The Smoke Spreading Under The Trees
the smoke spread under the trees
from a certain burning firewood
on the house not far from where we talk
it spreads far
and this evening as i get too bored
we look at the hazy subject matter
as it moves farther to a certain visible distance
and despite the pollution
i imagine something more artful than this damage to my lungs
under the trees
the smog is beginning to shape itself
into a chine painting
of the dawn and its mist
like a poem written
by one of the poets that i love to read
Tu Fu, Li Po,
or was it Kulafu?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
For All The Poets
FOR ALL THE POETS
This is a poem for all the poets who have no name,
For all those who have written and failed,
And for those who have not written,
And failed.
This is a poem for all the poets who dreamed themselves poets,
And were never, and will be known as poets
To the world.
This a poem for all those
Who after years of effort
Still live in an oblivion
They will die in.
This is a poem for all those
Who whether they have poetry in them or not,
Will never be heard or read,
For what their hearts must tell
Someone else.
This is a poem for all the silent poets
Those who live in silence
And whose silence is eternal
For all those whose only poetry
is the poem they have lived within themselves.
This is a poem for all those who would- be poets
And a poem for those
Who despite their efforts
Did not make their poem known.
This is a poem which may be for you,
And I know is for me
A confession
To make us less alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Last Answers
I wrote a poem on the mist
And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist,
how pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
And change the drab shanties with lighted lamps at evening
into points of mystery quivering with color.
I answered:
The whole world was mist once long ago and some day
it will all go back to mist,
Our skulls and lungs are more water than bone and tissue
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers
Go running back to dust and mist.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Sometimes I imagine
Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,
but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Have Written This Poem
i have written this poem
at early dawn
when the heavy rains
of the evening
stopped falling
when the birds
on the trees
start to fly again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oh To Be Out In The Country
A hot day in the city and scarce a puff of breeze
Oh to be out in the country in the cool shade of the trees
In the shadow of the wattles leafing through a favourite book
Listening to the coot and black duck calling in the quiet brook.
Oh to be out in the country on this sunny Summer's day
In the hills above Wonthaggi more than eighty miles away
In the shadow of the gum trees many miles from city street
Stretched and resting on the fog grass sheltering from the mid day heat.
I feel tired of city living city life's a hard old slog
And I am sick of man's pollution sick of breathing smoke and smog
Oh to be out in the country by a creek enjoying a beer
In a World free of pollution many miles away from here.
A hot day in the city near thirty five degrees
Oh to be out in the country in the cool shade of the trees
In the shadow of the gum trees many miles from city street
Stretched and resting on the fog grass sheltering from the mid day heat.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Young Reviews
Some young poets may mistake
Reviews as a door for more discussion
A vast arena where one can make
An endless lane for Argumentation.
Reviewing further on a review
The comment box becomes gibe talk
Topic diverted to irrelevant issues
Until its there that Gossip walks
Perhaps a line has to be drawn
Where Poetry as art should have a place
Center the review on what it spawns
The impact, the theme, what the poems says
-------------
This poem was written as a satire for young poets
who have mistaken the comment box as a place for pointless
discussion/arguments and some have gone so far as talk
about an erring mother (the subject of a poem) . Such
practice diverts the purpose for reviews - which is to
comment on the poem - not on the character or subject,
for then it ends up as a 'gossip box'.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Ocean Canvas
gray shoreline
light blue sea
at the end dark blue
horizon
shadows of trees
on the other side
farther a hazy dot
the island of Apo
a seagull flies
dissolves to the hazards
of distance
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem As Subject Of Itself
THE POEM AS SUBJECT OF ITSELF
The poem as subject of itself
Makes a mockery of everything else –
How small the world
We confine and create
When only other poets
Read the poems we make.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Coldness Of Indifference
i watch a bonfire
it spreads upon a bush
into the forest of
dry trees
i watch a conflagration
i am inside it
i am burning and burning
still
i am not consumed
i am fire
i eat the forest of dry trees
i spread in the bush
until all is consumed
and then i stop
i am back to myself
nothing really happened
then we resume the conversation
about fire
you speak about it
your heart is not involved
you never felt any heat
i know because you are cold
there is no heat in you
you, in a few minutes, die.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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for Tem on his last day
THE WORLD does not weep
for a quitter, no matter what
no matter how deep is your sorrow
no matter how justifying the circumstances
precipitating inside that cup of poison,
another poem is written for you
a sympathizer from another country
perhaps suffering too
like you
or us, but it will be only for a short while,
after the last word is written and read
the world moves again, spins upon itself
to complete another revolution,
nothing is achieved much, time does not tell,
but the motion keeps on moving
like a spiral, like a steep stair moving up
only to arrive at an empty room,
i believe in something else,
that someone is waiting out there
i guess, you are right, the end is reasonable,
but the means will always be questioned.
