I Have Decided To Stay Choosing Tranquility
People come and go
Moving away
To new places
Looking for conformity
I am here
Allured by this sweet scent
Of champacas
In this mountain
Of contented tranquility
And like the tender
Flowers of dove
Orchids
Clinging to
The barks tenaciously
I have decided
To stay.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
373
People come and go
Moving away
To new places
Looking for conformity
I am here
Allured by the sweet scent
Of sampaguita
On this mountain
Of tranquility
And like the tender
Flowers of Dove Orchids
Clinging to
The barks tenaciously
I have decided
To stay.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What she wrote was beautiful
The way she writes
Is like the way she carries herself
and
Indeed she writes beautifully
Words like tendrils
Tenaciously clinging to
Barks
Of trees where blooms of orchids
Abound,
Like her way of swaying and
Sitting on an easy chair
Her white long legs resting
One
On top of the other
She chooses her words
like
She’s choosing pebbles
Of
Different colors
segregating
Those pearly ones
From
The ordinary
And takes only what
she thinks
Is perfect
So she puts only the best
To make her
personalized
Composition and
it will take her
Days and days
To make
one
Eclectic, exquisite,
Her work is diamond
studded
Indeed she puts
all her life
On it
In that work which
Indeed
Is so beautifully
laid
I am so
awed
It is so
beautiful
Perhaps
because
I cannot
understand it
anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Orchid and Orange I
Tender orchid-leaves in spring
And cinnamon- blossoms bright in autumn
Are as self- contained as life is,
Which conforms them to the seasons.
Yet why will you think that a forest-hermit,
Allured by sweet winds and contented with beauty,
Would no more ask to-be transplanted
Than Would any other natural flower?
poem by Zhang Jiuling
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Sestina: Here in Katmandu
We have climbed the mountain.
There's nothing more to do.
It is terrible to come down
To the valley
Where, amidst many flowers,
One thinks of snow,
As formerly, amidst snow,
Climbing the mountain,
One thought of flowers,
Tremulous, ruddy with dew,
In the valley.
One caught their scent coming down.
It is difficult to adjust, once down,
To the absense of snow.
Clear days, from the valley,
One looks up at the mountain.
What else is there to do?
Prayer wheels, flowers!
Let the flowers
Fade, the prayer wheels run down.
What have they to do
With us who have stood atop the snow
Atop the mountain,
Flags seen from the valley?
It might be possible to live in the valley,
To bury oneself among flowers,
If one could forget the mountain,
How, never once looking down,
Stiff, blinded with snow,
One knew what to do.
Meanwhile it is not easy here in Katmandu,
Especially when to the valley
That wind which means snow
Elsewhere, but here means flowers,
Comes down,
As soon it must, from the mountain.
poem by Donald Justice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Coo of the Cushat
Over the smooth lawns, broider'd with violets,
Over the hedges of snow-white thorn,
Over the billowy, pink apple-blossoms,
The musical coo of the cushat is borne.
In the still depths of the dim old plantations,
Where the sweet whispering night-wind stirs
The delicate scent from the dew-sprinkled flowers,
It sings by its nest in the tall green firs.
So peaceful, so pure, so divinely contented,
The world out of sight and its true love nigh
Their little grey wings softly folded together,—
What dreams I have set to that melody!
I listen at dawn, and I listen at even;
I hear the notes bubbling all day long
Through the woodpecker's laugh and the chirp of the titmouse,—
Little dove, yours is the sweetest song!
'Tis not a sad song, though it sets me a-crying—
But gladness too deep to be spoken aloud;
Nor forlorn, though 'tis sung in the loneliest places—
But only too sacred to sing to a crowd.
I envy you, though you're so small and so humble;
I wish I were like you, you shy little dove—
So far from the world and so free from its passion,
Yet sure of your white eggs and sure of your love.
I wish I were pure from low earthly ambitions,
As quiet and calm and contented as you;
I wish my heart held such a well-spring of music,
That I were as gentle and trustful and true.
Little dove, you were worthy to carry the olive
Over the waters to Noah's host,
To die for the mother of Christ in the Temple,
To be chosen for shrine of the Holy Ghost.
And now you have only to live and be happy,
To rear up your young ones and teach them to coo;
O sing on, and teach me the heavenly lessons,
To be faithful and worthy of God's work too.
Teach me so humbly to take what He gives me,
The manifold duties, the great and the small;
Teach me so simply to do what He bids me,
Loving and trustful, and thankful for all.
