En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Inside The Library

one may accuse
a man reading a pile of books
of hiding away
from the touch of a lover
those fragile hands
not equated with the rough
feel of a page of
a book,
one may negate
his search as something
unnecessary
which should have better
be spent in the fields
of strawberries
and the stretch of green grass
and the tall lines of trees
in that cool green forest
but this man
does not sleep too
finding the words
in fact eating some of the
letters and
god forbids
now drinking some of
the dreary moisture
from the nooks
breathing the emptiness of
the shadows of the
room
till night.

he is on one hand
also a shape of sacrifice
a monument of greatness
a god
of those cockroaches
who by time shall
understand all these
quivers

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green Fields And Running Brooks

Ho! green fields and running brooks!
Knotted strings and fishing-hooks
Of the truant, stealing down
Weedy backways of the town.

Where the sunshine overlooks,
By green fields and running brooks,
All intruding guests of chance
With a golden tolerance,

Cooing doves, or pensive pair
Of picnickers, straying there--
By green fields and running brooks,
Sylvan shades and mossy nooks!

And--O Dreamer of the Days,
Murmurer of roundelays
All unsung of words or books,
Sing green fields and running brooks!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Novermber Morning

In a rather cool morning
Myself, I find
Here drinking hot chocolate
And eating snacks,
Watching through the window
The green nature that is all alive;
The cool hands of the wind
Touching my nose and cheeks,
My warm breath going out my mouth;
A worthwhile time to ponder and write
Poetry or a few lines is all right.

11/13/09

poem by L.P. Alexanders
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Books Of Words

A new height has been achieved
By the tall men and tall women,
The people of the book that was raised
From the grounds of the school.

A new mind has occurred from imagining
The books and words and letters,
Shining forth from the page of its master
And writer who wrote the achievement.

We are history and time, we combine to feed
The mouths of our children,
As more of a book is studied by them,
More words are taught to their ears.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Pity...

I have only pity for my
poodle name Pretpret
(ditty for Pretty)

It is always following me
wherever i go
and sit beside my feet
so i can feel the warmth
of its belly

It is expecting me to go
for a walk this morning
and it will be beside me
guarding

But i am not taking my walk
today

I still have to organize my thoughts
and write some poems

I pity the sun
Now it is shining without me

I pity the paths
for it is empty without me

I pity the grass
they spread their beautiful green
without me

Don't you understand what pity means?

Oh, it happens
when we are not with them
because we prefer to be with words
juggling with the letters
playing with the sounds of syllables...

Now, i am going out
What pity does i feel for all the words?

I must pity the study room
for it is now empty

I must pity the books
they are now closed

I must pity the stairs
missing the sounds of my footsteps

and so on and so forth

feel it
the world is such a pitiful emptiness
without us

we can be noise and disturbance
sometimes
but the world knows
we are important
for without us
the world is nothing too
but God's useless
creation....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green Green Grass Of Home

The old home town looks the same as I step off the train
Meeting every train in my mind's eye till the man in mail came
Hair like gold, lips like cherry
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home
Green, green grass of home, green green grass of home.
Only dream I know of is to be found hair like gold, lips like a cherry
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home
They'll all come to greet me, on the steps of my sweet dream
It's good I dreamt the green, green grass of home
I wait and look around me at the broken walls that surround me
And out here I was on the ground.
There's a garden in the path of progress unharmed through winter's day break
Then I'll touch the green, green grass of home
They'll all come to greet me from the chains of the old dark hollow
The green, green grass of home
They'll all come to greet me on the steps, my sweet dream

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forest Primeval

Forest Primeval

As I walk through
this forest realm.

Breathing in
the mellow mist of scents,
the molting leaf, the broken bark
of times past.

My skin breathes in
the cool kiss of morning air.

I exhale breathless,
in the presence,
of such divine beauty.

I reach out to touch
the divinity of life
of this forests sweet soul.

And to my blissful sense
I see the green hue of
Giant living trees.

So tall above the earth
And yet they humbly bow,
To earth in holy intent.

Giving the breath of life,
To this dweller that walks there.

Returning the fragile cool air
To their companion beings.

I humbly accept the kiss of life
From these magnificent
Redwood oracles.
So ancient and wise above all.

