Telegraphic
mountain breeze blowing tree tops
swinging upon cliffs rising from the sea
shores where sea shells abound
maiden walking along the seaweeds
picking some pieces of her past
that dims like a lamp without oil
or gas without a child hands covering
the wick from the harshness of the night
wind..who wants the light dead?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There There Child
There there child, there there child
Dont it make you feel alright
There there child, dont it all look good tonight
And you feel like going but you gotta stay
Aint no time for to hop on a freight train
And you feel like laying in the morning hay
cause its time for a nap now, before rain
There there child, dont it make you satisfied
There there child, you can rest your weary eyes
And you feel like walking on a mountain top
Or a ride on a boat up the river
And the last lonely sheep has returned to the flock
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover
There there child, theres a glint in your eye for surprise
There there child, are you ready to don your disguise, yes you are
Sun goes down across the pond and the wind, wind is blowing wild
And the swallow soars and the lion roars
Outside your front door, by the oak tree in the meadow
There there child, there there child
Are you ready to don your disguise
There there child, theres a glint in your eye for surprise
Do you feel like walking on a mountain top
Or ride on a boat up the river
And the last lonely sheep has returned to the flock
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover, straight ahead
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover, straight ahead
You wing over the white cliffs of dover
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Night On The Beach
A breeze from the ocean
Cools the beach
The stars up above
Seem just out of reach
Waves are softly lapping
Up on the sand
Lovers are walking
Hand in hand
A falling star blazes
Across the sky
It burns so brightly
And silently dies
While out on the ocean
A ship’s light shines
Sailing out to sea
Home port far behind
The tides are rising
In the night
But will be gone
By morning light
Covering the sand
With seaweed and shells
Filling the air
With tidewater smells
Like backward salmon
We go to the sea
Seeking fun or peace
Or tranquility
Or maybe a way
To re-start our life
Walking along on
The beach at night
July 4,2000
poem by James Frady
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Picking Up The Pieces
Take cover, young lovers,
fall apart at the seams
It's stainless steel, that's how I feel,
you're the girl of my dreams
Well I tried to call you on the phone,
your dad said that you weren't at home
But we are, picking up the pieces of our lovin'
over and over again
Picking up the pieces let's do it again
We're picking up the pieces,
picking up the pieces of our love
Well, I need your lovin'
to show me what I am
And I want your body
to make me feel like a man
You know that I'm down on my knees,
you know it's you that I want to please, please
Picking up the pieces of our lovin'
over and over again
Picking up the pieces let's do it again
We're picking up the pieces,
picking up the pieces of our love
song performed by by Quiet Riot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dark Night
There is darkness everywhere,
the night is darker than black,
strange shadows loom on the wall,
as light flickers and flutters
on the oil lamp
The merciless wind is blowing hard,
harder than ever it was,
sharp like a sword,
piercing and reaming my raw wounds,
the flame on the lamp flutters violently
and then is blown off.
The wind smiles and then suddenly it is gone.
I light my lamp again.
poem by Dr Madhavi Grace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: Life’s Candle Flame
Our life is like a candle-wick aflame,
Whose glowing brightness drives darkness away,
And keeps on burning though a fierce Wind came,
To sputter, spew forth smoke, all night ‘til day.
A blowing Gale can make us burn too fast;
The wind can put the flame off premature;
Both wick and wax must synchronously last;
Our teacher best is dear Mother Nature.
How long each candle lasts? No one can tell;
How bright the flame can be? Depends on us;
Yet, some waste wick and wax to burn like hell!
God expects us to burn steady sans fuss.
A candle ought to light the world that’s dark;
Yet, burn with steadiness without a spark!
5-18-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Picking Teachers For Their Leader
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
My steps cease to seek a quickened pace.
There is no wish for leaving.
I am told in my mind I should stay.
Soft voices dance within rainbowed light!
Sparkling to convince...
I should pray with faith.
And they would make my life right!
Picking teachers for their Leader.
For the One never shown.
The One who through scriptures...
Repeated to make appear,
But left still for them to go unknown.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
How they do it like it's done...
When they come,
Nobody knows.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
They say He's number One.
Like none other like He,
Upon me with gifts bestowed!
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
As God demands.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
As God Commands.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
And I understand...
Something that I give,
Must be done with giving hands.
And instantly I'm comprehending...
My relationship with my fellowman.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader!
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Haunting Song!
A haunting song I hear comes like this..
The song.... coming..... in the wind…
The song coming...... in the wind…
The song coming in the wind...
The song spontaneously flows making eyes foggy…!
The song makes even the stone melt…!
The song makes even dead tree resurrect with leaves…!
The song kisses in many languages…!
The song makes forest animals listen with dizziness…!
