Listening Stones
Listening Stones.
These mossy stones put on top of each other…a wall.
green plants sprouts out of them like ears, do they hear
my whisper of compassion? Guarding small plots of
land no one tills anymore, where thieving sheep eat rare
flowers without a second thought.
One field is blood red of flowers that should end all wars.
They sell the plastic variety for you to put on your lapel
and show you remember the nameless soldier who fell
on a grimy battle field with an unanswered question on
his bloody lips.
Old stones once you were children of the highest peak
But the peak disappeared into sand, tired of it colossal
weight. Look at you now, guardians of hidden beauty, you
can stop nothing as rain grinds you into pebbles and
dumb sheep continue grazing on rare flowers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Conceit and Deceit
what i have in my hands
are only stones
if you search for more
pebbles
my mind can give you
but first
you must entice me
with a flower in your hand
for you to have stones
that soon will grow you
some leaves of sand
that soon shall show you
how pebbles can be flowers
too
what you have are only
flowers
a little bit lighter than
the twigs of their source
what i have in my hands
are pebble that give us weight
yes, weight is wisdom
and they are all stones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Waking (1948)
I strolled across
An open field;
The sun was out;
Heat was happy.
This way!This way!
The wren's throat shimmered,
Either to other,
The blossoms sang.
The stones sang,
The little ones did,
And flowers jumped
Like small goats.
A ragged fringe
Of daisies waved;
I wasn't alone
In a grove of apples.
Far in the wood
A nestling sighed;
The dew loosened
Its morning smells.
I came where the river
Ran over stones:
My ears knew
An early joy.
And all the waters
Of all the streams
Sang in my veins
That summer day.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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Stones
Stones
Stones would play inside her head
And where she slept,
They made her bed
And she would ache
For love and get but stones
La la la la la la la la la
Lordy, child
A good days comin
And Ill be there to let the sun in
And bein lost
Is worth the comin home
La la la la la la la la la on stones
You and me, a time for planting
You and me, a harvest granting
The every prayer ever prayed
For just two wild flowers that grow
La la la la la la la la la on stones
Mmmmmmmm.....
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sheep
From where I stand the sheep stand still
As stones against the stony hill.
The stones are gray
And so are they.
And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.
Two mingled flocks -
The sheep, the rocks.
And still no sheep stirs from its place
Or lifts its Babylonian face.
poem by Robert Francis
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A Society of Grazing Sheep
The herd meanders, searching for the green
Pastures that hide past distant mountaintops.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
The herd looks down, ignoring what they've seen.
They're too busy chewing grass to stop.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
The herd wanders only to convene
In the pursuit of inhaling more crops.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
They don't yet realize that hungry eyes
Guide them—that wolves are hiding in disguise.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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I Go To The Field And To The Sky
I GO TO THE FIELD AND THE SKY
1)
I go to the field and the sky
I see the flowers
I no longer want to die.
2)
I go to the field and the sky
I see the flowers
I do not want to die.
3)
I go to the field and the sky
I see the yellow flowers
I love to be alive.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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There Is A Field Of Flowers
THERE IS A FIELD OF FLOWERS
There is a field of flowers
Near the railroad tracks in Emek Refaim-
In the Afternoon Sun,
All Yellow and Green.
I saw with my own eyes
The Beauty of God’s world –
I wanted to share this Beauty
With everyone-
I wanted all of us to know
That beyond every single quarrel and difficulty
There is the Beauty of the world
God has given us.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Requiem For The Year 2011
at the last hour
we march toward a common grave
bringing the flowers
and some stones
they year is kept inside
a niche laced with white silk
slowly the men with strong arms
lowered the niche
to the the newly dug hole
seven feet under
the women with long black hair
wept beside their innocent children
the year is buried
as we then throw the final stones
then it is covered
with its soil returned
until it is full
and then we put the flowers
it is over
now
and then we go back to our houses
it is nighttime
we close the doors
and open the windows to see
those beautiful stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poems Flutter
Along each river in thousands are the ditches,
And the dungeons that conceals the objects,
Thousands of things hidden to the human eyes.
Man in fact is a brimming river wide and deep,
Thousands of ditches hide secrets countless;
As pebbles, sand, stones dwell in the bottom,
Covered with the opaque oozy settling layers.
I bring out those pebbles, sand and stones,
To construct, erect the castle with thick walls,
Where nestle themselves poems mysterious,
And often flutter; flap there from one by one.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Monsoon at peak! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Monsoon at peak
I hear a monologue-
Rain speaks…
Monsoon at peak,
Thatched roofs
Leak…
Monsoon at peak,
Corn on cob
Wins over coffee…
Monsoon at peak,
Can I go out, mother?
A child pleads…
Monsoon at peak,
A boy steals a look
At a girl soaked to skin…
Monsoon at peak,
Roads flooded,
Where is MCD?
