Betrayal at the Worst of Times Needs No Remorse!
A flock of sparrows were twittering
in the branches of the Neem trees.
The cold breeze from the rain-fed tank
was rustling the leaves, embracing
and solacing my body bereft of sleep.
The waves from the watery expanse,
dashing and breaking on the bank
were making regular clapping sounds.
The green paddy crops in the vast stretch of fields
were waving and dancing in the blowing wind.
The bees were straining droning sounds
and the butterflies were sailing over me.
The flowers of wild plants on the slopes of the bank
were flaming in the hot summer.
I was lying on the bank in the shades of the trees,
with my mind roaming around her
and my eyes staring at the sky above.
For betraying me at the worst of times,
she conveyed to me her words of regret,
and wanted to see me once,
to weep out her sinking grief.
But I didn't get a chance to look at that rueful face
and from my heart I couldn't also erase it out.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The Golden Boat
Clouds rumbling in the sky; teeming rain.
I sit on the river bank, sad and alone.
The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,
The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.
As we cut the paddy it started to rain.
One small paddy-field, no one but me -
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank; smear shadows like ink
On a village painted on deep morning grey.
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.
Who is this, steering close to the shore
Singing? I feel that she is someone I know.
The sails are filled wide, she gazes ahead,
Waves break helplessly against the boat each side.
I watch and feel I have seen her face before.
Oh to what foreign land do you sail?
Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while.
Go where you want to, give where you care to,
But come to the bank a moment, show your smile -
Take away my golden paddy when you sail.
Take it, take as much as you can load.
Is there more? No, none, I have put it aboard.
My intense labour here by the river -
I have parted with it all, layer upon layer;
Now take me as well, be kind, take me aboard.
No room, no room, the boat is too small.
Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.
Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,
On the bare river-bank, I remain alone -
What had has gone: the golden boat took all.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Red Flower
Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.
Your lips betray the secret of your soul,
The dark delicious essence that is you,
A mystery of life, the flaming goal
I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.
Your lips are the red symbol of a dream,
What visions of warm lilies they impart,
That line the green bank of a fair blue stream,
With butterflies and bees close to each heart!
Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare,
That softly fall upon the langourous breeze,
Wafting them gently on the quiet air
Among untended avenues of trees.
O were I hovering, a bee, to probe
Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower,
Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe,
Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour!
poem by Claude McKay
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Tears of the Gods!
Once he wore his nine-tasselled towel
around his hip bearing a drum at front of his midrif
he would sing aloud to invoke Lord Ayyanar,
half-buried at the outer base of the bund
of our village rain-fed tank,
to help him beating the drum
for moving the feet of his three daughters
with parrot-topped brass pots over their heads.
People near and far took his troop
at the time of festivals, being mesmerized
by the mavis of his dancing angels. 11
But he never gave up the service
of drumming up on the ghouls-howling tank bund
when the moon was out and hid.
The sound could be heard
by the sleepless elders of our village.
He would swim across the river
and reach the village on the other bank
to alert them for raising the river-bank,
and escape the wrath of the swelling river,
when floods from the western ghats
came in a roaring fury
and made a breach in the tank bund. 23
Covering himself with a hessian to bear the cold,
he would sing seeking the grace of the Lord
to save him from the hoodwinking elves
and protect the tank from breaching
Or else the paddy fields would be going dry.
Once he fell ill and lay at home.
The morning brought him news of a miracle.
Some theatre-goers to the nearby town
who came back after midnight,
asked him why he went unheeded
with a spear in his hand
in that dead of night on the bund.
The tank-keeper shed tears
thinking of the feat of the Lord on his behalf. 36
The breeze ruffling the watery surface
would lull him to sleep;
but snakes on the bund would hiss at him;
and he would dither and dodder along
humming the name of the Lord several times.
When thunder rumbled, he would shout
“Arjun had ten names” to thwart it.
Dredging leaves and flowers over the idol,
he would offer his thanks and prayers
and walk his way home in the small hours.
His forefathers had hewed out this career
for some sheaves of reaped paddy
at the time of harvest from every family.
But God willed to relieve him from this duty
by giving him only daughters.
Leaving them at his hovel in the night
he would go to guard the bund. 53
Once the inflow to the tank was heavy
and the bund breached and overflowed the river.
