After The Bombing Of The Small Village
after the bombing of the small village
by the insurgents
some flesh still hang on the
branches of mahogany trees
some eyeballs of women left to stare
to the skies
some toes are scattered on the grass
shrapnel reigns like the
pebbles on the shore
that morning she looks over the window
she finds ripe guava fruits
on the branches surrounded
with green leaves
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After The Bombing Incident
AFTER the bombing incident last night
at the church of San Pedro
tiny shreds of flesh hang on the walls
and ceiling of the confinement.
the cries are not prolonged except the
sounds of ambulance
and the military jeeps
to and fro the city gates
sleep was denied, and then that early morning
i opened the window
i saw this little blue bird perched on the guava tree
it was singing a very sad song beside a bunch
of ripe guava fruits.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Ripe Guavas
on top of a hill
beside a cliff
the branches of
the guava tree
are filled with
ripe fruits
a bird with
small wings
flew and
perched on
one of the
branches
it is pecking
on the biggest
and the ripest
which at any
moment may fall
right on the
sharp rocks
just below
the cliff
where the hands
of death keep on
waving
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spring Song
dirge of fallen leaves
under my feet tickle my toes
tender green smiles
a koel
perched on
a dessicated tree
cooes lullabys
to fledgelings in the nest
dry branches camouflaged
weary traveller
looks up in hope
through the dry branches...
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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When My Dreams Say, ' We Are No More There
When my dreams say, ' We are no more there'
I shall sail unto an island far off.
There I shall have the sapling of a dream tree planted
And it will grow.
When my dream tree begins to bloom
I will never pluck its flowers ever,
So will when its fruits begin to ripe
I remain hungry and thirsty there.
I shall lie in the shade of the tree
Without ever dreaming to have a dream for me.
Then I shall climb its branches and see for myself
The vast expanse of water green or blue.
I shall hoot from the top of it like an own
Blind often or blinded by the dreams of the past.
I shall shout unto the skies blue
About having dreams aplenty and not still having them.
When I once return to the home in the mainland,
I shall carry one hundred fruits from the dream tree,
I shall give them to men and women I like most
And nay, I will never give them to children ever.
I shall play hide and seek with children
And shall tell about the need for climbing the dream trees
Which will grow and touch the sky once
Even as they might still be dreaming a lot.
But I am afraid, friends,
Even as my dreams have begun to fade out
My island withers out further
And I am left with a rudderless boat
To sail unto that green paradise of my Utopia!
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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I had to forsake the world of my childhood
The cat tells me
that its time for its food
and outside bees
still fly past in a swarm
and I realise that it’s late afternoon,
that the shadows are drawing long lines,
the wind rustles through the tree branches
and it’s already almost cold
as the winter is coming.
Still there’s something in the late autumn
that catches me
where here and there leaves
hang like dots on tree branches,
that the sun sometimes still gives hot rays
as if it does not really want
the cold to come
and the grass is still green
like in the summer.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The winter is coming
The cat tells me
that its time for its food
and outside bees
still fly past in a swarm
and I realise that it’s late afternoon,
that the shadows are drawing long lines,
the wind rustles through the tree branches
and it’s already almost cold
as the winter is coming.
Still there’s something in the late autumn
that catches me
where here and there leaves
hang like dots on tree branches,
that the sun sometimes still gives hot rays
as if it does not really want
the cold to come
and the grass is still green
like in the summer.
poem by Gert Strydom
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For We Are The Trees Bearing So Much Fruits
For we are trees
That bear so many fruits
We are lucky
Our seeds fall of fertile grounds
Our branches grafted
On healthy trunks
Our fruits are ripe
Everyone gathers
We have no right to ask them
Who they are
Their names do not matter
Not even their character
We cannot refuse giving
Them all
Lest we perish
And die....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Day In The Life Of A Tree
Feel the wind burn through my skin
The pain, the air is killing me
For years my limbs stretched to the sky
A nest for birds to sit and sing
But now my branches suffer
And my leaves dont bear the glow
They did so long ago
One day I was full of life
My sap was rich and I was strong
From seed to tree I grew so tall
Through wind and rain I could not fall
But now my branches suffer
And my leaves dont offer
Poetry to men of song
Trees like me werent meant to live
If all this world can give
Pollution and slow death
Oh lord I lay me down
No lifes left to be found
Theres nothing left for me
Trees like me werent meant to live
If all this earth can give
Is pollution
Trees like me werent meant to live
(oh lord I lay me down)
If all this earth can give
(my branches to the ground)
Is pollution and slow death
(theres nothing left for me)
Oh lord I lay me down
My branches to the ground
Theres nothing left for me
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ring of Stars
In order to make a star with five branches
Where six would have been the same
A circle must first be drawn
In order to make a star with five branches ...
A ring!
One did not take so many precuations
In order to make a tree from many branches
Trees that hide the stars
Trees!