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Garden
When we talked about the world
we were talking about order:
a trail of grass, a fist of blooms.
My mother points to a slow
and deliberate fall of the full fruit.
“When we are dying, ” she says
“when we are long gone and dead, ”
And it is so easy to pretend we had a world
of choice. A green, easy tending.
The orchids tenaciously
cling to their dark barks.
We talked straight into evening,
straight into each tangled tendril
angled against dark, into dark.
If we could only hold the edgeless
in place. Night and its reckless weeds.
The light was not ours to give.
* written by L.L.YPIL
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I also like to garden. I grow things, vegetables, flowers... I particularly like orchids. I raise orchids.
quote by Beau Bridges
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Air
Like fresh blossoming flowers on a spring day.
Her scent is in the air.
Like the smell of rain right before it pours down.
Her scent is in the air.
Like the aroma of a hot apple pie cooling on the window seal.
Her scent is in air.
I try to cover my nose with my shirt
but her scent seeps right through it.
It is in the air.
I try fanning it away
but the more I fan the stronger her scent lofts in the air.
I decide not to fight it anymore and I inhale her scent.
It first suffocates me but then it sustains me.
To me her scent is love and it is
In the air.
Got To Be Moving On
Sombody told me - there's something better down that way
So don't try to hold me - 'Cos it's all I got to say
Is can't stay
I got to be moving - I got to be moving on
Yeah I got to moving - I got to be moving on
Next time you look around - you may find me gone
I've got to be moving - moving on
Free - nothing can hold me down
What you're loving - is what you found
So don't try to change it
Oh free - I've got to keep moving on
Where ever it takes me - where ever it goes
Somebody told me - there's something better down that way
So don't try to hold me - 'Cos it's all I got to say
Is can't stay
Got to be moving - got to be moving on
Got to be moving - got to be moving on
WHenever you see me - you'll know me by this song
Yeah I - I got to be moving on
Moving on
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letting the Day Go
Sweet induced visions...
soothing fusion visitation:
Opulent emeralds – Day glow bright!
Fields of blossoming lime flowers!
– Chase away all tequila salt tensions form my shot glass eyes!
Sun Drops: : :)))
Dahlias: : : Violet star-
burst supernovas!)))
tender leaves of tendril clinging sage...
) Flutter –
ing(
eyes...somnolent smile ;)
well red beauty in red
reads Rimbaud's Illuminations...
...resting 'neath the willow shade...
(sleepy sun soaked scent too serene to
be disturbed...
A peace too precious to brake
with the clumsy handled pickup of my
hastened approach...)
...just sit …
...steeping …
poetic allure...
small sips...
leisured pen ….
Letting the day go.)
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If the dog barks, go in; if the bitch barks you had better stay outside.
Moving Through The Dew
I
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew,
Ere I waken in the city—Life, thy dawn makes all things new!
And up a fir-clad glen, far from all the haunts of men,
Up a glen among the mountains, oh my feet are wings again!
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew,
O mountains of my boyhood, I come again to you,
By the little path I know, with the sea far below,
And above, the great cloud-galleons with their sails of rose and snow
As of old, when all was young, and the earth a song unsung
And the heather through the crimson dawn its Eden incense flung
From the mountain-heights of joy, for a careless-hearted boy,
And the lavrocks rose like fountain sprays of bliss that ne’er could cloy,
From their little beds of bloom, from the golden gorse and broom,
With a song to God the Giver, o’er that waste of wild perfume;
Blowing from height to height, in a glory of great light,
While the cottage-clustered valleys held the lilac last of night,
So, when dawn is in the skies, in a dream, a dream, I rise,
And I follow my lost boyhood to the heights of Paradise.
Life, thy dawn makes all things new! Hills of Youth, I come to you,
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew.
II
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew,
Floats a brother’s face to meet me! Is it you? Is it you?
For the night I leave behind keeps these dazzled eyes still blind!
But oh, the little hill-flowers, their scent is wise and kind;
And I shall not lose the way from the darkness to the day,
While dust can cling as their scent clings to memory for aye;
And the least link in the chain can recall the whole again,
And heaven at last resume its far-flung harvests, grain by grain.
To the hill-flowers clings my dust, and tho’ eyeless Death may thrust
All else into the darkness, in their heaven I put my trust;
And a dawn shall bid me climb to the little spread of thyme
Where first I heard the ripple of the fountain-heads of rhyme.