When night Moon blossoms as breeze is walking,
A boy in blue colour stands blowing flute forever
And forever my heart melts in the thought of his love!
poem by Ramesh T A
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Could Be The Wind
I want to be the wind blowing in forest playing their own song.
I want to be the wind bringing smiles for farmers.
I want to be the wind bringing rain, helping fireman in his hardest time.
I want to be the wind assisting plant to expand their kingdom.
I want to be the wind smoothly blowing over the sea and bringing fisherman home safely.
I want to be the wind covering the thing which ought to be left in past.
I want to be the wind clearing the mind of those with agony
I want to be the wind blowing in summer and tending to those without shelter.
I want to be the wind which bring happiness to the children taking their kite high up in the sky.
I want to be the wind removing clouds of torment and allowing sun to lay down its vital warmth.
I want to be the wind which remove thorn from path and help people to move forward.
I want to be the wind helping bird to take their first flight.
I want to be the wind which leaves versifier rapt giving him his divine words
I want to be the wind blowing all over place bringing happiness to people and vanishes stealthily, unnoticed.
I WANT TO BE THE WIND…
poem by Parth Gwari
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The Wind is Blowing
The wind is blowing,
Blowing slow and fast on my skin,
Blowing fast and hard on his skin.
The wind is cold tonight,
Blowing scary in the woods,
Blowing swiftly throw the night.
The wind is warm today,
Blowing hard in town,
Blowing soft in the county.
The wind is cool,
Blowing all the time,
As they say,
The wind is blowing!
poem by Angela M. Maynard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Nit Picker
A garden full of tender care
brings joy beyond and above
NOT UNLIKE A CHILD
When given unconditional love
For like a garden that’s picked and picked
a child will not grow
for so much picking just destroys the roots
and no more blossoms will show
From the depth of the earth the weeds appear
their ugly forms take over
the child that’s hurt shows anger abound
and the offender should run for cover
So slow down now and think about
the damage that you have done
AS A PARENT OF SUCH A
WONDERFUL CHILD
who’s life has just begun
Don’t turn her into a garden of weeds
its time, from where I'm sitting
turn it around with love abound
and stop that cruel nit picking
poem by Janice M Pickett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Ode to Nostalgia
As a child, I would lay
Under the willow tree.
Ev'ry warm, summer day,
I felt relaxed, happy
To watch swaying branches
Move in the sweltering,
And aeolian breeze
As if spirit forces
Had just been rust'ling
From heaven's canopies.
The rocking, zephyr wind
Would make the green leaves shake.
My senses, too, would rescind.
Half asleep, half awake
In a daydream of youth
For all its innocence
And childish abandon,
Ignoring forms of truth
To see its resemblance
As some sort of Eden.
Ev'ry morning, the sun
Rose in a golden glow;
The day itself woven
To its crowning halo,
And I would rise with it
Though it's heat made me sweat.
I'd find comfort in shade.
Under the tree I'd sit
Until the sun would set
And all the light would fade.
So, alas! All light dies
As the night becomes dark.
In his bed, the child lies
Distant from that spark,
The old fire that once burned
At the tip of the wick
Of his waxy candle.
Though by now he has learned
That changes are phasic;
Each moment, temporal.
Now, it feels like an ache—
The pain of passing days.
Moving forward will make
The past farther away,
So our time will thus stack—
Sediments of magic
Too alluring to resist.
How I wish to go back
To mem'ries idyllic
That don't even exist.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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When the wind started blowing in the afternoon
When the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
some African red-knobbed coots rose in a screaming row,
while the sun hanged over the water red like fire
and the twilight only lasted moments
while they flew past with slapping wings,
when the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
I felt a light breeze blowing against my cheek,
there was serenity and peace that came to me
while the sun hanged over the water red like fire,
there was a kind of bliss in nature
when dappled Egyptian goose also tried to avoid me,
when the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
I was caught by the sheer beauty,
I heard the call of birds cutting through the reeds,
while the sun hanged over the water red like fire
while the sky was darker and no more azure,
while ducks glide magically through the water,
when the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
the sun hanged over the water red like fire.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Unfolding!
listen!
in every voice
something familiar!
in every face
something that
reminds you...
in every flower
that blooms.
in every cloud,
in every leaf
blowing in the wind.
in every child
that's born...
in every old person
that you bury.
in every man
working with his hands.
in every woman
raising her children.
in every mountain
standing silent...
in every river
flowing free...
the song of living,
the dance of darkness
and light....
