Traditional Panorama
cows spotted thick
skins grazing on the green
field with golden rays of
sunshine
early morning
birds flying hovering
on tree branches
fences, and boundaries
cottage of a farmer
blue clouds now starting
to hover in place
a girl singing butterflies
mother milking the cows
and father beginning
to plow the corn field
no plane above the skies
no rockets
at night some meteors
fall,
wishing stars and
zodiac escapades
from the numbing routine
of traditions
no one escapes
the panorama is closed and
strict
the characters are born
marry, beget children,
and then they die
and get buried
years and years
leaves fall, there are no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Let the scoundrels return
Like a lightning bolt
coming out of a blue sky
there are bombs falling
in a field where maze
stand green and ripe in neat rows
and craters are left and the field is on fire.
A few more bombs fall exploding
between cattle grazing in the field
and some are blasted to pieces
and the cows in terror forget about their milk.
The farmer is woken from his afternoon nap
and grabs his hunting rifle.
“We hit the wrong target”
the flight leader confirms
and the farmer waits with a gun in hand
on the planes to return and says:
“let the scoundress return.”
poem by Gert Strydom
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Broremann The Farmhand
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Dreams on the Hillside
Last night I slept beneath the starry skies
Cloudless, warm, with fireflies
A cool summer breeze brushed over me
And crickets chimed harmoniously
And while I lay on the dark hillside
My world lit up and reality died.
In a field of paper flowers did I stand
In a world with no evil, hate, or reprimand
I looked up and saw lavender clouds curling in the sky
And watched the dragons and fairies fly
Candy grew from every tree and
The sun and moon smiled down at me
Spotted butterflies flittered here and there
While fairies placed red flowers in my hair
And blue wind painted white leaves yellow
While looking up at me was a small and happy fellow
And the teal clouds rained down golden drops of morning dew
That glistened on the green fescue*.
Chocolate bunnies hopped by the brook
So I stopped to take a look
And there I met a humble honeybee
Who kindly offered some cookies and tea
The weeping willows began to sway and shift
Causing glitter to spray from every crack and rift
While rainbows filled the blooming skies
With honeycombs that lit up my bright blue eyes.
Unicorns galloped over a distant hillside
And sugary bullfrogs hummed and sighed
On velvety bubbles and candy apple trees
Nimble elves danced atop golden leaves-
But all at once I awoke to the chilly fall air
That nipped at my nose with very little care,
I could not find the flowers or the candy apple trees,
The dragons, the bullfrogs, or the yellow-blue leaves
There I lay on the dark hillside under the starry skies
And found that my dreams had all been lies.
*fescue: type of grass
poem by Ali Vaughan
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They wait for the next day to dawn
Dark clouds assembled in the sky,
Peacocks enthused and happy,
The flow from waterfall makes shower noisy;
The crystal clear feathers of bees
Ringing with reverberating noises
Around the flowers in the bushy plants;
The shining early sun-rays fall on hills and lands
Make them green and enchanting everybody's minds
Recollecting their past happiest days;
The grazing cows and calves happily munching grasses
The men who controls the animals singing and chatting
Return to their shelter in the evening;
The animals chew and dream for the sunrise
The men ate supper, went to sleep peacefully,
Anxiously they wait for the next day to dawn.
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Mona's Monday Morning.
Mona stands outside
the back door of the
cottage and stares up
at the morning sky.
Monday, school soon.
It seems a lifetime ago
since Friday. She and Lisa
had, the previous day,
burned into each other
a different relationship.
She can still sense each
touch, each hold and kiss.
The rainfall had soaked
them like a holy baptism,
a fresh start, a new beginning.
She breathes in the morning air.
Fresh in the lungs. Cows
moo in a far field. A crow
calls. She closes her eyes
and smells the farm across
the fields. Each part of her
seems touched. Each inch
of flesh seems hotly kissed.
The bedroom had been their
sanctuary, a place of rebirth.
