A Celebration
the flowers open their buds
the crickets sing beneath the grass
the sun is here putting on the lights of this earth.
a rat is dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Quo Vadis?
we coo-ed with koels
we chirped with birds
we buzzed with bees
we bloosomed with buds
we ate ripened fruit fell on earth
we collected flowers that trees discarded
we waited for buds to express themselves
we ate under open sky
we slept under star-lit sky
we took siestas under the trees
we took shelter under giant green canopies
we filled our nostrils with mixture of damp earth, foliage and flowers
we once weathered with seasons
we are now cut off from seasons
we are now in a virtual world
we are now condemned to a limited living
21mar2010
11.08hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Dirge
PLACE this bunch of mignonette
In her cold, dead hand;
When the golden sun is set,
Where the poplars stand,
Bury her from sun and day,
Lay my little love away
From my sight.
She was like a modest flower
Blown in sunny June,
Warm as sun at noon's high hour,
Chaster than the moon.
Ah, her day was brief and bright,
Earth has lost a star of light;
She is dead.
Softly breathe her name to me,—
Ah, I loved her so.
Gentle let your tribute be;
None may better know
Her true worth than I who weep
O'er her as she lies asleep —
Soft asleep.
Lay these lilies on her breast,
They are not more white
Than the soul of her, at rest
'Neath their petals bright.
Chant your aves soft and low,
Solemn be your tread and slow, —
She is dead.
Lay her here beneath the grass,
Cool and green and sweet,
Where the gentle brook may pass
Crooning at her feet.
Nature's bards shall come and sing,
And the fairest flowers shall spring
Where she lies.
Safe above the water's swirl,
She has crossed the bar;
Earth has lost a precious pearl,
Heaven has gained a star,
That shall ever sing and shine,
Till it quells this grief of mine
For my love.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Compose My Every Poem
When the stars
Tire of dancing
In the swirling summer night,
When the crickets
Cease to sing
In the green July grass,
When the melody of the rain
Abandons the orchestra of spring flowers,
When young children
No longer play in the park,
I’ll still compose my every poem for you
In the lonely hope of winning your heart.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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on a Sunday back to the past that Papa left
on a Sunday
the man returns to the sea
to clean the foreshore
teeming with coconuts
from thick grass
bad grass and beetles
that eat buds and
kill
on a Sunday back
to the past again
clearing some forests
of memories
therein
one seeks a redemption
for what had been
putting some seeds again
as anticipations of
the future
that may never come
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Morning Lights Outside The Kitchen Door...
must it be habit
that makes you turn off the light
outside the kitchen
at the break of day
when the birds start to
sing their songs
you save on electricity
in the same manner that you budget
your time and
money
i've tried it once
not putting off the lights from morning
till night
some early birds that pick the early worms
passing by the house
with closed doors and windows
with lights not switched off
think that i am
dead
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Bunch Of Lonesome Heroes
A bunch of lonesome and very quarrelsome heroes
were smoking out along the open road;
the night was very dark and thick between them,
each man beneath his ordinary load.
"I'd like to tell my story,"
said one of them so young and bold,
"I'd like to tell my story,
before I turn into gold."
But no one really could hear him,
the night so dark and thick and green;
well I guess that these heroes must always live there
where you and I have only been.
Put out your cigarette, my love,
you've been alone too long;
and some of us are very hungry now
to hear what it is you've done that was so wrong.
I sing this for the crickets,
I sing this for the army,
I sing this for your children
and for all who do not need me.
"I'd like to tell my story,"
said one of them so bold,
"Oh yes, I'd like to tell my story
'cause you know I feel I'm turning into gold.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bunch Of Lonesome Heros
A bunch of lonesome and very quarrelsome heroes
Were smoking out along the open road;
The night was very dark and thick between them,
Each man beneath his ordinary load.
Id like to tell my story,
Said one of them so young and bold,
Id like to tell my story,
Before I turn into gold.
But no one really could hear him,
The night so dark and thick and green;
Well I guess that these heroes must always live there
Where you and I have only been.
Put out your cigarette, my love,
Youve been alone too long;
And some of us are very hungry now
To hear what it is youve done that was so wrong.
I sing this for the crickets,
I sing this for the army,
I sing this for your children
And for all who do not need me.
