En.Citatepedia^®.ro

They Tremble

The winter wind is wonderfully warm today,
clouds, contrails mostly, criss-cross the sky,
white spaghetti in blue sauce, and spicy

The trees rock gently in the desert's breath
birds play games merrily in the sky,
wild squirrels dance psychotic summersaults

It is morning, the must of mondays is moribund
soothing shadows sing with simmering spirits,
dust and debris lies dead on the driveway,

In the car we huddle, and I tune to bluegrass
we drive, far up the canyons, smiling and laughing
here we are, finally; on this back country road

Here blue brush bows along the bumpy road,
hawks hang high above in hungry harmony
and gum trees gather in guarded groves

We watch the trees, listen to the subdued wind
a moment only, we see the leaves tremble
they tremble, and then one by one, they fall

poem by Poet Dragon
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Oh, Blue Blue Sky

As the wind blows
and leaves on the trees gently sway
I don't know why
but I just cannot help
to hold my head up high
and stare at you.

Oh, blue blue sky
why don't you come down
and play with me
together
with your clouds so white.

Come down and play with me
let me roll
let me slide on your back
and when we get tired
let me lie down
with your embrace.

Oh, blue blue sky
come play with me
the whole day long
untill your blue becomes black
and the stars shine again
in your darkness.

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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My Soul is Awakened

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

poem by Anne Brontë
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Tall trees along the road,

Tall trees along the road,
I never saw you
Last year in summertime.
He came before you
With his blue eyes.
Warm wind along the road,
I never knew you
Last year in summertime.
We could outdo you
With our hot sighs.
This year, oh wind and trees,
We're friends together.
Else should I be alone
In this sweet weather
Beneath fair skies.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Dance Mayflies Dance

They dance they sing a cheerful song
to spread the wings beyond along
the rising sun they want they take
under the blue of silent lake

They dance they sing a melody
no winter wind but trees embrace
the summer glows red ivory
no winter wind but only grace
they jump they fly a symphony
no winter wind but joyful face

They live they dance against the day
the moment of they can not dance
sparkling wings they were washed away
they fall dying they can not dance
the sky the moon were turning gray
till dawn they lost they can not dance

They are Mayflies which dance to live
though short they live they love to give
till dawn they lost their wings to fly
till dawn they lost the dreams so high

poem by Vidi Pudinkz
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A lane in England

In autumn I walked in England
in a lane full of trees
where leaves lay auburn
on a road wet from rain.

Barren, stripped oak trees
were between other green ones
and it was as if I was going
right through a tunnel
with here and there trees
of which the leaves were more yellow.

In the distance the road bended to the right
where a bush fence
cut neatly square
and telephone poles
ran along the edge of the road

and the green moss banks
were covered with auburn leaves
at places
and on the other side
of the road
a shrub stretched out green and long
like a sausage
that was lying next to the road

and I would love
to have a lane like that
next to my driveway.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Variation Of The Day To Day Routine

finally you drive your car
to the place that you have not been too
it is grassy out there
and the hills are rolling
and the skies spread
all the blue
below it is the sea
and the white coast
with sea gulls
and coconut trees
and clouds drifting with
the wind

you step out from your car
and take the deepest breath
in your life

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: Grow Trees

The branches cut the wind fierce to a breeze;
The leaves break sunlight into chequered beams;
The shade of trees affords all travelers peace;
The wearied ones sleep ’neath the trees in dreams!

And birds too build their nests on branches high;
The squirrels eat their berries with great joy;
The trees make verdant all landscape near-by;
And attract rain in which children enjoy!

Trees make the earth greener and beautiful,
Adding oxygen to the air we breathe;
Preserve its trees, man! Nature is grateful;
The leaves and flowers can make us a wreath.

Trees are so useful to mankind always;
’midst good trees, men have spent their earthly days!

7-14-2002

poem by John Celes
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I Told You

I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, the birds, and trees.

And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring
And, love, it has all come true.

I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.

I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and full of warm light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown - the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Escape

As I lose myself inside of a world of my own-
Perhaps a shadow would pass me by,
Or maybe a fawn would wade in the creek
Along side of the path I walk-
I fear other people, this world’s intruders.
I would break away from reality if only
There was a point of no return and escape towards
A place where I can look down
Upon this path I have walked before-
Far away from all of the people who slight, follow and wish me harm-
Evergreens and maple trees-
Wild rabbits, squirrels and wild geese roam about-
These are the ones I call my true friends-
I would dance in the sky if I could-
Lost inside of a world behind the clouds, as
The sun behind me is casting shadows
Upon the path that I am now walking
Shadows that shall transform to dreams-
Dreams of an eternal life inside this world of my own-
Listen- can you hear the calling of the wild?
Listen- can you hear the gentle breeze rustling the leaves within
The litheness of nature surrounding me?
Listen- can you hear the sound of my heart beating amorously as
My own shadow disappears behind myriads of towering oak trees?
Rain could begin to fall and
A storm could approach and now I can say in all honesty it would not matter-
My mind has finally locked the door to reality and I have tossed the key
To the rapids rushing up the creek beside me-I have finally escaped.
If thousands of people were to approach and cross the path upon which I make my way-
I have lost touch with all that is real and in flight of the imagination
There is no turning back- even if it is only with in a dream;
Nobody needs war, cacophony and disaster,
If one can be in union with nature and fantasy that can be found in
One’s own back yard and a gust of wind can carry away that key to the door of
Pain and misfortune. Follow the shadows cast by the sun, and
Never look back, as this world inside of your dreams could last for an eternity…

poem by Claudia Krizay
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Sonnet: The Wind

What shakes the trees so violently? ’Tis Wind;
What moves the clouds hither/ thither? ’Tis Wind;
What takes the tornado around? ’Tis Wind;
What brings the sandstorm on the earth? ’Tis Wind.

