mine,
breathing the warmth of you
and feeling the warmth of you
soaking quietly through me,
makes my breath tremble in my chest.
You make me happy to be with you.

poem by Red O'Mara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What makes me happy

What makes me happy is rain,
Heaven in little drops of liquid.
And darkness makes me happy,
Too happy...

Maybe it's because light hurts my eyes,
And I really hate light
Kansas makes me happy, land of my birth
Every time I see clouds, I am happy
So really I'm happy a lot

May these things make you happy
Every time you see the moon

Have a merry, merry Christmas
And good will to you
Perhaps you'll be happy
Please.please be happy
You will soon.
written 12/17/09

MERRY CHRISTMAS! ! !

poem by Abigail Allen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

When You Define A Thing

when you define
a thing, you limit it,
it is like fencing
your garden
the garden becomes
a set of exclusive
flowers, and anything
not like it becomes
a weed, and anything
that moves
becomes a pest

it is not that you
do not define, we do
it sometimes
only to understand
the limits of
understanding,

but we must be open
to other possibilities
of a garden,
a garden of stones
a garden of sand
of mud, of water
a fountain, a garden
of winds, of clouds

a garden of memories
like a poem
for instance, a garden
of words,
words with arms open
to the magic
of further creation
words still trying
to define themselves
in the garden
of the unknown

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Wrong House

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Its Your Move

Artist(Band):98 Mute
(Print the Lyrics)
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever makes you tick
Whatever makes the days that you pass through
Seem worth it
Whatever makes you feel like you're in place
Whatever makes your burdens lose their weight
Whatever makes you feel like you belong
Whatever makes you strong
It's up to you
Do whatever you want to do
Just be sure you follow through
Whatever makes you feel alright
Whatever gets you through the night
Whatever puts its arms around you
Whatever makes you smile
Whatever makes your daily battles seem worthwhile
Whatever makes you feel like your time is well spent
Whatever causes you to be content
Whatever helps you to erase your doubts
Whatever makes you proud
You are your best critic your best defense
It's you and no one else
So take charge of your choices and your life
Take charge of yourself

song performed by by 98 Mute
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

0021 Under the bridge of time

Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?

He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...

You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…

yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...

but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…

but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Garden Fair

Flowers are blooming in
my garden fair. Their
sweet perfume fills the
air. My Garden fair is
beautiful to see., with all
its glory surrounding me.
My garden fair is romantic
and bright, and so redeeming
in sunlight where song birds
nestle in the trees, and sing
with each flowing breeze.
My garden fair is a glorious
sight, that I rush to greet
at twilight my garden fair is
most supreme with such lovely
enchanting scenes.

poem by Dr. Janice Marie Murrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Kentish Garden

THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.

There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.

There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.

There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.

And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.

And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.

There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

In His Eyes

In his eyes
I am beautiful
I can do no wrong
I am wonderful
Even though it has not been very long
In his eyes
I can see how much he cares
Words he does not have to say
I can just tell by the way he stares
My heart leaps when he calls me Ashley Mae
In his eyes
With a gaze so intense it makes me melt
Looking into those beautiful blue eyes makes me weak
It makes me forget all of the problems with which I have dealt
Which is why sometimes I can only take a peak
In his eyes
I am amazing
I am the girl he will never hurt
To make me happy he will do anything
Now the only question is: can I get him away from Kurt? ; -)
In his eyes
I feel myself letting down my guard
It is something I cannot stop
Even if I tried extremely hard
The feeling I get when I am with him nothing can top
In his eyes
I feel completely at ease
Like I can totally be the real me
He makes me weak at the knees
So I just look up at him peacefully
In his eyes
I feel so incredibly special
He makes me feel perfect
There's no need to be artificial
He just has this effect
In his eyes

poem by Ashley Reese
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Plucked A Rose From A Garden Green......

By Murtaza Abt

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
Of beauty never felt or seen,
Hoping that it would never wilt,
And always be as always been.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
with a happy blissful heart,
And promised i would hold it tight,
And never would we part.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
But little did i know,
That not in endless love and care,
But gardens do they grow.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And took it home with me,
But little did it stay the way,
The way t'was meant to be.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to grieve,
Over gardens green and meadows lush,
As it was sad to leave.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to wilt,
And wither in that unknown land,
it filled my heart with guilt.

I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to die,
For happiness i had only asked,
But i began to cry.

....................................

I have p L ucked y O u from a garden green,
Your beauty i VE never felt or seen,
Hoping that YOU will never wilt,
And always be as always been.