He swam across the violent river as usual
to reach the other bank for waking up his villagers.
He had hair-breath escapes in the past
yet he served for his family’s pride.
The cloudy dawn brought his sad daughters
on the northern bank of the river
while the whole village was looking silent
into the merciless river from the southern bank.
An old one said he heard his shouts in the night.
Another said he came in his dream drumming aloud.
But was nowhere found the nine-tasselled drummer.
Rains seem reluctant to pour in that region
and there has been no question of a successor
to that wonderful keeper of our village tank. 69
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The River of Me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
That Cheyenne Bodie was ten feet tall
His voice so deep it filled a hall
And that was who I dreamed I’d be
Until Cochise came on the scene
There was ice on the river and ice on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
The fields were full of cows, corn or wheat
The air was thick with bees and heat
The summer lasted all year long
I never knew til it was gone
And then of course came that high school girl
Her glances made my river swirl
More complex than the universe
I never knew what she’d do next
There was light on the river and light on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
And up we soared towards the sky
Through songs and dancing by and by
My waterfalls and waves ran high
For just the winking of an eye
And in the distance the quiet sea
was waiting on the river me
And on the banks the weeds grew tall
Where rusting leaves began to fall
Now there’s night on the river and night on the pond
And the singing nun is long since gone
There are trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And memories in the river of me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
A Tall Story part two
There is a bridge that crosses over a river
A river that is eerie and makes you quiver
With the light of the moon the river will gleam
and a boat will go sailing, on its own down
stream. The mist will come from out of the trees
and horrible sounds can be heard in the breeze.
It sounded like cats caught up in a fight a claim
for territory in the dead of night, but cats never fight
on the waters edge just in case they fall over the ledge.
A river bank full of matted reeds where plants had died
without dispersing their seeds.A man dressed in green
who paddles the stream who can be seen clear in the
moonlit beam.Sometimes you hear him digging on
the side of the river bank, could this be true or is it
some sort of a prank
A river full of alge green and that's how it had
always been. No carp, no bream no fish to fish not
even a place for a secret wish.
No river bank wildlife to give it grace, just run over the
bridge and get out of this place.
The story tells of a robber who stood about three feet
tall and because of his height he couldent climbe over
the wall. Now behind the wall was the river which spread
down far and wide and the man in green had a problem
because he could'nt get to the other side.So he hid the
loot inside his boot and started to dig under the wall
but as he dug the water flooded in and he sank to
the bottom of the pool.
Apart from one thing he could not swim and the weight
of the loot that was in his boot no doubt made him take
root.If you go to the river and see the man in green, then
please come back and tell us what you have seen.
This is a tall story one with a short tale, I am sorry it
didn't excit you, but my next one wont fail.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Weather
The leaves are blowing away
Up, up, and away they go.
Swish, swoosh, they go.
Like a dancing ballerina
Up, up and away they go
Way up , in the sky.
The trees standing there,
Their branches all bare.
The wind whistling throughout empty branches,
The trees look scary, swish, swoosh,
The wind is getting louder,
Throughout the trees it howls
The trees are blowing
From side to side
Like someone dancing swiftly,
The clouds in the sky are moving quietly
Is the weather ever going to change,
What weather it is today
poem by Angela Fletcher
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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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The Further Bank
I long to go over there to the further bank of the river.
Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;
Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with
ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;
Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the
riverside pasture;
Whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the
jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferry when I am grown up.
They say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank.
Where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and
thick reeds grow round the margins where water-birds lay their
eggs;
Where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny
footprints upon the clean soft mud;
Where in the evening the tall grasses crested with while
flowers invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
I shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the
boys and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are
bathing.
When the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon,
I shall come running to you, saying, "Mother, I am hungry."
When the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees,
I shall come back in the dust.
I shall never go away from you into the town to work like
father.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Natural Rhythm
Looking at a meadow, a field of spring’s delight,
with insects fluttering and twittering in flight,
chirping thought the day and in to the twilight.
The butterflies flap an unkempt melody,
contrasted by the sharp humming of a bumblebee,
all balancing an earthly composed symphony.
Even the clouds cast lightning like a conductor,
followed by a seemingly catastrophic blunder,
a raucous rumbling blast of cacophonic thunder.