In gratitude and love I vow
To protect all life Here.
In this holiest place
Of God's creation.

poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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The Green Dot

A green dot was wandering one day,
Where is its spot, where it can lay! ,
It delayed its arrival,
And all the green is now gone,
The green dot is wandering searching,
Goofing the streets under rain and thunder,
It moves fast and slow, gradual run,
From the shore, to the bays,
When it was deceived by the beauty of trees,
What beauty can it see, but she wasn’t comfee,
Because it wasn’t that green,
What green it could be?
What green does it belong?
It don’t know, but the search seemed to be long,
Oh! Lil green dot, lil green dot,
What is this mess all about?
The lil green dot missed its way,
And now it dun no where to stay,
Where are the other green, where is its stain?
Forever the search, Forever it will feel the pain,
To be away from the other green dots.

poem by Mustafa Ghuneim
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Clock-O'-Clay

In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.

While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o'-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o'-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o'-clay,
Watching for the time of day.

poem by John Clare
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Alankar(Decor) -40

A Visit To My Village(Chaucerian Roundel)

Till my last ken it was green, green alone
Looked just for God's tread carpeted sacred
Or an attire godly live emerald

Much a velvet thought even now I'm prone
To feel the heaven for me descended
Till my last ken it was green, green alone

Such be, changing are not people alone
Even the paddy fields to houses changed
Last trip here to say there were all paved
'Till my last ken it was green, green alone'

poem by Indira Renganathan
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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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Green, Green Grass Of Home

(words & music by claude putman, jr.)
The old home town looks the same,
As I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
Down the road I look and there runs mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, theyll all be there to meet me,
All creatures smiling sweetly
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
The old house is still standing,
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And theres an old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane Ill walk with my sweet mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
Then I awake and look around me
Cold gray walls surround me
And I realize that I was only dreamin
Theres a guard and theres a sad old padre
Arm and arm well walk at daybreak
Again Ill touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, theyll all be there to meet me
In the shadow of that old oak tree
As they lay me beneath the green, green grass of home

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bloody Paper Dolls

They bleed an ink of green blood
Cut them out
Faces of drawn misfortune
Bodies of frail dresses
Minds of empty blue lines
Given names of whores from distorted streets
Megan molly Shannon mind so weak
Created world of plagiarized lives
These bloody paper dolls have no eyes
They see not the tears upon her face
They bleed words onto the page
Green ink dripping
Soft words describing a life
Take there heads the lose all purpose
Fixed scissors this time ill make a man
Green ink bleeds from the cut up words
And the body it forms
These dolls aren’t real they are a shaken reality
Let her be she has dreams
And I cut the words from this page
I lost my age
I’m old... and still
I have bloody paper dolls all around
They rule my life
They are my reality
My friends
These words now just letters
Green ink stains my finger tips
My bloody dolls you are it.

poem by Victoria Martinez
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Outside331’sSleep

Don’t open your eyes yet not until I explain last night I went to bed with Sleep last night I fell for Sleep last night Sleep unclothed me left me naked in a room painted black I couldn’t see Sleep because Sleep was dark too and the room was black and the foreground blended in with the background I couldn’t tell what was far and what was close I became frustrated because Sleep was either hiding inside the room or the room was hiding behind Sleep neither were being fair to my eyes who wanted to play hide and go Sleep I hide inside the room and Sleep seeks I said where are you Sleep I can’t see you my eyes can’t find you Sleep I said I wanted to fall inside you brought me into this black room and I am trying to wrap myself around you won’t you come inside of me you won’t stage scenes in my eyes created with color everything is black one long stretch Sleep are you moving and I can’t see you or are you standing still and I can’t feel you are here Sleep you are silent Sleep I feel alone Sleep I want you to be inside me if you take me to a black room and make me go to bed are your eyes open I can’t see you did you leave is Sleep here Sleep am I inside you explain Sleep explain did you open your eyes Sleep are my eyes open Sleep are you outside me Sleep you took me to bed and left me Sleep I can’t open my eyes until you are back inside me I can’t see Sleep when you’re not inside me open your eyes Sleep do you see me inside you explain last night am I still inside Sleep?

(12-13-07)

poem by Chelsea Trescott
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The Poet in the Nursery

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
In a dim library, just behind the chair
From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling
A song about some Lovers at a Fair,
Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling
That rhymes were beastly things and never there.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking
About the tragic poem I’d been writing,...
An old man’s life of beer and whisky drinking,
His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting;
And how at last, into a fever sinking,
Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.

But suddenly I saw the bright green cover
Of a thin pretty book right down below;
I snatched it up and turned the pages over,
To find it full of poetry, and so
Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover,
And turned to watch if the old man saw it go.

