A Vision Of Skulls and Bones
I had a vision
of walking through
a desolate land
skulls were covering
the ground
like wildflowers
In mingled together
bones and rubble
I was startled to see-
a dog half-starved
searching for food
and finding none
the landscape was barren
what once was trees
is now dried stalks
there was no birds
there was no flowers
only pure desolation
oh my soul
my heart cried out
oh my God in heaven
how could you
let this happen
poem by Rachel Nichols
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Related quotes
Gods Little Forest Creatures
(10/01/11)
All that she knew was that it was a snowy day
And she was in a horse pulled sleigh
The blanket was covering her
From her knees to her feet.
The thermo of hot chocolate was such a treat.
The frozen lake, the snow covered trees
Was truly a sight to be seen.
the birds high up in the trees
Whistling so cheerfully
Singing songs of summers past
And how the winter came so fast.
The ground hog not wanting to come out
He knew well what winter was about.
The ground was covered in a blanket of white
All roads and paths were out of sight.
That did not stop this horse pulled sleigh
He had gone thru this many a day.
He had a covered barn that awaited him
That was the reason he had a grin.
The animals were frantically searching for food
The possums, the raccoons, the rabbits
And The squirrels too.
With one purpose in mind
And that was to stay alive.
As she got to where they were gathered
She pulled out from under her blanket
A five pound bag of peanuts and seed
for her to feed - these poor
Little creatures who always came around
When there was no food to be found.
She was the snow white of this land
Always there to give a hand.
So when you see a squirrel stop and stand
on its hind legs, it’s to see if it is their snow white
Who helped them on this cold winter night.
poem by Louis Rams
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A constant shadow hangs ominous
Something has gone wrong
and things are not
how they used to be
and firestorms
hang in the
polluted black sky
while lightning bolts
lash out
like lights searching
for a answer
and bitter acid rain falls
among the rubble
left by man
and as far
as the eye can see
desolation goes
and man has lost the plan
for the survival
of every thing that lives
and death is everywhere
and the constant shadow
hangs ominous
where the sun used to shine
and an unstoppable fire
burns the land
and winds of radiation
blows endlessly
where birds used to fly.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Skeleton Coast
Footmarks in the sand,
White bones across the land,
Your sea is wild,
Your sands barren of life,
Wind swept, a land in strife,
My soul desolate as your beach,
Heart and mind out of reach,
Loneliness my only companion,
Leaves me without desire,
A lone Seagull reaches higher,
Isolated from my brothers,
Are my bones to join the others,
Oh where to go, what to do?
Will my treasures sink into the sand?
Lost forever to your land?
Rejected, I leave you with your decision,
Choices made, in derision,
A glimpse you had of my riches,
What help if they will not hear?
The cost will be made clear,
On I walk in your sand,
Sadness reaches across the land,
Regret has no place, leaves a trace,
My destination is uncertain,
When will be the final curtain?
April 2012
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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Sleep, Then Awaken
When all the flowers have gone to sleep
my eyes will fill with sorrow.
When all the leaves have dried in fall
my eyes wait for tomorrow.
The cold of winter chills my bones
and brings dull pictures to see.
Stick-like forms like brittle bones
feel the chill like me.
Barren gardens devoid of color
await their chance to become
awakened in the month of May
with new flowers, one by one.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Love in the Famished Land
The blazing sun sucks dry all tenderness
The famished landscape bares its ugly face
When others in conventional comforts rest
Here love faces its hardest test.
Love in this barren land seems insignificant
A morsel matters more where food is scant
The moribund clouds dried up in the firmament
Love is redundant here and suffers banishment…
I turn away from this land
Little knowing love fails no test
It spares not even the aridest sand
When the baby digs into mother's breast!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Braving The British Weather
To brave the British weather, most birds don't have a choice,
But even in the worst weather, they raise such a spirited voice.
Cold and rainy weather can leave some of us feeling a little blue,
But, to me, it seems the little birds hold a different kind of view.
When, to us, the weather seems to go so very, horribly wrong,
The little birds continue to sing their sweet and happy song.
When a cloudless, blue sky still seems so very far from sight,
There is one song which will always ring out, so clear and bright.
When you find yourself walking along, upon rain-soaked ground,
From up in the trees, there will always come a heart-lifting sound.
A dull and dismal day can sometimes make us feel a little bit down:
Our hearts feel a little heavy, and our faces wear an unhappy frown.
Birdsong is a beautiful and pure, but powerful, Heaven-sent gift:
Upon hearing such a pleasant song, our hearts will begin to lift.
Even in wet weather, the little birds sing out with such pure joy:
Like the joy a child has, when hugging their favourite soft toy.
Even when we get wet through, our clothes will very soon dry,
So we should try to keep our chin up, and our spirits flying high.