Monsoon at peak,
Umbrellas
New fashion accessory…
Monsoon at peak,
Sun gets much needed
Rest…
Monsoon at peak,
Bathes
Foliage and trees.
Monsoon at peak
Schools closed
Children squeal,
Wish, it rains
Everyday of the week…
Monsoon at peak,
Leave your shoes at the door-
Mother screams…
Monsoon at peak,
Driver stops
To wipe the wind shield…
Monsoon at peak,
Open pavements
Home to many,
Wear deserted look …
Monsoon at peak,
Wet laundry-
Sun rise, please.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A moment in time! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Summer at peak;
a young man
in a white singlet.
Summer at peak;
a young girl
in short sleeves.
Summer at peak;
A child licks
Ice cream.
Summer at peak;
an infant
On inhaler.
Summer at peak;
A young couple
Cosy in cinema hall seats.
Summer at peak;
A vendor
Sells lime water.
Summer at peak;
Gulmohar petals
lie limp on grass.
Summer at peak;
Dust haze,
Road rage.
Summer at peak;
beads of sweat
slide on lips.
Summer at peak,
Street wars,
Blame it on heat.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Rural View Of My Village
today the women wearing buri hats are planting rice
on the muddy rice fields of Katipunan
the sun is up
the petals of white flowers are
still holding on to their dews
the finches are flying low
and hovering on the grass
the buffaloes are grazing on the field
the children are chasing chickens
and playing with the dogs
the amor secos are growing wild still uncut
as the some men are singing songs with their old guitars
a wooden sled filled with wood is hauled by a big spotted cow
the path is covered with stones that grate their sounds in the open air....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Shepherd's Lament
ON yonder lofty mountain
A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,
Look down on the smiling land.
My grazing flocks then I follow,
My dog protecting them well;
I find myself in the valley,
But how, I scarcely can tell.
The whole of the meadow is cover'd
With flowers of beauty rare;
I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing
To whom the offering to bear.
In rain and storm and tempest,
I tarry beneath the tree,
But closed remaineth yon portal;
'Tis all but a vision to me.
High over yonder dwelling,
There rises a rainbow gay;
But she from home hath departed
And wander'd far, far away.
Yes, far away bath she wander'd,
Perchance e'en over the sea;
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward!
Full sad the shepherd must be.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Flowers of mercy
In the field they are scattered
pink, white and brown-red
and emerge by them self
as if by mercy
and shoot up between blades of grass
and weeds
and the brittle heads
looks almost plastic fine
and still there’s nothing artificial
where the flowers stand in the veldt
with only the rain and sun
going over them.
Your love I also found
so unplanted,
which by its own accord
grows into my depths
and through hard times
still stays with me.
Other flowers
want to bloom around me
and I try and cut old feelings
down short,
as you are the flower
of flowers to me
and I just want to grow
deeper into your soul.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Life Is ~ The Stones Under My Feet
Life is the stones under my feet
All the places I've walked
All the places I haven't
They say something about who I am
The pebbles that I pick up to toss in the ocean
The boulders I've sat on
The skipping stones I throw across the lake
Gravel and sand
And cobblestone streets
Places with history
Places where history is about to be written
And what it has to say for my history
All those stones that I've crunched
Under my boots
Or sandals
Or sneakers
Or just my bare feet
Walking carefully
And there occasionally is a piece of glass
When I cut myself I bleed
But I heal in the end
Then I get up to walk on more stones
Because life is where you choose to walk
And where you don't
poem by Indigo Rosedragon
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Pebbles & Stones
Pebbles and stones,
Of different tones.
Oval or Round.
Black or Brown.
Smooth or rough
Oddly enough,
People collect
pebbles and stones.
They like to select
the smooth and round.
They like to select,
if it's shiny and brown.
Do you like pebbles too?
Or stones in black and blue?
Temporary Poem Of My Time
Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.
Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?
Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.
Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav
poem by Yehuda Amichai
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Yemen
Yemen
It is awful poor country, with little to offer but carrots and sand.
Come to think about it very few carrots only brush land and dust.
People cry freedom but no one listens. A tiny place in the corner
of nowhere, mud huts and stones... no oil to lift a jaded spirit.
Chew a sort of weed that that lulls souls into stupor and bring
temporary peace. Yet they go on fighting tyranny despite being
ignored by us, we who must be selective in whom to defend.
They want to be free in a land where no roses bloom knowing
they have little to offer other, sand and stones and a longing
to be rid of tyranny. Help us they cry to the sky, but the world
is full of carrots, dry sticks. Love of once country is an odd thing
it can be full of scorpions and deadly snakes but it is the land of
their fathers they have seen it bathed in a golden hue at sunset
and they remember its hidden beauty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Crystals grew inside rock like arithmetic flowers. They lengthened and spread, added plane to plane in an awed and perfect obedience to an absolute geometry that even stones - maybe only the stones - understood.
quote by Annie Dillard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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