A Tulip That Does Not Wilt
there is a vine, so green
i put on a vase
of glass, there is water
and pebbles
the vine grows some more
leaves
alive on the filtered light
from the window pane,
there is a red tulip that never
dies there
but also does not
grow,
that plastic one i bought
a year ago,
i do not remember having washed it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Little Things In The Morning
a blue fan,
whirling blue hands
a three some
it is cold
and they simply
wait
an orange glass vase
a red tulip solo
with the green leaves
pointed
like a sword
of a knight
some pearls
hang there
a daffodil with
long stalks
still uncut to
the desired size
some roots
growing at the
tips of an old
vine clinging
by my window
a ray of light
touching a
jade princess
that the bride
and groom
gifted me
three days ago
a bonsai beside
the blue fan
some dusts
and here i am
trying to bite
them all again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Rebellious Vine
One day, the vine
That clomb on god’s own house
Cried, “I will not
grow
And, ‘I will
not
grow,’
And, I
will
not grow,’
And,
‘I
will not grow,’
So God leaned out his head,
And said:
‘You need
not
Then the vine
fluttered its leaves, and cried to all the winds:
‘Oh have I not permission from the Lord?
And may I not begin to cease to grow?’
But that wise God had pondered on the vine
Before he made it.
And all the while it laboured not to grow,
It grew; it grew;
And all the time God knew.
poem by Harold Monro
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Green Branch
I want to be a green branch
In vineyards of the Lord
To grow in strength and beauty
As leaves to light unfold
To dwell close to the true vine
Refreshed by showers of faith
Amid a sea of flowers
No weeds, no seeds of wraith
I want to see the garden
That Jesus tends with love
The true vine of all living
Who blesses from above
I want to be a green branch
In vineyards of the Lord
To grow in strength and beauty
As leaves to light unfold.
poem by Liilia Talts Morrison
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A Coronal
WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE
Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine,
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine
For Love that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head,
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,
For Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
This wreath that lives a day
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Strawberry Wine
He was working through college on my grandpa's farm.
I was thirsting for knowledge and he had a car.
I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child.
One restless summer we found love growing wild.
On the banks of the river on a well beaten path.
It's funny how those memories they last.
Like strawberry wine and seventeen.
The hot July moon saw everything.
My first taste of love oh bittersweet.
Green on the vine.
Like strawberry wine.
I still remember when thirty was old.
And my biggest fear was September when he had to go.
A few cards and letters and one long distance call.
We drifted away like the leaves in the fall.
But year after year I come back to this place.
Just to remember the taste.
Of strawberry wine and seventeen.
The hot July moon saw everything.
My first taste of love oh bittersweet.
Green on the vine.
Like strawberry wine.
The fields have grown over now.
Years since they've seen the plow.
There's nothing time hasn't touched.
Is it really him or the loss of my innocence.
I've been missing so much.
Like strawberry wine and seventeen.
The hot July moon saw everything.
My first taste of love oh bittersweet.
Green on the vine.
Like strawberry wine.
song performed by by Dixie Chicks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Encounter
Those who have touched it or been touched by it
Or brushed by something that the vine has brushed,
Or burning it, have stood where the sly smoke
Has touched them-Know the meaning of its name.
The leaf is smooth. Its green is innocence.
A clean, unblemished leaf, glossy when young.
A leaf the unobserving might overlook
And the observing find too prosperous.
I've seen a vine of it so old and crooked
It held a hen-coop in its grip, the stalk
Thick as a man's wrist. There it had grown,
Half out of sight, permitted, undisturbed.
Strangers to it, who on a autumn road
Have found a vine that swept a tree like fire
And gathered it barehanded and brought it home
For color, seldom gathered it again.
Some are immune and some have thought they were
And some, ever so cautiously with gloves,
Finding that it grew to near their homes,
Have tried to root it out and have succeeded
Except that something from the vine fastened
Upon their flesh and burned, and in a year
Or two the vine itself was there again,
Glossy and green and smooth and innocent.
My neighbor's cow grazing beside the road
Munches with joy (and almost with a smile)
The salad of its leaves, transmuting them
Into sweet milk that I will drink tomorrow.
poem by Robert Francis
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Sonnet: Jesus, the Grape-Vine
“I am the Vine: You be its branch always.”
Jesus is succor and our nourishment;
Allow the sap to flow to bless your days;
There will be no defeat or punishment.
’Tis easy being branch with leaves and fruits;
We help the vine to grow luxuriously;
The starch that’s made makes sturdy trunk and roots;
The wine from grapes will soothe hearts curiously.
A broken branch will lose its life quite soon;
A leafless one is useless to the vine;
A fruitless one is bane and not a boon;
With God, we make our earthly days divine.
The vine is proud to make the best of wine;
With God’s will done, man’s soul looks rather fine!
poem by John Celes
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Little Man (Fun Poem 8)
There is a little man who stands on a shelf
He stares all day at a creeping vine
One day he will come alive
Climb down the vine
And runaway
With the sunshine
poem by David Harris
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One Flower Grows, One Dies
that rose that grows is surrounded by the suns light, glowing
that rose grows, while my rose dies
my beautiful rose
with the smell of a million roses together
not the store bought roses that just smell like plastic and chemicals
no, the natural smell that i wish i could keep forever
she was my rose, she was the rose that died
and she is the one growing for another one
my flower dies, and the other one grew
not for me, but for you.
poem by Sarah Rabago
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Rain Keeps Fallin
I remember the night so well.