Such joy is contained within the heart of a creature, so very small:
These tiny little birds really do set a shining example to us all.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Black Birds
I
Once, only once, I saw it clear, --
That Eden every human heart has dreamed
A hundred times, but always far away!
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still atmosphere
Of that enchanted day,
To lie wide open to my weary feet:
A little land of love and joy and rest,
With meadows of soft green,
Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
With delicate breath of violets unseen, --
And, tranquil 'mid the bloom
As if it waited for a coming guest,
A little house of peace and joy and love
Was nested like a snow-white dove
From the rough mountain where I stood,
Homesick for happiness,
Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood
To cross, and then the long distress
Of solitude would be forever past, --
I should be home at last.
But not too soon! oh, let me linger here
And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,
On all this loveliness, so near,
And mine to-morrow!
Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue,
A dark bird flew,
Silent, with sable wings.
Close in his wake another came, --
Fragments of midnight floating through
The sunset flame, --
Another and another, weaving rings
Of blackness on the primrose sky, --
Another, and another, look, a score,
A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily
From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, --
They boiled into the lucid air
Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair!
And more, and more, and ever more,
The numberless, ill-omened brood,
Flapping their ragged plumes,
Possessed the landscape and the evening light
With menaces and glooms.
Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place
Where once I saw the little house so white
Amid the flowers, covering every trace
Of beauty from my troubled sight, --
And suddenly it was night!
II
At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
And while the morning made
A trembling light among the tree-tops pale,
I saw the sable birds on every limb,
Clinging together closely in the shade,
And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
But, oh, the little land of peace and love
That those night-loving wings had poised above, --
Where was it gone?
Lost, lost forevermore!
Only a cottage, dull and gray,
In the cold light of dawn,
With iron bars across the door:
Only a garden where the withering heads
Of flowers, presaging decay,
Hung over barren beds:
Only a desolate field that lay
Untilled beneath the desolate day, --
Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!
So, wondering, I passed along my way,
With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,
And the black magic of the croaking birds.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Beauty of Spring
it starts with the grass
slowly, blade by blade
growing, sprouting, covering
while more beauty is made
the green of the grass
then the green of the trees
slowly, but early showing
the small but budding leaves
the early flowers
pouring color and beauty
a still bland land
but now with color to see
the birds coming back
with their squawks and their tweets
the bround growing warm
beneathe my bare feet
the bunnies and the squirrels
the turtles and the snakes
the fish swimming free
in the thawing lakes
the beauty of Spring
with new life all around!
the coming of pure beauty
with the thawing ground
poem by Kellsey Hartmann
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Sanctuary
'And on the banks, on both sides of the river, there will grow all kinds of trees for food. Their leaves will not wither nor their fruit fail, but they will bear fresh fruit every month, because the water
for them flows from the sanctuary. Their fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing.' ~ Ezekiel 47: 12
sanctuary
dying trees
and fallen
leaves
dried river
hungry heart
and wounded liver
sanctuary
bones of dust
sanctuary
my head
know longer knows
poem by Jay Reynolds
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Blues In Minor Key
'Twas a lovely night in gay Paree
The stagelight was beating on him and me
He took my heart and spoke so well
And told me things no one else could tell
But far away in a barren tree
The birds sang the blues in a minor key
He was a lonely tramp in the world of rhyme
With words that caught me just in time
I gave him my body I gave him my soul
In front of the stage I played my role
But far away in a barren tree
The birds sang the blues in a minor key
The chimes of freedom rang that night
And stars in heaven were shining bright
The songs he sang were like ice and fire
Leading me through the bush and brier
But far away in a barren tree
The birds sang the blues in a minor key
Behind his mask and behind his name
He left the stage with nothin' to claim
Like a shooting star in the empty skies
Our love was done without any ties
And far away in a barren tree
The birds sang the blues in a minor key
And far away in a barren tree
The birds sang the blues in a minor key....
Copyright © 2011 Göran Gustafsson. All rights reserved
poem by Göran Gustafsson
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Tombestone
The night is dark, the moon is full
Across the blood red plain
Every step and every breath
Brings me nearer home
The spirits watch me on my way
They whisper on the wind
And when the dawn lights up the sky
Ill see my land again
A hot wind blows the scrub and dust
Across the barren land
Trees stand bare like skeletons
The mountains all torn down
The water holes are dry as bones
No birds are singing now
And faraway a city stands
Tombstones against the sky
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tombstone
The night is dark, the moon is full
Across the blood red plain
Every step and every breath
Brings me nearer home
The spirits watch me on my way
They whisper on the wind
And when the dawn lights up the sky
I'll see my land again
A hot wind blows the scrub and dust
across the barren land
Trees stand bare like skeletons
The mountains all torn down
The water holes are dry as bones
No birds are singing now
And faraway a city stands
Tombstones against the sky
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting For The Storm
snow birds screeching in the trees,
bare limbs bent with time and promise..
