A Picture Of You On The First Day Of Autumn
wearing a blue sweater
black pair of pants &
a white undershirt
you smile standing upon a
road of asphalt
behind you are the trees
letting go
their leaves of yellow
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reality...one
in a field of grass
underneath the morning clouds
a man with a black hat
white polo and marine blue pants
rides on a red motorbike
followed by a brown dog
and a black horse
one upon the other they tread
upon the road that you are talking
blue birds fly the skies
above the poplars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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The Yellow Ribbon On The Old Oak Tree
who can forget the yellow ribbon
on that old oak tree? tell me.
tomorrow, i shall wear my yellow cap
my yellow shirt, my yellow brief,
my yellow pants.
my jaundiced eye, my golden yellow ring.
tomorrow, in my country, the sky is yellow.
all steps lead to the yellow brick road.
all fruits are ripe and mellow and yellow.
Tomorrow, the country is yellow.
Yellow for integrity, Yellow for change.
Yellow for justice. Yellow for truth.
One day more, and the sun shall rise
Yellow as ever.Yellow forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In So Many Words
She pulls on white stockings,
steps into spongy white shoes.
Except for the crest her uniform
is white. Not cold or harsh, the
color that keeps you at arm's
length, but a careworn shade
that says here is some one to
comfort you. He pulls on a
white undershirt, covers it
with a blue shirt, his name
over the pocket. The pants
are the same shade, made
of a material impervious to
labor. There is silence.
Not the quiet before a storm,
a quietude, a soundless
conversation about the last
45 years. About children
grown and starting their
own conversations. About
the price of security, and
the cost of faith, the value
of holding on. About how to
forgive, and forget what is
forgiven, the balm of
reconciliation, and the true
purpose of time and healing.
About laughing through it
all, the joy of seeing it
through and what's behind
the knowing smile. About
how to become satisfied,
sometimes with too much,
sometimes with less. About
how to give space and
when to stay close, finding
a hand where it's needed
and letting go when it's time.
About the unprompted
caress, the unexpected
embrace, the perfunctory
kiss and the bond they cement.
About the ritual, the
rhythm of today tonight
today tomorrow today
and the day before.
About staying in step,
stumbling along, about the
waltz of life and the rock of
age.
And when they have finished
dressing there is one last
glance, the perfunctory kiss,
the knowing smile, and the walk
out the door with the life
they have made.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Last Week of March
School was over,
student rest from hung over
summer is approaching,
sunlight glisten on
frozen asphalt,
I shiver an squint.
It's hot to walk at ease,
benevolence of nature
beams and glimmer,
flowers are deigning,
trees are undressing,
withered leaves are falling
they fling in many places,
on the road,
on the house top,
on the window sill
here and there,
beat by beat.
yellow trees lavishly blooming
like yellow ribbons
and yellow laces.
seasons of summer
fills the heart and soul
with laughter
hot summer will wind
the faves and feelings to unwind.
summer season,
warmest of all seasons.
summer holidays are
the times of our lives
summer, summer
what a season to remember!
poem by Cyrus Diaz
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The Fury Of Sunrises
Darkness
as black as your eyelid,
poketricks of stars,
the yellow mouth,
the smell of a stranger,
dawn coming up,
dark blue,
no stars,
the smell of a love,
warmer now
as authentic as soap,
wave after wave
of lightness
and the birds in their chains
going mad with throat noises,
the birds in their tracks
yelling into their cheeks like clowns,
lighter, lighter,
the stars gone,
the trees appearing in their green hoods,
the house appearing across the way,
the road and its sad macadam,
the rock walls losing their cotton,
lighter, lighter,
letting the dog out and seeing
fog lift by her legs,
a gauze dance,
lighter, lighter,
yellow, blue at the tops of trees,
more God, more God everywhere,
lighter, lighter,
more world everywhere,
sheets bent back for people,
the strange heads of love
and breakfast,
that sacrament,
lighter, yellower,
like the yolk of eggs,
the flies gathering at the windowpane,
the dog inside whining for good
and the day commencing,
not to die, not to die,
as in the last day breaking,
a final day digesting itself,
lighter, lighter,
the endless colors,
the same old trees stepping toward me,
the rock unpacking its crevices,
breakfast like a dream
and the whole day to live through,
steadfast, deep, interior.
