En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A View Of A Narra Tree Whose Branches Are Cut

there it stands tall beside a nipa house
its branches all cut
the climbing lichen and moss shall soon die
at noonday
wilting and stiffening
mummified on an early summer

when all the fingers are cut off
and arms stripped of hands
how can man be a man?

how can a tree be without leaves and branches?
how can moss and lichens thrive on such a cruelty

the nipa house triumphs and someone inside laughs
the sharp axe and the long bolo serve the purpose of the author
of this murder.

I loathe. I make this protest poetry.
Man murders nature unpunished.

No kind of poesy saves. Words are useless.
Metaphors are dead.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Nipa Shack

a nipa shack
in all appearances of it
unwalled and
defloored

about to fall and kiss
the ground of
rotten hay and
wilting grass

stop and look at it
even for a short while
and it has a lot of stories
to tell

shocked
you will be
finding that from its nipa shingles
there is
this upsurge of emotions
bursting thoughts
restlessness moving to and from
beside the clouds just a tree
above it

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tree

The weathered tree stripped bare
broken branches hang still
as though to scar its nature
no birds nest here any more
a thing of beauty has passed
into a beauty of another kind
colourless in the backdropp of sky
roots rise and fall into the ground
etchings of forgotten loves
remain as eternal memories
no lovers shade here now
the tree stands as though defiant
unwilling to relinquish to time
that which grew so tall
not dead, perhaps dying
stripped and broken it stands
the weathered tree
a work of life's true beauty

poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Giving Tree

Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'

And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.

And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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A Girl

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

poem by Ezra Pound
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Green

Green leaves of summer
Shades of green in moss and
Lichens sticking to stones and tree
Barks and some greens on twigs
And branches, some greenish
Patches growing on pavements
And even on walls and fences,
Some greens in mangoes and
Rainbows, some greens in shirts
And eyeshades of a woman,

But what I want to really say
Is the green in your eyes,

So green with envy, and now
Turning red to unreasonable anger,

How can you ever change?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Building A House Of Your Own

to a newly wed couple
building a house is poetry
each nipa shingle is a memory
put on top of another to make
a roof, an imagery of protection,

each wall is respect for privacy
each beam is stability
each door is a security
each window an eye

the house is the nest of this
new found love
and then a baby is born
giving them hope
as they both shower their affection

and as love grows there
like a well tended tree
as time strengthens their company
the house you know
has become their home

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not Finished

A perfect night
the stars are sparkling bright
staring into the sky,
the little house in the creek
sits nestled under the tall mossy tree
the house aged by nature...beautiful
as the rain starts to pour
the tall mossy tree protects the house and its front door
the mossy tree bears the weight of the sky
as the house is kept dry
more clouds swarm in recklessly
lightning cracks as it sets fire to the tall mossy tree
the tree stands strong....
but i doesn't know if it can last long
as the rain runs down the tree's trunk and roots
like tears

poem by Wandering Scarlet
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Why Poetry?

'what is in poetry? 'sometimes you ask me,

'you can always love me without poetry,
why bother about words?
your kiss is enough,
what is the use of the metaphors?
we can always make love all through the night
and words become all too useless
and images become too superfluous' you ask more that what i can
muster to answer.

And this i say:

'i agree, poetry is is useless but like the monk who was asked
one day about something that he does
like sweeping the floor
like climbing the stairs
like praying and contemplating...'

let me say
'we have poetry because they are there to be written'

my heart smiles.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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4: 16 A.m.

the rain begins
to fall
on the nipa roof
of the house

soothing sounds

solemn song of the
humble house to
God

this early morning
as one reads silently
a Matin....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XVIII

HE LAMENTS THAT HIS LOVE IS DEAD
My love is dead, dead and in spite of me,--
Dead while I lived,--while yet my blood was rife
With hope and pleasure and the pride of life.
For my love ended unexpectedly
During the Winter, stricken like a tree
By a night's cold, and frozen to the blood,
Whose leaves fell off and never were renewed
By any promise of the years to be.
And, when the Spring came, and the birds, to mate
Among its branches, lo! they found it bare,
Though all around was Summer in the wood.
Yet they took heart awhile, incredulous
That such a tree should be for ever dead.
``'Tis early yet,'' they cried. ``The Spring is late.
It shall still be as in the days that were.''
But Summer came and went while the tree stood
Bare in the sun like a deserted house.
--Then the birds suddenly despaired and fled.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The heart of a tree

With branches reaching out as if for a embrace
The tree may bow to nature with grace.
He stands alone when the wind blows strong.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
In winter's cold chill, You can see the tree stand still.
Leaves are gone but the tree stands strong.
Until winter turns into spring and the birds begin to sing.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
Through storms and the wind. Bowing with a graceful bend,
Until the sun shines again, still standing at the end,
The tree is like a true friend.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eye can't see,
Like the heart of a tree.
The old Tree's secrets
How many lovers sat together under the old tree?
If only the tree could speak.
The stories would be of weary travelers
finding a place of peace, and dreams in their sleep.
Stolen moments of lovers, perhaps a sweet caress.
A young man with a ring, a young girl said yes.
Tree I only imagine, I enjoy the guess.
Gentle breezes that lifted the leaves
to let them gently fall to earth.
Misting rain to meet the tree's thirst,
Perhaps two trees inter-twined are
Two lovers that were curst.

poem by Judy Arline Puckett
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No Tree Can Stand Tall Without Roots Spread!