The rain was fallin but I just couldnt tell,
If it was you that was callin to my love-sick brain.
But the rain kept fallin on my window pane.
Out of the night the thunder rang in my ear.
I cant fight the feelin, lord, that brings forth my fears.
I wish it was over, lord, please stop the rain.
The rain thats fallin on my window pane.
The rain thats fallin on my window pane.
Every night the rains on time, I can feel it in this heart of mine.
But I dont know what to do.
Well, I guess I could go back home, cause you know back home is where I belong.
But it just aint home without you.
And I dont know what to do, baby.
Well, I guess Im a looser but it just dont seem fair.
I lost all my life so tell me, why should I care?
The night that you left me is the night that it came.
And the rains still fallin on my window pane.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain ...
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
... keeps right on fallin.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said, the rain keeps fallin ...
song performed by by Grand Funk Railroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Zen and the art of plastic flower maintenance
From time to time, when
I’ve been meditating, and
these things matter, I pick respectfully
the plastic flowers from their vase,
wash the vase, wipe the dust
off the leaves with a moist cloth,
dip the flower-heads in water
as one would give someone
a holy bath
and then replace them in
a slightly new position in the vase,
a slightly new position on the table.
absurdity and
something beautiful
have met and got along together rather well.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Remembering A Face
i saw that face before
but i just can't remember the name
delightful like a glossy red apple
alone in a tray
the face sees me as a face too
deja vu
we remember each other
as delights
like flowers newly picked from a garden
then put in a vase
against the morning light
filtered by the green drapes
we recall
and then we remember what happened
between us
sometime ago in another party
when we were drunk
we smiled with each other
and the we transferred our gaze
to our respective partners
their hands on our laps
i guess
they have no idea
even the slightest hint
of what we are
and what we did sometime
that cold night
when we were just strangers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poor plastic Flower
My mother in law loves flower
This is our trial
My wife in denial
As she plants a flower
She has a brown thumb
This makes me glum
For she can’t even grow a plum
She has plastic flowers
And those took a powder
Poor plastic flower
A flower needs water
To give it power
She forget this every hour
That is why her flowers are powder
Her plastic flower had power
Until it's last hour
The vase did tower
As it was full of water
Poor plastic flower
poem by Keith Wells
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Fairytale Thinking
My mind creates a twisted vine
and sometimes strangles a thought.
Did Jack and the beanstalk feel like this
with those beans he bought?
Oh that my mind would settle down
and let that vine disappear
I'd slay that Giant just like Jack
and never have to fear
anything.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The unequal will depart
In some, a tree grows too tall for a vine.
In some, a vine is too long for a tree.
In both cases, the stunted are replaced
In a couple, when one outgrows the other,
The other is left out to be replaced.
It is inevitable.
04.12.2001, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Radio With Guts
it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Optical Illusion
Optical Illusion
It was an old rabbit, glass eyed and stuffed, that sat on
a window sill it also had a bald spot on top of its head,
petted by children who knew it was alive. The window it
sat by faced the woods and on a day when window was
open, and it was a day in May, it vanished. Hunters had
seen it jump through the air fast as a midnight shadow.
A rich man bought the woods chopped down trees and
filled in the tarn, where it often had been seen smiling to
its own image. This so he could get a trophy on his wall
and be famous as the man who shot the phantom rabbit.
He went insane all he could find was a yellow plastic duck.
A stuffed rabbit sits on the window sill it has glass eyes,
a bald spot on top of its head; snowing outside it deeply
sighs good to be indoors on a day like this.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Love On The Vine
I came home yesterday
To the love that I left behind
It seems Ive been far away, yeah
But I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
Yes I know Ill be there just in time to love you
I guess I just ran away (I just ran away)
Tried to see what I could not find (what I could not find)
Its been a one act play, yeah
But I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
And I know Ill be there just in time to love you
Ive been wasting time (wasting time)
With this old heart of mine (this old heart of mine)
Working it overtime, ah, ah, ah, ah
Just another blue day
Like the ones that I left behind
I know its easy to say, yeah
But I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
Yes I know Ill be there just in time to love you
Oh and I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
Yes I know Ill be there just in time to love you
Love you on the vine, oh on the vine
Love you on the vine, oh on the vine
I love you on the vine, oh on the vine, ah
On the vine, oh on the vine ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning Song Of Senlin
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea. . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me. . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains. . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor. . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know. . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Vintage
Vintner waits for the new stuff.
Vineyard girls in bloom
and their rouge on cheeks like vine.
He who repents as his youth is gone.
Not like earlier with a glass or two
he will be knockout.
But he likes vine to forget the knotty life!
His dignity is going for a song.
And the soulless man who idles
at tavern doors dreaming
an old friend will offer him a drop.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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