After the death,
after the black of black,
the lightness, -
not to die, not to die -
that God begot.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Choose Your Color
I will paint the walls blue
Blue is calm, blue is power
Blue is the color of tranquility
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the ceiling green
Green is healthy, green is peace
Green makes time move faster
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the floor red
Red is fire, red is danger
Red is the symbol of passion
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the sky purple
Purple is sad, purple is gloomy
Purple is the color of romance
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the tree black
Black is fear, black is death
Black is the symbol of grief
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the street yellow
Yellow is happy, yellow is fresh
Yellow is the color of sunshine
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the fence orange
orange is wisdom, orange is wealth
Orange is the color of success
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint everything white
White is good, white is pure
White is the color of faith
Have you seen my colors yet?
(August 16th,2006)
poem by Christopher G. Turner
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Everything is going to be wet
Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.
Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive
and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.
The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.
and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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Path into the bushes
There’s a road like out of a dream
or a fairy tale
that twists into the bushes,
but it’s white and pure
with innocence where it snakes
into the undergrowth
and the sky is open
and blue white to the horizon.
I walk pass a great white tree
with orange brown leaves
that rises above me
and a long dried out tree
of which the branches
reach like fingers into the air.
I follow the path
to the long blue gum trees
that are covered
with dark green leaves
and the odour of the trees
and the wood
hangs heavy in the air
and there’s something concrete
that’s stronger than a dream
[Reference: Wooded landscape by Mandi. Look at the painting on my web page: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1413_Path_into_th e_bushes.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Turning Leaves
Red, red, red
Right ahead,
Yellow, yellow like the sun,
Through the leaves run,
Orange, orange many trees,
Blowing in the breeze,
A few evergreens,
Many autumn scenes,
Walk along a stream,
Seems as a dream,
Add blue and white,
A bird in flight,
Climb to the top,
Seems the forest never stop,
From the tower view,
Only get a clue,
Sunset indigo and violet,
If only for a bit,
Walk among the leaves,
Feel the fall breeze.
poem by Fritzner Erauda
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The Two Swans
There's a big park just close to where we live —
Trees in a row
And shaggy grass whereon the dead leaves blow.
And in the middle round a great lagoon
The fair yachts sail
In loveliness that makes the water pale.
Last night I went to walk along the road
Beside the park
And feel the kisses of the wintry dark.
It's the best place to watch the evening come
For mists are there
And lights and shadows and the lake is fair
And last night looking up I saw two swans
Fly overhead
With long black necks and their white wings outspread.
Above the houses citywards they went,
An arrowy pair
In secret — white and black and dark and fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Sade Hawkins Dance
All the girls in the bathroom talkin
who they gonna take to the Sadie Hawkins
My ears are burnin but I kept on walkin
smile on my face and an air guitar rockin
The Sadie Hawkins Dance
in my khaki pants
There's nothin better
oh oh oh
The girls ask the guys
it's always a surprise
There's nothin better
baby do you like my sweater?
Sittin in the back of my next class nappin
gotta give a speech then bow to the clappin
Told a funny joke got the whole class laughin
think I got a tan from the light which I was baskin
The Sadie Hawkins Dance
in my khaki pants
There's nothin better
oh oh oh
The girls ask the guys
it's always a surprise
There's nothin better
baby do you like my sweater?
Scan the cafeteria for some good seating
I found a good spot by the cheerleaders eating
The quarterback asked me if I'd like a beating
I said that's one thing I won't be needing
And since I'm rather smart and cunning
I took off down the next hall running
Only to get stopped by a girl so stunning
only to get stopped by a girl so stunning?
She said, "You're smooth, and good with talkin.