You, full of nests and song birds
Covered with branches and leaves
That you lift as far as the stars!
poem by Robert Desnos
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Benevolent Tears
Dark clouds scattered everywhere
Dried ponds, rivers, oceans
Par unquenched thirst of million birds, beasts, humans
Cannot bear the agony of nature
Thus a tribute to its melancholy pours down in torrents
Overfills everywhere
Green grass greets the grasshoppers
On green stalks fire red roses brightly dance
Green leaves attached to ripe yellow fruits
Hearts gladden, souls solace
The Descend of ecstasy, gaiety, charm
In the golden farms
The yellow light scattered everywhere
The air of fulfilment, solemnity, tranquility that's rare.
poem by Green Peace
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The Contrasts
cemented pavements
green grass
sounds of motorized cabs
songs of birds on the trees
towering skyscrapers
tall old mahogany trees
neon lights on city escapes
stars on moonlit skies
watching the mountains half covered with
morning mists
busy on TV for the serial stories
strolling on the white sandy beach
observing the behavior of seagulls
window shopping at the malls
watching 3D movies
eating deep fried chicken wings
licking very sweet strawberry ice cream
peeling the ripe mango
savoring the yellow juice feeling the pulp
watching the sunset from a high mountain
reading a best seller novel inside your room.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From A Train
Green and green; and evergreen
in my all, and scurrying
in flickered films
of glimpses, painted green...
and a car in the lane silently shimmers,
as I hear the morning swaying past trees that,
green over green,
silently guard the wet summer sadness,
where cattle stare at the hopping rooks
and do not know
of the things that have been...
or care.
Cloudly and bright:
passing the green.
Where, in my remembrance of once long ago,
I felt the mist
rising unseen from the grass
that was green between green
when we kissed.
So I hum a small phrase
that carries my thoughts
ever and onwards,
listlessly flowing
like the world that is passing
the window beside me
all behind all, so totally green
and all in my knowing
and all in my all
and all in my green.
poem by Peter Jones
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The Crowing of the Roosters
Come to the village
and listen to the crowing roosters
up the branches of the trees
announcing the breaking
of a bright new day.
Come to the village
Walk the miles of the road
Have a pause from the roaring buses,
The dazzles on the streets
And the endless list of activities.
Come to the village
And learn from the roosters
Resting on the silent trees
Communing with nature
And speaking to man and woman
The great early morning of peace.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Outside The August Wind is Playing
Outside the August wind is playing
swinging branches up and down,
grabbing on flowers that are still standing
with fingers which are desiring
and I wait upon birds to appear again
after their around-the-world journey
while knobs are on the branches of fruit trees,
ready to unfold in blossoms
in early spring
but the cold is making its presence known
with ripe lying spread out in the early morning
while the winter season
is still doing its icy thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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After That.
After that
the only
thing she thought
mattered was
the sunlight
coming through
the tall trees
as you and
she lay on
your backs by
the large pond
listening
to birdsong
and the wind
coming through
the branches
and she there
full of life
breathing in
the sharp air
and she said
Van Gogh could
have captured
this morning
with the trees
and sunlight
and the way
the wind moves
through branches
and you said
but Renoir
despite his
arthritic
hands could have
captured your
young beauty
on canvas
somewhere off
a dog barked
a cow mooed
and your hand
like a crab
moved over
the green grass
and touched her
small warm hand
and she smiled
like da Vinci's
painting of
the Mona
Lisa you'd
seen in that
old art book
in the school
library
tucked between
a battered
old atlas
and book of
poetry
which no one
ever read
no doubt the
pond's still there
the sunlight
and the wind
but she's not
she gone now
all silent
amongst the
peaceful dead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Stone Garden
in the middle of this
garden there are two rocks
one is smaller
around them are
pebbles and some scattered sands
what you plant here is
the seed of silence
tomorrow when you come back
you shall know what are its fruits
its leaves are not green and its
roots are for your liking
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Summer Breeze
a straw hat on my head
dark sunglasses on my eyes
cotton beach shorts
barefoot i walk along the shore
i stop a while
the summer breeze is so cool
early morning
the sea is peaceful
the trees spreading branches
a shower of yellowing leaves
for the passing air
the sun spreads the first rays
a fine morning
a promising day
for you and me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Radiant Day
radiant day,
gentle winds
blow away
all raw weather
as skies dive deep
into blue ponds
while above in barren trees
the young sun
strokes small branches,
and emergent buds wait
for the green season.
poem by Steven Federle
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Sonnet: Grow Trees
The branches cut the wind fierce to a breeze;
The leaves break sunlight into chequered beams;
The shade of trees affords all travelers peace;
The wearied ones sleep ’neath the trees in dreams!
And birds too build their nests on branches high;
The squirrels eat their berries with great joy;
The trees make verdant all landscape near-by;
And attract rain in which children enjoy!
Trees make the earth greener and beautiful,
Adding oxygen to the air we breathe;
Preserve its trees, man! Nature is grateful;
The leaves and flowers can make us a wreath.
Trees are so useful to mankind always;
’midst good trees, men have spent their earthly days!
7-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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