Id like to tell my story,
Said one of them so bold,
Oh yes, Id like to tell my story
cause you know I feel Im turning into gold.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song (1912)
All suddenly the wind comes soft,
And Spring is here again;
And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
A nd my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb,
The earth so dead and frore,
That I never thought the Spring would come,
Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter's broken and earth has woken,
And the small birds cry again;
And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
And my heart puts forth its pain.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1912)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sing To Me
Sing to me! Something of sunlight and bloom,
I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,
I am so sick with the world’s noisse and strife, -
Sing of the beauty and brightness of life –
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing to me! Something that’s jubilant, glad!
I am so weary, my soul so sad.
All my earth riches are covered with rust,
All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing og the blossoms that open in spring,
How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,
Say, though the winter is round about me,
There are bright summers and springs yet to be.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,
Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!
Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,
I have not quite done with happiness yet.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;
Turn the light lower – there- no, do not speak,
But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;
Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.
Sing to me, sing to me!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Wood of Flowers
I went to the Wood of Flowers
(No one was with me):
I was there alone for hours.
I was happy as could be
In the Wood of Flowers.
There was grass on the ground,
There were buds on the tree,
And the wind had a sound
Of such gaiety,
That I was as happy
As happy could be,
In the Wood of Flowers.
poem by James Stephens
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The Song Of Life
Sing not of Rest
For heart, or brain, or the strong soul’s emotion
Beneath the shadow of Eternal peace!
There is no rest in Nature or surcease
Of Law, and Labour, in unceasing motion.
Sing not of Rest!
Sing not of Peace
On earth, or in the realms beyond our dreaming!
Progress and Retrogression all things draw
Within the edict of Eternal Law.
Search for the Real which lies beneath the Seeming.
Sing not of Peace
Sing thou of Toil,
Of toil that moulds to-day the larger morrow!
Move with stout heart on Life’s great battle-field
And wear the motto “Progress” on thy shield.
All that is best is won through toil and sorrow.
Sing thou of Toil!
Sing thou of Hope!
Of Hope that lights the world to strong endeavour!
Height beyond height but loftier summits show,
Depth beneath depth reveals a depth below.
Choose thou the best. There is no resting ever.
Sing thou of Hope!
Sing thou of Truth!
That which alone can stand when all is sifted;
That which Humanity in pain and tears
Has sought with patient toil through myriad years,
Till thou shalt see with radiant face uplifted
Eternal Truth.
poem by George Essex Evans
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Early morning when the first rays fall (pantoum)
Early morning when the first rays fall,
when the sun hangs blood red
this part of the universe recall,
in moments of awakening that has been acquired.
When the sun hangs blood red,
birds twitter with the songs they sing
in moments of awakening that has been acquired
as the good news of the morning that they bring.
Birds twitter with the songs they sing,
to and thro insects and bees fly
as the good news of the morning that they bring,
with butterflies rocking on flowers under the blue sky.
To and thro insects and bees fly,
the buds of morning glories open to the sun,
with butterflies rocking on flowers under the blue sky,
ants in brigades begin their daily fun.
The buds of morning glories open to the sun
early morning when the first rays fall,
ants in brigades begin their daily fun
in moments of awakening that has been acquired
poem by Gert Strydom
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Why Are You So Sensitive?
I did not say one thing about your diet.
Do not try to throw that guilt trip on me!
What I did say was 'perhaps'
The grass is not getting enough Sun.
And when we pass the flowers...
Had you noticed the petals folding inward,
As if night has fallen!
Why are you so sensitive?
All I asked you was 'if' you had heard,
The sounds being made by crickets?
I might be mistaken.
But you have to admit,
You do see the fireflies?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Eurydice
I
So you have swept me back,
I who could have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who could have slept among the live flowers
at last;
so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;
so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;
if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.
II
Here only flame upon flame
and black among the red sparks,
streaks of black and light
grown colourless;
why did you turn back,
that hell should be reinhabited
of myself thus
swept into nothingness?
why did you glance back?
why did you hesitate for that moment?
why did you bend your face
caught with the flame of the upper earth,
above my face?
what was it that crossed my face
with the light from yours
and your glance?
what was it you saw in my face?
the light of your own face,
the fire of your own presence?
What had my face to offer
but reflex of the earth,
hyacinth colour
caught from the raw fissure in the rock
where the light struck,
and the colour of azure crocuses
and the bright surface of gold crocuses
and of the wind-flower,
swift in its veins as lightning
and as white.
III
Saffron from the fringe of the earth,
wild saffron that has bent
over the sharp edge of earth,
all the flowers that cut through the earth,
all, all the flowers are lost;
everything is lost,
everything is crossed with black,
black upon black
and worse than black,
this colourless light.