desolate, hungry clouds from the south,
and the quiet before the storm.
and those i love are sleeping, or far away.
there's nothing that can be done just now.
all the fires and smoke are as distant
as hours and days will allow.
stillness, and waiting... for something
that hasnt taken form or spirit yet.
walking through the museum of my heart,
searching for answers, and finality.
i cant find God in the garden,
or in the pounding of the big guns.
or in the broken bodies strewn by greed,
or in the voices wailing with hurt and hunger.
every direction leads to lostness.
prayers fall like ash in the wind.
and i'm left with the sound of the
snow birds calling, waiting for the storm.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Landscape
A Landscape
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled
trees, silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees, daylight ghosts, stand there
with grey boughs stretching upward appealing
to a fairytale god, “give us today a new life” but
no, there is only one god he is almighty, and hears
not your fearful whispered wishes, those who do
not understand are doomed to a life of an empty
pursuit for pleasures, crowding nightclubs and
casinos trying to avoid being alone with the night
and facing the truth: we are mortal and heaven is
to be remembered for a while by other mortals.
Faces in a black frame seeing you seeing through
you and into a void. Yet I fear not this landscape as
it is shunned by man and no harm can happen to me
here except the inevitable
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dreamers
I see trees of Gold
leaves of silver
in my dream land
flowers that sing
birds that dance
hippos do the fandango
and I
cry
tears of joy.
I see the Peace of Angels
hearts which meld
and join at the soul's juncture
in my dream land
I see cats doing cartwheels
dogs which speak Shakespeare
lovers who can fly
each one having one wing
and with these two wings
take flight
which is what love allows
in my dream land
Dark and Light
compliment
rather than contest
plenty abounds
with Community
I write on the walls of caves
and thereby invent Art
I learn to grow food
rather that kill it.
I learn to read
in my dream land
and they
called me crazy.
That is what they always say
about dreamers.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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In Spring
See how the trees and the osiers lithe
Are green bedecked and the woods are blithe,
The meadows have donned their cape of flowers,
The air is soft with the sweet May showers,
And the birds make melody:
But the spring of the soul, the spring of the soul,
Cometh no more for you or for me.
The lazy hum of the busy bees
Murmureth through the almond trees;
The jonquil flaunteth a gay, blonde head,
The primrose peeps from a mossy bed,
And the violets scent the lane.
But the flowers of the soul, the flowers of the soul,
For you and for me bloom never again.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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My man he cried today...
My man he cried today…
He looked at me all filled with fear
For he knew not what he would hear
Because believe me now when I say
My man he cried today
His face it bled from the from the beauty of his soul
This crystal clear waterfall it poured out of control
So believe me now when I say
My man he cried today
This emotion to him felt wrong
As it was forbidden for so long
But believe me now when I say
My man he cried today
He covered himself with his hands so strong
And repeatedly told me by me he’ll never do wrong
Down to the ground he knelt on one knee
And hailed me like a queen for all to see
For believe me when I say
My man he cried today
This passion he felt burning
Was released like the glory of morning
The love he felt was strong indeed
And I knew a man like him surely a rare breed
And believe me now what I say
My man he cried today
So I knelt down besides him and let him take me all in
For from here on now our lives shall begin
My soul is his now
And to my king I bow
And again I say my man he cried today
Our love so pure
All it shall cure
My man he cried
Lips upon lips
Heart upon heart
My man he cried
So I looked up filled with glee
As this man cried with me
And when I tell you this, you must believe
This man I will never leave
And now you know why when I say my man and I we cried today!
Lerato Ladyfair Shuping
poem by Lerato Shuping
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How Mild Fall Is
How mild the fall is?
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I don't know why
On a day like today,
The heaven is soft with dew,
And in trees; birds have eyes crying,
But the air up in the sky was new.
With poppy clouds looking down,
From the broken road out of heaven,
Upon fine lines and pleasant farm,
A blanket of trees canvasses the ground.
There were farmers and shepherds,
Harvesting in the same field,
I don't know why the work was so hard?
Raking the soil and planting seed.
Shepherds find the grassy verge,
Where life is quiet and only soft birds sing,
In trees where they rest and observe,
The broken road to heaven.
poem by Gerry Legister
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She is Looking for a Sign
She is running, running
Forever running
in an endless landscape.
The bleached white sands
and the grey-streked sky
continue in their monotone
Endlessly.
Even the moon never moves,
and all seems fixéd
in this frozen space.
The only thing that changes
is the texture of her skin,
as it dries, ages, roughens,
scarred all over
by the constant daggers
of the icy wind.
She has been running
for an undefined eternity,
still looking, seeking,
searching for the tiny difference
that would mark
her path back home.
But the landscape continues,
and stays unchanged,
and she's still lost, dying,
waiting for
some signal
that could save her
from this desolate,
desolate
destiny.
poem by Yiling Ding
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