Speaking The Words Of Loneliness....
i speak the words of loneliness
it flows with the rush of the river
it flies with the wind from the west
it is blown towards you
who live at the foot of the mountain
under the tall trees
this worm waits when will be the next
leaves come
when will be the next bloom of flowers
in the middle of my
drought.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Rill From The Foot Of The Mountain
The rill from the foot of the mountain that joins the river to the sea
It has babbled on downhill forever by hedgerows in the high
Country
It has witnessed the birth and death of millions of Seasons even before the first Human was born
In the upland wood where it flows through the birds sing at dawn of the morn.
The rill it is truly immortal something that will live forever more
Forever 'twill flow to the river that flows to the great ocean shore
To it there is not a time limit it is as old as father time
It has inspired the long dead poets to glorify it in their rhyme.
The rill from the foot of the mountain towards the river ripples along
And sometimes above it's quiet babble the dippers can be heard in song
The dark brown white breasted waterbirds of Human kind they do seem shy
By the water-way they were born and in the water-way they will die.
The rill from the foot of the mountain downhill to the big river flow
The ancestors of the upland farmers who lived by it centuries ago
In the old Village graveyard it flows by with the long departed they lay
As on for to join the big river it babbles on it's downhill way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The River and the Dam
The river flows down the hill,
Till it finds it is slowing
The dam stands as tall as a mill,
To stop the river from its flowing
The water accepts its fate,
Yet it rises as it waits
The dam stands it's ground
The river never finding a way around.
The river flows once more my friend
The dam did break and shall not mend
poem by Drew Fisher
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Where Am I? I Am In The Middle Of An Idea.
i am in the middle of an idea.
it is like a river always flowing.
at the top are blessings like rain
on a clear bright day, and on the
ground are glistening dews,
like diamonds. On the right side
are trees filled with ripe fruits,
and below them are bushes
filled with yellow flowers. On the
left side of this river, are stones,
and cliffs, and crevices, and
at the height of all these silence,
is the call of the west wind.
There is a confusion somewhere.
But there is also a certainty like
the brightness of the sun. I am torn
between these two choices.
I am in the middle of this idea.
Like a river, i continue flowing.
Like the driftwood, i no longer care.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Summer's Wind
Be weary, Lord of the summer wind,
Lord of the heat that you blow in,
Away with flowers, land and trees,
To stay them not, least all the trees.
Listen to this, all that I say,
Our land does die, and drift away.
Our living born upon the wind,
All of ours, and those of friends.
So we called upon the leave-filled wind,
The autumn one, of which were friends.
This wind of cool and gentle hand,
Not like the wind that stole our land.
And the heat did melt into the leaves,
And turned them colors from the trees.
Then the leave-filled wind bore them away,
And upon the land, they came to stay.
And stayed them there, till land-hard cold,
And then the land, the leaves they stole.
And after the harsh cold wind had blown,
And living soil again was sown,
Summer's wind came again to prey,
Upon our lands, most every day.
But our living land, the leaves did save,
And the summer's wind did blow away,
Never to re-live, the seasons day.
The cool soft wind now blows so free,
Upon the land, and through the trees.
All through the people, and over me.
poem by Sandra Osborne
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In Reply To Jean's Theory Of Asexuality
Once you ask me
Why I live among
The distant hills
I just smile
I do not make replies
I do not really care
I stare in your eyes
Like you are a river
And I have no fear
And my thoughts
Flow like leaves
Falling from tall, old,
Trees
Blown into the unknown
I realize and
You too must
I have a world of my own
Apart from yours
And the rest
Of Everyone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The River, Grace
Lift me up,
Take me down
From my rack.
Suspended on meat hooks
Just under my shoulder blades,
The weight of me hangs.
The river comes to me.
The river flows on.
Grace wakes up,
Says, “I will watch with you
We will be watchers
Together.”
Take me down.
Let the river run
Through my wounds;
Cleanse;
Heal.
The river comes.
The river flows.
Wash out all the refuse;
Toxic trash flushed away
Forever from me
Clear
Free
The river comes.
The river flows.
Fill me up with goodness.
Purity, rush into these holes;
Saturate in light, then
Stop up the access,
Make me whole.
River, come to me.
River, flow on.
And the river is God’s Gift.
And the river is Grace.
Lay me new baptized
In the tall grass
On the bank
Let me hear
Talking light
Beat back the night.