What makes the cool and gentle breeze? ’Tis Wind
What makes the boughs and leaves to dance? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the autumn leaves to fall? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the honey-bees to fly? ’Tis Wind.

What makes pollen reach in showers? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the dust to climb towers? ’Tis Wind;
What spreads the perfume of flowers? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the rain-clouds advance far? ’Tis Wind.

What makes the Wind to blow? ’Tis God;
What makes a Tempest stop? ’ Tis our Lord.

7-18-2001

poem by John Celes
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On The Beach

the sun is up.
the peebles are hot.
the trees are brewing their greens
to the pluffy blue clouds.

we huddle together on a
thatch-roofed hut by the shore.
the waves splash on the
side of the big rock.
the sands gleam
some diamond sparks

the horizon is silvery
the cove curves beyond us
a little farther
a nude man approaches
another nude woman

and they run towards the
blue waters of the sea

we watch. This is new.
This is happening
in this country.

we watch closely.
and then the clouds
turn gray. The rain comes.

some leaks on the roof
of this hut. We listen.
We still have too much
to really learn.

we pretend we are
innocent about what is
happening.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Meditations after Li Po for M lady Helen

I
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best

II
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.

III
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.

IV

Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.

21-Oct-07

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The joy of the road

It’s a big joy
to take the road
and drive past cornfields
and to get the sweet sour smell
that water leaves there
for the first time
in your nose.

It’s a big joy
to drive on a road
that allures black in front of you
and goes up and down through the landscape.

There’s something indescribable
if you become part
of the sun and the wind
and with a motorbike
to find your place
in the world around you.

There’s something magical
to hear the insects
in the bushes
outside of Pieter Maritzburg
and to smell the summer sun
on the plantation trees.

Still greater is
to catch the smell of the see
on the wind
to see the blue waters
lying in the distance,
while free like a bird
you drive nearer to it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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September Morn

I watch the World around me
As again I hear nature call
For it is the end of summertime
And the awakening of a beautiful fall.
The leaves have changed their colors
The skies became icy white
My heart becomes exceedingly joyful
At Septembers, beautiful sight.
The rustling wind has turned to cold
The leaves have changed to brown
This moment, I pray to hold
As the leaves fall onto the ground.
The squirrels scurry from their trees
The birds have all flown away
It is another September morning
I feel it with each step that I take.
With a cold wind against my back
I journey to a great tree
To pick up the jewels that she left there
An acorn, and a lonely leaf.
I shiver as I walk
With a leaf and acorn in hand
I watch fall as it arrives around me,
So happy is this man.
I then walk up unto my wife
I present her with the leaf and acorn
So happy I am with this fall,
That I give Her my September morn.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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Until they lose everything

In the Springtime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beautiful flowers
In the Summertime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beloved fruits
In the Autumn time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most painful leaves
In the Winter time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their hope.
And the wind beats again those trees
Until they lose
Their most important spring buds
Again and again
Until they lose their sap
Moreover
The wind beats the trees
Until they collapse down
To the ground.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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The House Of Dust: Part 04: 01: Clairvoyant

'This envelope you say has something in it
Which once belonged to your dead son—or something
He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?—
The soul flies far, and we can only call it
By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter,
Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . '

. . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind,
Over the low roofs white with snow;
Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean,
One by one they melt and flow,—

Streaming one by one over trees and towers,
Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun;
Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows
Flow under them one by one . . .

' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit
Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit
Young and strong and beautiful . . .

He says that he is happy, is much honored;
Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind
Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . .
The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken
And laid aside . . . '

'Ask him why he did the thing he did!'

'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you:
Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . .
What seems calamity is less than a sigh;
What seems disgrace is nothing.'

'Ask him if the one he hurt is there,
And if she loves him still!'

'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,—
Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . .
A cloud of spirits has gathered about him.
They praise him and call him, they do him honor;
He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.'

. . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind,
Over the low roofs white with snow . . .
Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish,
One by one they sing and flow;

Over the outstretched lands of days remembered,
Over remembered tower and wall,
One by one they gather and talk in the darkness,
Rise and glimmer and fall . . .

'Ask him why he did the thing he did!
He knows I will understand!'

'It is too late:
He will not hear me: I have lost my power.'

'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me.
God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.'

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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My Morning

the house is surrounded by trees
and birds sleep there
some of those who do not have fears
made their nests
and this early morning i hear them sing

chirp if you may call it
but there is this feeling that nature is there
in the songs of birds
and the hush of the wind and the coming
bright rays of the sun

my dog is beside me
still asleep as i begin my prayers and rituals
for the day

behind the black shadows of the trees
the gray horizon starts
to brighten and now the mountains begin to
appear in view

their peaks touching the skies
as the clouds hang and float and drift....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Rain Is Like A Man

the rain this early morning
has an accompanying wind

i look at them by the window
my inner world divided by a thick glass

the trees are swaying and some leaves
begin to fall like some kind of a dance

the rain like a man carries the wind
on his arms and the wind leans down

i catch a glimpse of how they passionately kiss
it is sad and lonely and then the rain stops

the morning sun comes and the leaves
are at the feet of the trees kind of wet with tears.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spring Morning

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.

If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You'd sail on water as blue as air,
And you'd see me here in the fields and say:
'Doesn't the sky look green today?'

Where am I going? The high rooks call:
'It's awful fun to be born at all.'
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
'We do have beautiful things to do.'

If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You'd lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You'd say to the wind when it took you away:
'That's where I wanted to go today!'

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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