And a fir-wood that I know, from dawn to sunset-glow,
Shall whisper to a lonely sea, that swings far, far below.
Death, thy dawn makes all things new. Hills of Youth, I come to you,
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew.
poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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They Remind Me Too Much Of You (#4)
Take away, the scent of flowers
Cover up, the sky of blue
Close my ears to tender love songs
They remind me too much of you
Hide young lovers' warm embraces
Keep stars and moonlight from my view
Let me forget, there are such places
They remind me too much of you
Must I evermore be haunted?
Day after day, my whole life through
By the memory of each moment
That I spent alone with you
If these lovely things don't hurt you
Our love just wasn't meant to be
But please come back to me, my darling
If they remind you, too much of me
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To My New Neighbors
on this morning chat
she says she will be arriving on time
for the halloween
she will be lighting candles for her dead parents
and other relatives of this old town
offer them flowers and prayers that she can muster
she will be bringing her middle child
who starts to write his poems in his notebook
she tells me he is the silent type
the one who can thrive without a conversation
she shifts the topic about the color of the rails of her new house
the verandah is not pink now, it is painted white
and she is asking what flowers fit into the picture
i suggest the bougainvillas, the flowering ones already
sold in the nearby farm by an old lady
she is excited, she will be having us, as neighbors finally
our fence shall be a line of daisies
our yard evergreen, our trees shall be the ones with
perfume: the champacas and the ylang-ylangs
and expectedly, there will be a lot of laughter and
nice conversations of cultured and educated people
whose sense of morality would be high
the chat is quite long, and i decided i have to end it.
i have still other poems inside my mind.Unwritten.
What bothers me, and for which i am really interested
is the poetry of his middle child. I like someone who writes
like me. And i do not need a lot of conversations too.
i like my silence. I love the talk inside my silence.
I will burst.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I believe that writers, unless they consider themselves terribly exquisite, are at heart people who live by night, a little bit outside society, moving between delinquency and conformity.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Change Me?
when you arrive here
you change the paint of the house
you like it pastel blue on the door
white on the walls
and green on the windows
you change the landscape
except of the wanton garden
you opt for a manicured lawn
and some of my trees
and shrubs have to be
cut down,
some flowers have to go
you bring in
the violets, and lavenders
and white champacas
you like a scent from around
you
specially during the night
when we simply sit
on the lawn
now you begin to demand
some changes from me
the time when i wake
up or sleep
you like soap i like sports
you want me to enjoy
love stories
the color of my socks
my tie my polo shirts
i give in for a while
but there is an end to all these
attempts to change me
you cannot,
i am me before the landscape
before the paints of the house
i am me before the lawns and flowers and socks
and shirts and soap
i am already me before you arrive
to my house
to my life
you cannot change me
because
i love who i am what i am and i know perfectly just what i want to make
myself
even without you,
make some more attempts to change me
and i will ask you to leave at once
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seeing I
Your sweet scent…
Covers me…
Head to toe…
Without you…
I just don’t know…
Your scent…
Like the rising Sun…
Without your love…
Where would I run…
Like your mood…Things within me grow…
Forward and back again…
Your sweet scent has no end…
I could not take …
The pain …
If I could never see…
You again…
Rise my sweet beauty…
Let us share our duties…
Let me fly under your wing…
And look upon the earth…
From which we came…
And came…
whisperkwane
swtlamb@yaho o.com
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Early this morning
Early this morning
when you waked me up
I experienced your tender smell
like a garden of fresh flowers blooming
and your hot soft body were clinging to mine
and your breath was fresh like apples
in a orchard
but your eyes my love, flamed
as if being on fire
and something indescribable were
between the two of us
and some people call it love
but I know
that it was much more.
poem by Gert Strydom
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They Remind Me Too Much Of You
(words and music by don robertson)
Take away, the scent of flowers
Cover up, the sky of blue
Close my ears to tender love songs
They remind me too much of you
Hide young lovers warm embraces
Keep stars and moonlight from my view
Let me forget, there are such places
They remind me too much of you
Must I evermore be haunted?
Day after day, my whole life through
By the memory of each moment
That I spent alone with you
If these lovely things dont hurt you
Our love just wasnt meant to be
But please come back to me, my darling
If they remind you, too much of me
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bivouac on a Mountain Side
I see before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer,
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen,
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the mountain,
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering,
And over all the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, Studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.
poem by Walt Whitman
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