Now when I look out of my window,
I see the clouds casting a shadow,
upon those fields so open and fallow.
With their grass and flowers swaying in the breeze,
matching the rhythm of the leaves,
a musical rustling amongst the trees.
The whole world seems to mimic this mime,
all moving to and fro, always in time,
as if dancing to a melodic chime.
Maybe the world is not asleep,
and the patter of rain, that the clouds do weep,
is really the Earth’s rhythmical heartbeat.
poem by Dale Mullock
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Paradise
Slipped into sleep.Mind got into whirls.
What a fantastic place mine was!
River Varaha from the western hills
Into my village bifurcating north and south!
Mango orchards, coconut groves, crossed streets with
Two water-falls, two hillocks and my school
All in order on one bank, very chill.
A big tank sorrounded with paddy fields
Green swarded with dayfull iciness
On the other bank along with big temples
Civil court, elementary school, post-office,
Cinema theatres, hospital, and 'agraharam'houses.
In my vista are the cows back home
After grazing over a grassy roam.
'Aadu paalam'(dancing bridge) is shakily strong.
'Pudhu paalam'(new bridge) widens very strong.
Ah, my music master with his syllables
'SaRiGaMaPaDhaNi'..'hey, hey! 'I'm nudged
To answer Paradise, Paradise, Paradise!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Rustling Leave
In the cold wintry evening,
When it was gloam and twilight,
Covering myself with thick blanket of wool,
I used to go to a small garden,
Where my father planted the apple trees.
Often I roved around the victims,
Of callous spoiling Autumn.
The leafless branches tormented me,
Presenting undressed bare reality.
They looked like skeletons of ghosts,
Without flesh, with naked bones,
Who often disturb us in our sleep.
The swishy wind blew moaning,
Lamenting over the bodies,
Of the dried fallen leaves,
Blowing them to this or that end,
Resting nowhere to be disposed,
Some swept onto the stagnant water,
On the green surface to float.
The blown rustling leaves reminded,
Once they were fresh and green,
Fluttered resisting blows of the wind,
Sucked the honeyed sap of life,
When attached to the source.
Amid the blooming winter crops,
The grove presented a doleful contrast,
Making depressed both heart and mind,
The vanished tongue whispering a secret,
Consoled the weeping heart over the plague,
That death is the overleaf of life,
The front side overshadows the other.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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When We Meet Again Sometime This Summer
i tell you, i do not like winters, and i do not wish
to go where winter lies. I am intolerant of anything
that freezes me, that thaws, that gives me frost,
that bites like an ant, that solidifies me like
refrigerator ice.
i like summers. Flowers blooming. Green grass
spreading. Butterflies in different colors in the garden.
Bees just enough for the buzz. I love trees. I love
rivers, and springs and creeks.
Bamboo trees beside the rocks beside the pebbles
beside the river. I like the songs of the rivers. Lots of rivers.
Gentle rains. Hush winds. Cool shades. Shadows of mountains.
When we meet again, i like it to be this summer.
Lots of sun. Warmth., Sweat. Perspirations. Palpitations
of the hearts of the young on summer time.
Under the cool shades of the trees on summer nights.
I always remember summer nights.Strong summer winds.
Flown hair. Drying pants and underwears. My legs exposed
Beside the brook. I like being naked. I like being on top of
everything.
With you, on you, by you, within you, in your mouth all over your face.
Oh summer breeze. See you. Feel you. Love you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning Time
Wind was blowing through the trees
I could hear the rustling of their leaves
The morning sun sneaking through the clouds
Birds singing morning sounds
For i love this time i say
Morning of a new day
I wonder what the day has in store
In the distance i hear the waves crashing the shore
For it is morning time and all is a buzz
From the depths of the oceans
To the skies above
Good morning morning i always say
My your a beautiful day
Maybe you might rain today
Your still beautiful anyway
The sombre breeze that blows around
The birds singing
As i spread my blanket on the ground
So i lay here looking into the sky
Motionless waiting and watching the world pass me by
A few drops of rain speckle my face
I would not give up being here for any place
The Full Moon And The Little Girl
a little girl by the window
looking out
to the sea,
the full moon shines
spreading soft light on the trees
and the vast expanse
of the sea beyond her
fresh air caresses her face
scents of leaves and flowers
a taste of salt carried by the sea breeze
hushing sounds
mother is still not home and father is far away
the moon shines brightly that night
loneliness is very much like it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Leaves on Those Trees Spoke About Me!