The book was full of funny muddling mazes,
Each rounded off into a lovely song,
And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases
Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver’s thong.
And metre twisting like a chain of daisies
With great big splendid words a sentence long.

I took the book to bed with me and gloated,
Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand;
So soon the pretty emerald green was coated
With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand,
While round the nursery for long months there floated
Wonderful words no one could understand.

poem by Robert Graves
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X2

finding the self in the self
gives you the wrong path

do not look to the stars
you are never there

look at the ground and
touch the hand of the blind
talk to the mute and be
the ears of the deaf

only can you find your eyes
in their eyes
your hands can feel the
warmth
that is not found within the
lines of your palms
only then can you hear
the sounds of your longing
that you can only understand
from their hunger

yourself is not in yourself
it is in the other
your heart is not in your
chest
it is in the emptiness of
another.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blue Wall / Green Wall

What comes to my mind when I see a green wall?
A green wall reminds me of the grass so green
And the emerald most rarely seen
A green wall reminds me of the leaves so green
And a forest where I have never been
A green wall reminds me of trees with a lot of shade
And the fresh vegetables kept for trade.

What comes to my mind when I see a blue wall?
It reminds me of the sea so blue
I feel like jumping in it too
A blue wall reminds me of the blue sky
You can’t touch it cause it’s very high
A blue wall reminds me of the deep blue bear
It is very dangerous so beware
A blue wall reminds me of a blue whale
To reach it from the shore you have to sail.

poem by Risha Ahmed
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Matters Of Observation

it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages

for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house

i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house

my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.

there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden

the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all

i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds

i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books

i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it

inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green Green Grass Of Home

The old hometown looks the same
As I step down from the train
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
And down the road I look and there runs Mary
Her golden lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they've all come to meet me
Arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the
Green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And there's that old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane I'd walk with my sweet Mary
Her golden lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yesm they've all come
Arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the
Green, green grass of home.
Then I awake and look around me
At the gray walls that surround me
And I realized that I was only dreaming
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre
Arm in arm, we'll walk at daybreak
Again I'll touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes they'll all come to see me
In the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me neath the
Green, green grass of home...

song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dawning

it is dawning
gray wraps the trees and grass in black
as i walk along this boulevard

the light comes
thru the shutters of the clouds
this morning

rays like hands touch me
there is warmth
spreading on my face
there is fire
in my heart

i look at the stretch of
of acacia trees where the street lights
slowly close one by one
and at this moment
the years spread themselves
like some green grass
where i rest my weary soul

in my mind
i always remember you
on my side i can stll feel the warmth
of your skin

it simply dawned in me
the fire of yesterday
and the coldness was gone

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On A Tuft Of Grass

WEAK, slender blades of tender green,
With little fragrance, little sheen,
What maketh ye so dear to all?
Nor bud, nor flower, nor fruit have ye,
So tiny, it can only be
'Mongst fairies ye are counted tall.

No beauty is in this,— ah, yea,
E'en as I gaze on you to-day,
Your hue and fragrance bear me back
Into the green, wide fields of old,
With clear, blue air, and manifold
Bright buds and flowers in blossoming track.

All bent one way like flickering flame,
Each blade caught sunlight as it came,
Then rising, saddened into shade;
A changeful, wavy, harmless sea,
Whose billows none could bitterly
Reproach with wrecks that they had made.

No gold ever was buried there
More rich, more precious, or more fair
Than buttercups with yellow gloss.
No ships of mighty forest trees
E'er foundered in these guiltless seas
Of grassy waves and tender moss.

Ah, no! ah, no! not guiltless still,
Green waves on meadow and on hill,
Not wholly innocent are ye;
For what dead hopes and loves, what graves,
Lie underneath your placid waves,
While breezes kiss them lovingly!

Calm sleepers with sealed eyes lie there;
They see not, neither feel nor care
If over them the grass be green.
And some sleep here who ne'er knew rest,
Until the grass grew o'er their breast,
And stilled the aching pain within.

Not all the sorrow man hath known,
Not all the evil he hath done,
Have ever cast thereon a stain.
It groweth green and fresh and light,
As in the olden garden bright,
Beneath the feet of Eve and Cain.

It flutters, bows, and bends, and quivers,
And creeps through forests and by rivers,
Each blade with dewy brightness wet,
So soft, so quiet, and so fair,
We almost dream of sleeping there,
Without or sorrow or regret.

poem by Emma Lazarus
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