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my silence shall be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Silence Shall Be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0018 Man Raking Leaves (re Jim Morrison lyric)
The sound of wooden rake scratching concrete.
walk nearer - rustle of dry leaves.
This, the beginning of a Japanese haiku
or maybe a Japanese film -
dry sound first, then rake, then leaves, then man -
that evokes autumn
too near the heart
to need a title
the sound stops. silence. man leans on rake.
then match strikes, there's almost yes an echo
from the dry leaves not yet fallen from the trees
in the forest all around.
then the first tickle in the nostrils
of burning leaves which
the two-year old scrunching through the trees
hand in hand with older sister
will remember all his life
like the silence between
two lines of a haiku or
the silence of the moment when the seasons turn.
and who can say
what the golden-orange-yellow-brown trees
slowly stripping in a rustle as of silken nightgown
to the tune of, more a whisper than a breeze -
what the trees feel
as the incense of their, their, burning leaves
steals like a last caress
for each such faithful
lover?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The rotten fruits
Such a tempting fruit as she is,
With such an adamancy as hers,
She makes my lust of her fall sick
And leaves me, who move to rotten fruits.
Ho! By such acts that she conducts,
What happiness would she derive?
By such denials does she get
Her corporal urges met with?
The rotten fruits overwhelm the eaten ones.
27.02.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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In Sowing The Seeds Of Silence
in sowing the seeds of silence
what do you think shall i reap?
not death, not really that scary
i do not think that way
a tree meditates
leaves still and flowers of wisdom bloom
roots grow and penetrate
gathering the humus of contentment
accumulating what we all look for
happiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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SONNET: Wild Trees
Look how the trees grow in the wilderness!
The Rain and Sun tend to their growing needs;
No man can put the tree’s growth in harness;
‘Tis clothed by verdure leaves, flow’rs, fruits with seeds.
Look how the Wind spreads wide the seeds in soil!
How fast they sprout into seedlings with Rain;
Some go awaste but most grow without toil;
Alas! Man thinks wild trees are just a bane.
Yet, every tree that God had made has use;
And every living creature God made fine;
‘Tis left to man, his faculties to use;
‘Tis left to him to keep his shoes in shine.
Some things we see, we may not understand;
God’s creation is something very grand.
poem by John Celes
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My Melancholy Is Your Melancholy
and so at the end
we rediscover that my
melancholy
is your melancholy too
we cannot describe
how deep the roots are
and how rotten
the trees
we were counting the
leaves falling
we want to measure
the length and weight
of the heaps
i do not bother myself
now
we have become so
different
like crisscrossing
lines
with endpoints
crazy somewhere
not wanting any
meeting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Silence Sings
"Silence can carry many different messages; it can be a powerful form of communication." Thomas Merton
Your silence sings in
emerald leaves glistening
through arching blue skies.
Apple trees groaning
anointing the sacred ground
with seeds of silence.
Close by rushes a
train; howling wind brushes my
face with your silence.
poem by Steven Federle
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Winter With a Question
The aging trees will creak and groan
To find themselves ringed by frost in sleep
And snow by the wind already blown
Cast upon snow already deep.
The cold is echoed only by silence all,
And the leaves of Autumn entombed in white
At the place where leaves fall
And passing time, vanish from sight.
Who is it that judges these—
Sends leaves beneath the snow
And trees to shiver alongside trees? —
And where do they go?
poem by Ronny Self
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How The Leaves Are Blown By The Wind
did i not tell you that these leaves come from the trees?
no dispute about it
about them, they grow out from there, those twigs
of the trees of life,
they get their glow, their sheen, though they have given more honor
to the sun
rather than the roots and the phloem
the season for them to mature and fall has come
and they all wait for the wind, the great strong wind to blow them all away
to their respective destinies
some find their way to the river
some to the thick heap of other leaves destined to rot
and only if you hear them
they say they come from nowhere
not from the tree of life
not from me
the leaves, my poems, the wind my way of throwing,
the tree, myself, my roots my mind, my phloem my blood
i made them all, but now, they are on their own
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Rotten Row
In Rotten Row a cigarette
I sat and smoked, with no regret
For all the tumult that had been.
The distances were still and green,
And streaked with shadows cool and wet.
Two sweethearts on a bench were set,
Two birds among the boughs were met;
So love and song were heard and seen
In Rotten Row.