Every seed sends roots first,
Finding for soil and ground
where it can stand firm and tall,
stand firm and tall if roots go
deep,
Spread wide to find The sap! single cell that carry life,
Give life to cells and tissues,
Shoot, barks, branches and
leaves,
feed the leaves exposing leaves
to light, Visible tree stands on exposed
roots, not roots visible, Man made boundaries, fence and
compound,
Can't prevent or limit roots or
branches,
Sometimes absorbing soil here,
Branch will extent to neighbouring house,
How one can limit the nature,
or confine growing tree to
narrow circle drawn by man?
So is every life on Earth!
Mankind is like forest of different trees,
Yet all roots of autotrophic trees
deep in the soil,
Only parasitic have those roots,
pierce other tree's heart! Dive deep into yourself,
O man! Can you survive without
Your roots?
know how you are here,
Is it the mortal parent brought
you here, Or your fate,
Only be grateful to their love and
care forever!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Sea Is Very Calm This Morning

the sea is very calm this morning
the talisay leaves are not disturbed by the breeze
my mama is sitting on a bench
combing her long hair
saying nothing
under a tree
beside our little nipa hut
facing the horizon

on the other side is a big house
whose iron gate is painted red
a big man comes out
rushing as though
he is chasing someone
holding a stick on his hand
shouting at the child
playing with my small brother
inside the yard
of our house

the child of that man is frightened
and runs as fast as he can
back to their house
his father catches him
beating his legs
with the stick on his
right hand

i can still hear the cry of that frightened child
from the very beating of his own papa

what a mess!

i could have told you once again about the peace
and the calm and the quiet of the sea on a morning like this
but it is not true anymore

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Aftermath

'The Tree Still Stands! '
Exclaimed the boy clasping his hands
To his Father who was walking the rear,
And to his Grandfather who was nowhere near.
For happy was He.
For standing there so straight and tall
Was the tree whose limbs He crawled
And the branches from which He played,
And the root where His head once laid.
And the many leaves.

Now the Father whom hearing His Son
Came to his side in a moment run
Then He stopped; for the tree He saw
Then the Father just stood in awe,
And uttered; 'my old friend'.
For standing there was His friend
From which before His youth was spent
By climbing and playing games,
And hiding under, from the cold and rain.
And the wind.

Then the Grandfather came strolling up
And He paused, in a moment hush
To reflect to a different year
When He was a Child, and He cried a tear.
And He clasped His hands.
For he was then again a Child
And then again He cried and smiled,
For He remembered His Father and He,
And how together they planted a tree.
And it still stands.
'Thank GOD the tree still stands! '
Cried the Grandfather clasping His hands.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The Old Nipa Hut In Shambles...

in the middle of the rice field
after the harvest

March, wet days, the nipa hut
stands alone

the grasses have grown tall
no one arrives neither someone leaves

abandoned, the heart sometimes
cannot anymore remember

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Autumn (Tree)

The last leaf of summer falls
A tear of summer past.
Winter is coming, darkness calls.
Getting earlier, night arrives fast.

Insects no longer fly,
As frost starts to lie.
Coating the ground in blankets of white,
All bare the tree stands still in fright.

Through empty branches, the wind blasts,
The wood remembers summer last.
When all was green and not yellow,
When summer’s breeze kiss was mellow.

Only a few months, the tree must hold
For spring will make it bold.
With new leaves growing, new to old,
Summer arrives, arms to unfold.

poem by Ben Littlechild
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Consistency And Patience

if i were to draw you
a symbol of consistency and
patience
i will have the turtle
with moss on its house and
on its feet
some mud

i draw you too the silence
embedded in its eyes

i will show you how slowness sometimes
can be considered
wisdom

how sometimes it surrenders to nature
how it hides in its house
when cruelty begins to rule

and how at the end the impossible happens
it survives and wins and then goes back to the river
and swims away

and then it becomes a myth
a story and then you make it more intriguing
and that is where the rabbit enters into the scene

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Willow Tree

In the graveyard stands a willow tree,
You can hide within its branches,
And it will keep you safe,
And it will keep you warm,
And it will keep all your demons at bay,
I like the willow tree,
It sets me free,
And safe within its branches it cradles me,

As I look out through its branches,
I see people crying for their loved ones,
Tears rolling down their faces,
I want to shout to them,
And let them in here with me,
I like the willow tree,
It sets me free,
And safe within its branches it cradles me,

But I can’t, I can’t let them in,
Even though I know their suffering,
Because it’s the living that hurt you,
And I don’t want too be hurt anymore,
So only my dead friends are in here with me,
I like the willow tree,
It sets me free,
And safe within its branches it cradles me,
The willow tree.

poem by Darren Harris
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Mowing the Lawn

The chestnut tree is now stripped bare
and all of the golden leaves have been raked,
bagged in black sacks.

The last summer sun
hangs white hot in the autumn air
while the lawnmower growls willingly.

There’s sand and grass
coming into my nose and the weed-eater
cuts away the jungle.

I see the two cats
climbing down a evergreen tree
from the roof of the garage

and there are ripe yellow tomatoes
on stems in long rows
and a few figs swelling out
hanging on branches
and I cut tufts of grass
at the back of the prickly pears.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Some Questions

for years of harnessing the horses of
word
scrubbing the back of phrases
what shall my hands become?

shall these hands be a vase for flowers
wilting in your room?
shall these hands be barks of trees
where your moss and lichens thrive wild?
shall these hands be finally exhausted
and grope again the shaken beams
of my own confusions?

or soon shall i speak in tongues
in the tower of babel
shall my thoughts become tribes
scattered in different directions?

shall i soon speak like you on the eloquence
of the pedestals?
i look forward to this art
as a savior of my crucifixion
i look forward to Frankensteins finally
converted as angels
as fairies in the lands of my fantasies
or shall i be roaming on the fields
of realities
stark and open
lighted with the sun and
refreshed with the true winds
from the waving seas?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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