They sing of your source,
Your redemption renowned.
Now I join the chorus.
And the river, God’s gift,
Lift me up.
And the river, Grace
Carry me on.
poem by Lee Ann Schaffer
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To A Nephew
it is upon my calling that you are here today.
i am very happy.
i am seeing a very tall man now
towering like a tree.
look at this place this island
the flowers no longer bloom
and the trees are shedding off their leaves
the corn seeds that i have sown a month ago
have not grown
and the river on the other side has dried up
the sun scorches this place
and the moon does not like to rest on the hills
let me take you to the window of this house
for you to see the rainbow connecting this island
to another island
this is the bridge between us
and i am giving you the power to cross the sea
of this rift
tonight in this harrowing darkness
we shall cross to the other side and leave this island for good
you shall own the island and sow the corn seeds again
the trees shall bow before you and the flowers shall bloom again
the rivers shall have their water and the hills are ready for the moon
and then i will be gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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239
in reply to jean's theory of asexuality
Once you ask me
Why I live among
The distant hills
I just smile
I do not make replies
I do not really care
I stare in your eyes
Like you are a river
And I have no fear
And my thoughts
Flow like leaves
Falling from tall, old,
Trees
Blown into the unknown
I realize and
You too must
I have a world of my own
Apart from yours
And the rest
Of Everyone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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River Feeling
River feeling is
As simple as
Closing your eyes
For a moment.
Everything flows like river
River feeling is
As smooth as
Everything after
The first step.
Everything flows like river
River feeling is
easy as forgetting
Walking boots.
Everything flows like river
River feeling is
nice as
iron ties
Coming off.
Everything flows like river
Everything flows like river
Everything flows like river
Everything is good and flows
like river
poem by Julian Mann
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Carry On The Spark In Your Heart
there will be lots of dry leaves to fall
from a tree to produce a fruit
more leaves to be blown by the wind
to make that flower with a sweet scent
and bright color
there will be thorns and worms and
sickening barks
there will even be deaths of
some trees not just
the shedding of leaves
but what matters most
is for you to carry on
with the mission
to bloom
do not let that spark die
that fire that keeps burning in your heart
make it live
carry on carry on
it does not just take a blink of an eye
to make this
beautiful universe
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Lonely Woman
WHERE the ironbarks are hanging leaves disconsolate and pale,
Where the wild vines o’er the ranges their spilt cream of blossom trail,
By the door of the bark humpey, by the rotting blood-wood gates,
On the river-bound selection, there a lonely woman waits,
Waits and watches gilded sunrise glow behind the mountain peak,
Hears the water hens’ shrill piping, in the rushes by the creek,
And by the sullen stormy sunsets, when the anxious cattle call,
Sees the everlasting gum-trees closing round her like a wall.
With the hunger of her bosom notes the wild birds seek their mates,
All alone and heavy-hearted, there the lonely woman waits.
Where the tall brown city buildings loom against a cloud-flecked sky,
Where along the curving tramlines brightly varnished cars rush by,
Where the call of petty traders echoes down the dusty street,
And forever comes the beating of the many passing feet,
Where the bamboo reeds are whispering by the green park’s iron gates,
By the muslin-curtained window, there a lonely woman waits.
Where the white caps lash the sea-wall, and the great waves thunder by,
Where the grey rains sweep the beaches underneath a sodden sky,
Where the swift-winged gull flies landward, and the fisher bides at home,
When the long Pacific reaches are a seething stretch of foam,
Where the empty boat drifts seawards, by the ocean’s sand-flanked gates,
In the weather-boarded cottage, there a lonely woman waits.
Where the river boats are calling, where the railway engine shrieks,
Or where only wild bird liltings echo from the reedy creeks,
Where the grey waves grieve to landward, and a wet wind beats the seas,
Or where pearl-white moths flit slowly through the dropping wattle-trees,
By the high verandah pillars, by the rotting bloodwood gates,
Crowded town or dreary seaboard, everywhere some woman waits!
poem by Mabel Forrest
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The Gardener XXIX: Speak To Me My Love
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.