the universe unfolding
in your hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Autumn Years
Picking up the pieces of my life
I wonder why the hell I ever came here
A man without a future left to face
And nothing but a memory to embrace
Holding on to threads of sanity
Imagining the roads I could have taken
It fills me with a deepening sense of shame
And outside I can hear the pouring rain
There is a place
Where in my mind I escape
And there I understand the way I feel
And deep in this world of make-believe
I will spend my autumn years with you
Sitting in this grey and sunless world
I try to come to terms with guilty feelings
A man about to pay the final price
And nothing but his breath to sacrifice
Therell be a time
When Ill be gone from your mind
A fading ghost that soon will disappear
And deep in my would of endless pain
I must face my autumn years
Im picking up the pieces, Im picking up the pieces
Im picking up the pieces, Im picking up the pieces
Picking up the pieces of my life
song performed by by Johnny Hates Jazz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am He
I am he,
Spoke the acorn to the tree
Said the flower to the seed
Replied the wind to the breeze
And standing up in awe
Stood an oak tree standing tall
And below his roots did lie
The acorn who did cry
That I am he.
Like the wind who fathers the breeze
Or the flower, who nourishes the seed
To grow up and be like he
I am he.
I am he said the father to the sky
And the stars in the night
To his son that he held
To become like himself
And I am he.
I am he
Said the raven to its young
And the bear to its cub
And the wind to the breeze
That I am he.
And looking up in belief
Lied an acorn from a tree
From which that it had fallen
Knowing he had been calling’
To be like he.
So, I am he
Like the father is the child
And the flower is the seed
The raindropp to the sea
I am he!
And he is me
Replied the oak tree to the seed.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Storm
1
Against the stone breakwater,
Only an ominous lapping,
While the wind whines overhead,
Coming down from the mountain,
Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces;
A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves,
And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against
the lamp pole.
Where have the people gone?
There is one light on the mountain.
2
Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell,
The waves not yet high, but even,
Coming closer and closer upon each other;
A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea,
Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot,
The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending,
Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness.
A time to go home!--
And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley,
A cat runs from the wind as we do,
Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia,
Where the heavy door unlocks,
And our breath comes more easy--
Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, over
The flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beating
The walls, the slatted windows, driving
The last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closer
To their cards, their anisette.
3
We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress.
We wait; we listen.
The storm lulls off, then redoubles,
Bending the trees half-way down to the ground,
Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard,
Flattening the limber carnations.
A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb,
Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead.
Water roars into the cistern.
We lie closer on the gritty pillow,
Breathing heavily, hoping--
For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater,
The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell,
The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses,
And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.
poem by Theodore Roethke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Piper On The Hills
A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With A Picking Up Of Pieces
Betting to get even,
When the odds are not for all.
Makes not a bit of sense,
As many tears fall.
People wish to leap,
When sometimes it's best to crawl.
And a learning to make peace,
With a picking up of pieces.
People wish to win,
To go shopping at a mall.
Without a learning to make peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
People want to make their rules,
And break every law.
And not learn a single thing,
About the picking up of pieces.
Losers choose to keep their status as big fools.
With disturbing of the peace,
And a dropping of their pieces.
Losers choose to keep their status as big fools.
With disturbing of the peace,
And a dropping of their pieces.
With a boo hooing done,
Or a booing who they choose.
With a leaving of no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
With a boo hooing done,
And loudly done too!
With no peace released,
Or a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they do.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they choose.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
People want to make their rules,
And break every law.
And not learn a single thing,
About the picking up of pieces.
Losers choose to keep their status as big fools.
With disturbing of the peace,
And a dropping of their pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they do.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they choose.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
People wish to leap,
When sometimes it is best to crawl.
And a learning to make peace,
With a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they do.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
Boooo...
Boo hooing is what they choose.
With no peace.
Or a picking up of pieces.
Dismissing to be peaceful,
With a picking up of pieces.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fair Maiden
The night when the fair maiden revealed the likeness of her form to me,
The warmth of her cheeks, the veil of her hair,
Golden like a topaz, covering
A brow of smoothest crystal—
She was like the sun making red in her rising
The clouds of dawn with the flame of her light.
Translated by Nina Salaman
poem by Yehudah HaLevi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Whom; It May The Wind Blows You
I saw the drunken man on the 16th street
used the dark red raincoat
He was drunk without a head
(but) riding his heart
Walk into Glen-arm
Blinded his words
There was no wind blows
But the words always stuck in an old Oak tree
(from) A distant land
The pieces of memories
Powerless into sound pieces are now
in the country that everyone should speak
Even to speak on his own
In the wind, even in passing by people
who do not know
I see the drunken man,
sitting in a pushed wheelchair
grumbling about love
It's not belong to the wind but
to whom I will never know
I am just a traveler, traveler
who recorded all not by malice
I promised the cool breeze of the mountain
(16th Street Denver,21 Oct 2010)
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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