The leaves on those trees spoke about me,
They leaned their flat, green shapes against each other,
Then came together to talk,
As the breeze pushed them up and down.
I wondered how they even knew,
That I was of modern mankind true,
That I could be their friend or foe,
That once I decided to go.
And follow out that mission of modern man's progress.
But their green body swayed with ease,
They breathed their breathable breeze,
And continued their green soft speak,
They weren't sure their future looked,
Sunny or bleak in this modern world.
And as they observed me standing there,
Down below the trunk,
Staring at my determined stare,
I wanted to fell all trees,
To fell them just to show I could.
So the leaves presiding over their g reenland,
Commenced their dance and speech.
They couldn't decide whether I was an environmentalist,
Or a man with no green conscience with no red heart.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Blossoms
Flowers lovely, marvellous gift from God,
They deck the Earth, they give delight,
They drape the dales and adorn the hills,
They feast the eyes and fill the hearts.
My life blooms when plants are abloom,
Each morn, I gaze at flowers in myriad hues,
That adorn the garden my mother keeps,
Her prized possession next to her kids.
Through the arch window, Roses are in sight,
Chrysanthemums and Daisies, they grow in rows,
The white Lilies and the purple Tulips,
They seem to delight in their contrast shades.
In summer I watch the butterflies flitting around,
Also the honey bees that come to steal the pollen from the blooms,
Small birds that dart into twining boughs,
Build nests in the secret hide of bushy trees.
In rain, I watch the flutter of silvery leaves,
Washed anew and sparkling in radiant glow,
After rain, I count the droplets trapped within,
That struggle to escape from the chamber of hollow blooms.
In breeze, I see the flowers dancing in cheer,
And swing their heads in synchronizing motion,
These sights fill me with indescribable joy,
And set my heart racing in glee.
But when a withering flower comes in view,
It aches my heart and makes me grieve,
Then a question crops within my mind,
Why should a flower wilt and wither so fast.
Before I let the question fly from me
A consoling thought fleets across my brain
Transient it be, it delights all,
Spreads its fragrance all around,
Serves nectar to humming birds and bees,
And decks the Earth in brilliant charm.
What more-needed to fulfill a life,
Than be a source of delight to many!
poem by Valsa George
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When Love Returns
Love will come again.
Like sweet summer rain
On sleeping fields of flowers.
Fragrant and new.
Sunlit and blue.
She leaves her ivory towers
My Princess,
And calls my name
On sweetest birdsong breeze.
Like moonlight
Through the trees.
Wild beauty
Time can't tame.
Magic fills my frame.
And my soul dances
Like stars as we sleep unaware.
Then my wounded heart
Will weep
To silent fanfare.
To be free of constant pain
When love returns again.
poem by Kevin East
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Flutter byes for M ladyChitra
The autumn leaves fall from the trees.
Twirling and dancing in the breeze.
Like ghosts of summer butterflies
although they don’t deceive my eyes.
My poets mind says otherwise.
Transmogrifies them easily,
assisted by their autumn guise.
Into bright coloured butterflies.
Like butterflies they dance and play
but they will fall eventually.
Down to the ground and rot away
And form a mulch to feed each tree.
On which trees live as they should do.
Though for a little while they flew.
16-Oct-08
http; // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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3 O'clock In The Morning
the rain stopped
and i have just awakened from a deep sleep
it was earlier than usual
and what i heard are the raindrops leaving the last words of their lives
a tapping of the roof
a heave of a sigh
some monotonous sounds of the waves of the shore
not far from where i am writing
the last whispers of the winds from the trees about to shed their last leaves
the sounds of wild ducks leaving knowing that another storm is coming
i think of you
i think of your search of yourself
i think of myself
how i was once broken and destroyed by the changes of the winds
how i picked up the pieces like some leaves scattered in the forest
beyond repair, i write some memories.
weary, i imagine some moments that i may have been at rest with myself.
i think of you. I think about when the rain shall stop forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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