You go with me to the Sadie Hawkins"
The Sadie Hawkins Dance
in my khaki pants
There's nothin better
oh oh oh
The girls ask the guys
it's always a surprise
There's nothin better
baby do you like my sweater?
The Sadie Hawkins Dance
in my khaki pants
There's nothin better
oh oh oh
The girls ask the guys
it's always a surprise
There's nothin better
baby do you like my sweater
song performed by by Relient K
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blue Rose
A red rose for love,
My red rose for luck.
The black rose on my bed,
For my death and for yours.
Red rose for the blood
That drips off my finger.
Black for the hate
The swells in my heart.
Pink for the joy,
The wonder of the world.
White for the pure,
Thats very far from me.
Yellow for the sunshine,
That lightens up our day.
Red for the heart,
That crumbled in my chest.
Black for the grave,
That I will be in after death.
Red, black, red, black.
Yellow, pink, blue
For my soul I leave.
Blue for me to wander.
Blue for the ocean,
And for my soul we share.
poem by Brianna Wilshusen
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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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Wild garden
I saw rows of white,
yellow and red lilies bloom,
next to the railway tracts.
Loaded trains rattled past
and that garden,
sprang up by itself between the weeds.
With the early summer rain
rows of blue, white and pink wild flowers
bloomed next to the road that passed nearby.
Some finches nested in the trees
and red, yellow and green birds
flew past the vast garden
of earth that came alive
as far as the eye could see.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Carefree Day For Each One Of Us
sunshine falls upon the leaves of
a mango tree
under it is a man wearing blue long sleeves
yellow shorts
twirling the key of his red motorcycle
he is talking to another man with short hair
denim pants, beside a wall with moss
it is a carefree day
it is life that is moving too slowly
to each and every living human being
in this sleepy community
a sparrow hovers and stops over my window
as i take my gaze, my long, long gaze to a faraway horizon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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03-25=2010*** How In The Hell Are They Still Standing?
I keep seeing people who should be dead
They're not be in the morgue yet
I don't see why
What is keeping them moving breathing
My most recent sighting was
Just to the right of the front door
Of The San Francisco
Main Library
The Swig family and other old and new
Monied San Franciscans
Campaigned and fundraised
To pay for large rooms with their names
The library's many floors have decor
It even has a small deli
If you can pay for self-service coffee
Or the sandwich of the day
As you walk in off the street
You are greeted by
Large open space
Friends' of the Library Book Sales
Back outside in the cold
Just to the right of the front door
Stood a breathing
Dead person
There is no reason
I can see why
This person is still alive
What's keeping him upright
He's wearing grey sweatpants
Recently pissed in
Mismatched sneakers no socks
Ankles with blue black and red running sores
He's wearing a light long-sleeved shirt
I'm cold in my heavy sweater over my shirt
He put down his two plastice bags
Pulled out a bottle of vodka
Two big gulps saved some for later
I don't expect him to have a later
But off he walks steady on his feet
The seat of his wet pants facing me
The seat of his wet pants
Baffling me why is he still alive
Where does he sleep eat get warm
When and when in the hell will he die
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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A spring evening
Outside the irises flower yellow and purple
and I haven’t seen a red one yet
and there are some pink and white blossoms
on the fruit trees
and the streetlights burn continually
glowing orange-yellow
all day and all night
as if the municipality
does not know how to do things right
and in the fading evening light
the moon is full and white
and the evening star is already shining bright
and a hot breeze sweeps in
through the open windows
and I wonder when the first spring rain
is going to fall
and in the distance I see thunder
crashing down
in blue-white flashes, but the storm
is blown away and again the sky is clear
and the black speckled by stars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Yellow School Bus
The yellow school bus with the black wheels took sick children to school each day.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether or not the sky was gray.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels went pass three streets and up a hill.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether sunny or chilled.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels always brought a smile to little kids face.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was filled with love and filled with grace.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels kept breathing until that final breath.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was painted red with blood and death.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels and the little sick children were all of friends.
But the now dead children will never take a ride in the yellow school bus again.
poem by RaShawn Ince
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