IV
Fringe upon fringe
of blue crocuses,
crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
blue of that upper earth,
blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
lost;
flowers,
if I could have taken once my breath of them,
enough of them,
more than earth,
even than of the upper earth,
had passed with me
beneath the earth;
if I could have caught up from the earth,
the whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once I could have breathed into myself
the very golden crocuses
and the red,
and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the whole of the golden mass,
the whole of the great fragrance,
I could have dared the loss.
V
So for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I have lost the earth
and the flowers of the earth,
and the live souls above the earth,
and you who passed across the light
and reached
ruthless;
you who have your own light,
who are to yourself a presence,
who need no presence;
yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:
such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of blackness,
such terror
is no loss;
hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
a loss;
my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above earth.
VI
Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the stark grey
I have more light;
and the flowers,
if I should tell you,
you would turn from your own fit paths
toward hell,
turn again and glance back
and I would sink into a place
even more terrible than this.
VII
At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;
and my spirit with its loss
knows this;
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;
before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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To K.M.D.
In the buds, before they burst,
Leaves and flowers are moulded;
Closely pressed they lie at first,
Exquisitely folded.
Though no hope of change they felt,
Folded hard together,
Soon their sap begins to melt
In the warmer weather.
Till, when Life returns with Spring,
Through them softly stealing,
All their freshness forth they fling,
Hidden forms revealing. [606]
Who can fold those flowers again,
In the way he found them?
Or those spreading leaves restrain,
In the buds that bound them?
Trust me, Spring is very near,
All the buds are swelling;
All the glory of the year
In those buds is dwelling.
What the opened buds reveal
Tells us—Life is flowing;
What the buds, still shut, conceal,
We shall end in knowing.
Long I lingered in the bud
Doubting of the season,
Winter's cold had chilled my blood-—
I was ripe for treason.
Now no more I doubt or wait,
All my fears are vanished,
Summer’s coming, dear, though late,
Fogs and frosts are banished.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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A crown of flowers
A crown of flowers
~
I don a crown of flowers
To mask the sorrow inside
Eyes which fall upon its beauty
Do not see the tears I cry
While the flowers bud to blossom
I wilt to almost nothing
In a garden colour filled with life
There is also a shadow found
In the sun the flower buds open
In the dark a heart is closed
The flowers shall be woven together
To hide something left unseen
The rose, the tulip and the bluebell rise
I am envious of their beautiful life
So I don I crown of flowers
To mask my sorrow inside
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Field Path
The beams in blossom with their spots of jet
Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met;
The level meadow grass was in the swath;
The hedge briar rose hung right across the path,
White over with its flowers--the grass that lay
Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay
Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee
Went wondering where the honey sweets could be;
And passer-bye along the level rows
Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.
poem by John Clare
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A Bird Sometimes Does Not Sing
like you
beautiful woman, a bird on the window sill
sometimes gets tired of singing,
there is not usual tune
and the day becomes darker
than the usual night,
the sun not brighter and the
grass not green
as they are wont to be
there is no hope for flowers
that wilt today
the buds are falling.
i want to talk, but i cannot
like the bird that decides not to sing
because there is nothing
worth singing anymore
in my case
because nothing seems to be
worth living anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Some Of Greass
Earth will be
Bumped on...
Too earth quack
Houses broken
Temple Fell down
God not thear...? !
Trees are out...
People and
Animal's
Plant's...all are
Dead...dead....
On thear
Some of grass
Will be smile simply
On the earth...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Rain Drops
Here comes the grey clouds
rolling in,
Spreading rain all over the
town.
Rain drops help to moisten
the earth's beautiful green
grass.
Sidewalks once dusty are
washed and cleaned.
Rivers and lakes are given
plenty more water.
Fishes swim around happy
beneath the rain drops,
creating millions of ripples
upon the water.
Flowers and plants no longer
Thirst,
Even trees and bushes seem
to dance after a good drink
of water,
Animals get their fill of
water too.
Just Like a shower,
Rain drops clean and
cleanse everything,
Leaving the earth refreshed
and renewed.
After the storm has passed,
The sun shines spreading its
warmth.
Rain drops that are left behind
on Flowers, plants, trees and
grass,
It is like heaven for many insects
to fill their thirsty little
mouths.
Without clouds we would have no
rain drops,
Without rain drops everything would
never be the same.
poem by Derek James
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