A horse or two there was to fret
The soundless sand; but work and debt,
Fair flowers and falling leaves between,
While clocks are chiming clear and keen,
A man may very well forget
In Rotten Row.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Dead Leaves
dead leaves are scattered everywhere
under the trees
surrounding this old house where we live
unswept and piling up like some layers
of our memories
some rotten some cracking some turning to dust
the snakes learn to hide there
making their home
and some worms and some rats and some seeds
begin to sprout
when it begins to rain again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At My Own Pace
slowly i walk on a path
leading to the woods
taking a closer look at
the ferns and enjoying
the freshness of the
the air inside the cover
of the trees, my steps
are careful not to disturb
the peace of the birds
still hatching their eggs
on the nests, lizards watch
and worms keep their feast
on the rotten wood beside
the sturdy roots, the rain
starts to fall, i am wet and
now going back home.
something the silence of
nature, the glossiness of
leaves, the musical pit
pat of the rain strengthens
me: i am part of this
beautiful scheme,
preserving and not
destroying, seeing and
not taking, watching all
creatures live, listening
what this earth is saying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Brothers And Sisters
now that the roots are dead
and the buds cannot anymore
turn into flowers of their own
we turn back to the seeds
hidden under the ground
we look for the moist patches
and begin to sprout
we give the leaves and then
we become trees ourselves
apart from each other
now, not even knowing what
are our names
we rationalize these separations
the cycle of life
the pathways of survival
the genetic tendrils looking for the light of the sun
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Time and Leaves and Heaps
time runs
leaves fall
the ground is filled with heaps and heaps of them
the world too
is thickened by the leaves of time
heaps and heaps of what man once was
we bury all of them
time
leaves
heaps of leaves
so many times
we fall too like leaves
the world is thick of those like us
fair enough.
fair enough.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Barren Fig-Tree
The church a garden is
In which believers stand,
Like ornamental trees
Planted by God's own hand:
His Spirit waters all their roots,
And every branch abounds with fruits.
But other trees there are,
In this enclosure grow;
Which, though they promise fair,
Have only leaves to show:
No fruits of grace are on them found,
They stand but cumb'rers of the ground.
The under gard'ner grieves,
In vain his strength he spends,
For heaps of useless leaves,
Afford him small amends:
He hears the Lord his will make known,
To cut the barren fig-trees down.
How difficult his post,
What pangs his bowels move,
To find his wishes crossed,
His labors useless prove!
His last relief is earnest prayer,
Lord, spare them yet another year.
Spare them, and let me try
What farther means may do;
I'll fresh manure apply,
My digging I'll renew
Who knows but yet they fruit may yield!
If not--'tis just, they must be felled.
If under means of grace,
No gracious fruits appear;
It is a dreadful case,
Though God may long forbear:
At length he'll strike the threatened blow,
And lay the barren fig-tree low.
poem by John Newton
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Maybe I Am Already Somewhat Half-Forgotten (Roundel)
As the leaves, their smell, their scent half-rotten
are with the homecoming wishing me well
maybe I am already somewhat half-forgotten.
As the leaves, their smell,
does remind me, does a thousand stories tell,
of days that will always be unforgotten
of when I was under your charming spell
of the kisses that at a time were gotten
when we did meet deep in the dell
but unforgettable, life now is rotten,
as the leaves, their smell…
poem by Gert Strydom
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There Will Be No More Flowers
you finally decide to leave the garden
the grass are taller now
and the little flowers are drowned
there is nothing worth the keeping and the cultivating
the rains have becomes useless seasons
like the sun and its sunny days
now is the season of departure
the packing and letting things go
the trees wildly growing
the mud sticking and the stones silent
living with the moss and the rotten leaves
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Social Climber
yellow is the color of the social climber
like a vine
with yellow flowers
the dancing lady variety
that thrives on the rotten
barks of trees
that looks for the sunshine
at the top of the trees
the calumnist of the Stars
its food
the rotten lives of other people!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Catastrophe Within Silence
silence as in a room with no sound
but the hard pounding drops of rain against the window
silence as in being in a crowd of people
but no one is paying any attention to you
silence as in the pain that harvests inside
but not a soul is around to help u through it
silence yet another meaning of no commotion
but leaves many oblivious to anything of mention
there is catastrophe within silence
but who are those to even realize it?
not a word against a crowd
or a cry for help
not a simple acknowledgment
or an act speaking an opinion
silence
silence may be the
fear
shock
or agitation
within our world that leaves everyone
speechless
till all that is left is
catastrophe within silence
poem by Erin Sullivan
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Silence Echos
Silence
makes my heart break
Silence
Love, does not make
Silence
Was it all just a terrible mistake?
Silence
Was love just a game, just fake?
Silence
Leaves me heartbroken
Silence
Kills he feeling behind words unspoken
Silence
has is a shield you hide behind
Silence
Guards what's on your mind
Silence
Chills your heart's sound
Silence
Love cannot silently be found
Silence
has turned your dreams blind
Silence
is darkness in which you cannot find
Silence
Crushes the hopeful feelings that were kind
Silence
Of emptiness it did remind
Silence
Silence took all I sought to find
Silence
Silence was hurtful and unkind
Silence
Will kill love before it ripens on the vine
Love will go silently
But it's lonely hurt will echo for all time
poem by James T. Adair
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