i hope you still have time to read the poem of Mike
i guess, sincerity lies there,
i still shiver about an old age that could not wait
for more time.
at the end, who knows? but you cannot tell. You are silent
as cement.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My House
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
My house is very beautiful at night
My friend and teacher occupies a spare room
Hes dead, at peace at last the wandering jew
Other friends had put stones on his grave
He was the first great man that I had ever met
Sylvia and I got out our ouija board
To dial a spirit, across the room it soared
We were happy and amazed at what we saw
Blazing stood the proud and regal name delmore
Delmore, I missed all your funny ways
I missed your jokes and the brilliant things you said
My dedalus to your bloom, was such a perfect wit
And to find you in my house makes things perfect
I really got a lucky life
My writing, my motorcycle and my wife
And to top it all off a spirit of pure poetry
Is living in this stone and wood house with me
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written
THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Torture
The mist is low, drifting like smoke
As a shroud, envelopes him
Wrapped in a cloak
In his mind, he carries his sin.
Forehead creased in a frown
Trees, leafless, ahead
Eyes cast down
Pointing to a trail of dread
thoughts whirling in his head
words mumbled, nothing said
Through this greying cloud
A song once sung
Words tumble, not out loud
cold mist in his lungs
Sightless, groping
For the future
Hoping
Slow walk, torture
Trees old and gnarled
Bowed by winds
Under breath he snarled
Yelling at the tree
Shifting listless
What is life to me?
Falling into the pits
Darkness surrounds
Where the devil sits
Heartbeat pounds
poem by Robert Green
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Strange But True 1 - The Burning House
There were four of us in the garden,
which overlooked a valley below.
The sunset was moving across the sky,
as the songs of twilight could be heard,
then a siren made us look around.
There below us within a grove of trees,
a spiral of smoke rose to meet the sky.
The house within the grove was burning fiercely;
its glow could be seen by us on higher ground,
but not by those on the lower ground.
We sat and watch in fascination
as there was little we could do.
Because the house was well hidden from the road,
the fire department missed it too.
Eventually when they reached the house, t
he occupants had perished in the flames.
Therefore, begins the story
I have never been able to explain.
A year went by and the charred ruins remained.
Nothing was ever built on the spot
nor the ground ever reclaimed.
The only monument that was left there
was the charred black timber on the ground.
My friends and I were playing
as we usually did in the garden,
overlooking the valley below
when a silence seem to engulf us.
In the distance, the mournful wail of a siren
broke the stillness there.
Looking down into the valley
we were amazed at what we saw,
a spiral of smoke reaching to the sky
within the grove of trees where the house used to be
from a burning building that was no longer there,
exactly how we had witnessed it a year before.
For an hour, we watched fascinated,
until the images we saw began to fade.
Did it all play back for some Anniversary,
or were our minds jut playing tricks on us all?
The question still bothers me
over fifty years from that day.
I will never know the truth,
and the mystery will always stay a mystery.
poem by David Harris
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The Poem I have Written For So Long
THE POEM I HAVE WRITTEN FOR SO LONG
The poem I have written for so long
The simple lines –
Is not good enough.
Still the morning light on the trees
Is 'The morning light on the trees'
I cannot say it more specifically more precisely more beautifully-
Time will tell
I am already old
No one knows
Goodbye is goodbye-
The morning light is still on the trees.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Plant More Trees
Plant more trees
As it looks green
And save the homes of the animals please.
Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the humans safe
From pollution and disease.
Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the cities beautiful and clean.
And throw the garbage into a dustbin.
Stop cutting trees
And plant more trees
For a long live of you and me!
poem by Srijita Das
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By My Window....
dawn
darkness finally receding
morning
light spreads
the leaves of trees
begin to appear
the mountains
show up in magnificence
little black birds
hover on the tree fronting my window
dews giving up
mist gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trees under the sun,
trees, hosting man and woman
Trees, our own clean lungs!
haiku by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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I Read and Reread/ The Poets I Love
I READ AND REREAD/ THE POETS I LOVE
I read and reread
The poets I love-
I seek new poets
To love poetry more with-
I write my own small poems
And read them again occasionally-
Sometimes I find in them lines
I want to return to
And remember.
If only I could be such a stranger to myself
That I in reading a poem of my own
Would know it belongs to Literature.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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