The night is dark. The stars are
lost in clouds. The wind is sighing
through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue
cloak will cling round me like night. I
will clasp your head to my bosom; and
there in the sweet loneliness murmur
on your heart. I will shut my eyes
and listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will
sit still and silent. Only the trees will
whisper in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will
dawn. We shall look at each other's
eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Wind's Journey
Winds blowing from the east
Transplanted scents into the west,
Wandered into jungles of concrete wall,
Struggling to fit in cranny nooks of tall
Structures, that hastens its journey through
Man-made woods – a jungle of towers blew
And drove the wind from western grey mist,
Back to the east, refresh and crisply blest,
While easterly mist touched the west wind
And blow forth again to trees and leaves of green
From east to the west its circular route dawdle
Wanting to re-touch thus lingered to mingle
Attempting to refine a wind made stale
By man’s rancorous ill will, east wind’s wail
The west wind wavered, intertwined forever
To retouch and refresh the earth’s dwindling fresh air
poem by Jona PoloRamirez
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Middle Man
There was a mountain and there were three trees
There was a good man and there were two thieves
A man called Barabas was doomed for the tree
But Jesus took the middle one and Barabas went free
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
A hill called Golgotha the place of a skull
No yellow flowers, no trees in bloom the scenery was so dull
Three crosses stood black and bold against a darkened sky
And not from pain but a broken heart that middle man died
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free.
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Famine
The famine’s wind has surely blown,
The rabbit looks for carrots sown,
Nothing nothing nothings grown.
The rabbit pauses with paw on cheek,
“This dismal scene inspires me not,
I think I’ll sleep
An’ let the brook babble on,
An’ in my dreams may hunger,
Be be gone.
Sadly in his sleep the rabbit dies
Then consumed by relentless flies.
The sheep dropp in their tracks
The cows are long since gone
The farmer pulls in his belt and
Hopes it’s not in vain
As he waits and waits and waits
And waits
For Rain
poem by Ken e Hall
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Lost And Going....
to think of you and you alone
i am bound
and i am feeling so down
feet stuck to the ground
i must learn the art of detachment
i am free
i disregard home
i travel alone
i am searching for what i have not found
i have nothing
no one holds my hands
my pocket keeps them
inside warm
i please myself with the wonders of
the trees
the space that grass occupies
the heights of mountains
the rush in the waterfalls
there is this river
that flows and flows and flows
untiring
i am bare as clear morning sky
birds do not live there
i want the way they fly away
telling no one where to
sometimes we let go
our hands sail our feet kept like rudders
folded
i am this air
bound for nowhere.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The River That Murmurs
I will ask the river, that flows serene
I will speak to the sky
I will ask the river that murmurs
Not to ask me why
I cannot speak for myself.
That time has long since passed me by.
The river can murmur and sing
Unspent by passion: my voice
Will break like a terribly taut string.
My words will be grammatically and academically
Twisted (like that leafless tree) , unfortunately!
I want the river to speak, to speak
Alone, alone with thee.
The river can, softly and without tears
Tell you my dreams and my fears
I know you will listen:
And while city lights in the water glisten
You wont see the tears that shine on my face
No, that is a serious, sentimental place
That only I know;
Flow, river, flow.
Flow, river flow.
Speak to the only love I know.
Daybreak approaches soon
You and he by the light of the moon
Will murmur whilst I -
Will wait for you to bring me his reply.
poem by Rani Turton
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Pure And Untouched
there is the other side of the mountain
made of dessert sand
nothing interesting in there
no gems,
everything diamond-like
is just imagination
when a friend asks about this side
we tell all these lies
that at its foot is a comfortable cottage
that beside it is a river
there is a white horse,
birds often make a stop-over here
trees are fruiting
and flowers bloom all year long
to be fair
there is also something true and beautiful in that
other side
but no one knows it except you
and on that same side of the mountain
you still make lies
afraid that someone shall take it away from you
because you are weak
and cannot protect it
from the invasion of the masses
from the shallowness of their minds
their incapacity to understand that in there
everything is good and can be seen and felt
but not a bit shall be taken
it is the world where the spectator must view
the world with respect
because it is untouched because it remains
to be itself
untaken, untouchable,
pure, and hence can never be us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long.
quote by e.e. cummings
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sanctuary
'And on the banks, on both sides of the river, there will grow all kinds of trees for food. Their leaves will not wither nor their fruit fail, but they will bear fresh fruit every month, because the water
for them flows from the sanctuary. Their fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing.' ~ Ezekiel 47: 12
sanctuary
dying trees
and fallen
leaves
dried river
hungry heart
and wounded liver
sanctuary
bones of dust
sanctuary
my head
know longer knows
poem by Jay Reynolds
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