09/Nov/09

poem by Murtaza Abt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Our Marriage Is Our Garden

Our marriage is our garden.
I want our garden to be beautiful.
With lush green grass,
With fragrant and colourful flowers.
A place of solace.
A place of peace.
A place of love.
Our garden must be watered.
Not watered too much.
As that would saturate the ground.
Not watered too little.
As that would leave the plants wilted.
And our grass barren.
But regularly.
So the flowers can stand tall
It must be weeded.
It must be maintained.
It must be loved.
We will plant seeds in our garden.
For new life makes any garden more beautiful and diverse.
We can harvest the fruit trees, but our harvest is limited
If we eat all the fruit too quick,
Then we must wait until the next harvest to eat again.
If we don't pick the fruit when it is right, it will spoil.
Our harvest is for our family.
If I eat all the fruit myself, then they will starve.
If we eat too much we will get sick.
If we eat what we are supposed to, then we will be healthy.
If we do not monitor the fruit,
Then someone might eat more than their share.
If we do not stand guard in our garden,
A thief might come into the garden to steal our fruit.
The fruit for our family.
For their garden must be barren and their crops have spoiled.
Our garden will stand the test of all seasons.
As all gardens do.
Another garden will also experience the same seasons.
Just at different times.
All gardens face rain.
All gardens get sun.
It is the rain that nourishes the garden and helps it's life to grow.
But our garden must be maintained regularly.
Only artificial things require no maintenance.
The artificial has no life.
It is fake, it is plastic.
Our garden needs to be real.
So life may grow and continue to grow.
So one day our children can enjoy a garden of their own.
For them and their children.
May their garden be overflowing with life and love.
And be the most beautiful garden in the world.

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Song of Her Garden

She builds her pleasant garden
Where the winds are not so strong
The sun sometimes relenting
Becomes her companion

The garden spreads its arms to her
Thick shoulders, fragile hands
The creepers and the vines that bear
Her flowers from many lands

There is shade upon her shadow
And a path of leaves and stones
That were inlaid imperceptibly
Through years of life alone

There's a trickle of river water
Breaking on a precipice
An ornately painted corner
Where she sees the light of bliss

Papaya trees and lemon trees
That the hurricanes forgot
The garden is her mirror
It reflects her, then does not

Wind chimes in the moonlight
Songbirds awake till dawn
She cultivates the seasons,
Leaves the garden to be born.

poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Lazy Days (Fun Poem 111)

We all look forward to those days off
when we have no work to do.
The lazy days when you can have
that lie in bed you promised yourself to
and when you finally get up
out into the garden you go
to sit in a chair
and put your feet up enjoying the sun.
If you live in England it’s enjoy the rain.

How those days never seem to happen,
the lie in bed goes a miss
when someone wakes you up
telling you there is work around
the house that has to be done.
As for putting your feet up
you can forget about that to.
There is no rest for the wicked.
Oh my, what have I done?

Lazy days! Yuk! You keep them
they are never any fun;
I’d rather be back at work.
Well that will soon come.
Like all holidays they go too quickly,
here one minute and gone the next.
So much for those lazy days
for you work harder in those than at work.

When you go back to work,
you hear about the wonderful time
someone else had on their day off,
it makes you feel sick,
and all the jobs you had to do.
Then you go and ask your boss
when your next holiday is due.
You promise to make it better,
but in the end, you never do.

26 February 2011

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Leaf As Life

A leaf I am,
Through currents incomprehensible,
Dead, the knowledge of my origin,
Severed from prior reality,
Left with a lonesome journey,
Free from all worry,
Yet the liberty makes me worry,
Fatigue rains on me,
Contemplating whether there is an end,
To the free fall of existence,
Laugh in despair, in irony,
Master of my own destiny,
Ultimate and total absurdity,
Illusions of branches above me,
Spurred by forces unbeknownst me,
Ridiculous, my desire to see,
Society but a vague curiosity,
But a weak twig of connectivity,
What truth there may be,
To me, there is only identity,
The unique traits of those leaves around me,
That is individuality,
What is left to me?
Contemplation of nihilistic Beauty,
Well, that may just be, all I know,
As I spiral down from what I suppose is a tree,
To make most of my subjectivity,
And my present fragility,
To love, laugh and truly be,
Absolutely what I wish to be,
I'll be me!

And hopefully,
Have the privilege of meeting somebody,
Who dreams like me,
Of finding this one tree,
And who can see,
What a life this one can be!
Will you join me?

(And together, we will write poetry :)

poem by Jeremy Cahoon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!