The parents had not heard
or known or suspected a thing.
Teatime had been so innocent
after. Acting as normal, as if
the moments before they had
not made love, had not been
naked in each others arms
flesh to flesh, body against body.
Just tea and sandwiches and
cakes and the usual talk of
farm and land and weather.
She opens her eyes and
watches the clouds drift.
More cows moo. Birds
fly overhead. There is
a new life within, a new love
inside her heart and head.
poem by Terry Collett
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Fifteen Years Going Up
15 years together
We climbed by work and will
From a simple two room cottage
To a mansion on the hill
Now there's rose in the garden
But it's the coldest place in town
It took 15 years, goin up
And one night coming down
15 years of heaven
For one short night of sin
From blue skies forever
To an end
From out on a mountain
To both knees on the ground
15 years, goin up
And one night coming down
Her dreams have all been shattered
Her faith in my is gone
My tears tell her i'm sorry
But they can't write my wrong
One night wrote my story
How a man can lose it all
After 15 years goin up
It's hard to take a fall
15 years of heaven
For one short night of sin
From blue skies forever
To an end
From out on a mountain
To both knees on the ground
15 years, goin up
And one night coming down
I've been, 15 years goin up
And one night comin down
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fifteen Years Going Up (And One Night Coming Down)
15 years together
We climbed by work and will
From a simple two room cottage
To a mansion on the hill
Now theres rose in the garden
But its the coldest place in town
It took 15 years, goin up
And one night coming down
15 years of heaven
For one short night of sin
From blue skies forever
To an end
From out on a mountain
To both knees on the ground
15 years, goin up
And one night coming down
Her dreams have all been shattered
Her faith in my is gone
My tears tell her Im sorry
But they cant write my wrong
One night wrote my story
How a man can lose it all
After 15 years goin up
Its hard to take a fall
15 years of heaven
For one short night of sin
From blue skies forever
To an end
From out on a mountain
To both knees on the ground
15 years, goin up
And one night coming down
Ive been, 15 years goin up
And one night comin down
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Friend
Dear friend,
Today I turn the pages of our memories
Those laughter and tears
That we have shared for more many years
Those secrets that we hide
Underneath the cherry tree
These photographs I held, and
I used to smile every time I looked at them
Dear friend,
I've been to the place were we first met
It’s the same old, and new, nothing has changed
Like an old book with precious stories
Every page has a wonderful thing to say
Like a laughter that remains on air
They’re sounds music in my ear
A symphony of our yesterday
Dear friend,
I plow our memories that blanket by autumn leaves
On this mango tree
And its branches look so droopy
But there’s a last leaf-standing firm on a trunk
That forgotten, as the time goes by
Like this friendship buried from the shadow of past
Thou I know it will never last
Dear friend,
Remember the summer skies
Those butterflies that landed in our hands
The kites that we ever flew
In these green fields of our childhood memory
We were children once before
When the trees were tall and we were small
And now we are tall and the trees fall
Dear friend,
Autumn was come
And the leaves started to fall
I can’t count the hours, how long I've stood here
Waiting for your presence
That you have promised you will come
The wind whistle like your soft voice
I feel the heavenly touch on my face
Dear friend,
You never told me that you are leaving
Together with the clouds that passed by
Together with the angels that flew into the sky
Like the waters that flow freely back to the sea
Like a wind that danced on its own
But your soul still live inside of me
You will always be my special memory
Dear friend,
I wrote you a letter sealed with my tears
Saying take care, I miss our funny deeds
Id rather be sad
And my heart is in grief
But somehow I’ll be happy then
That once in my life I had you as my friend
Dear friend, you will always be my best friend
poem by Cheryl Aldea
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The Little Tree
A very faithful farmer,
Planted a small seed,
Where in a distant field,
It grew into a tree.
This tree had leaves of laughter,
As it rustled in the wind,
Its sound of many whispers,
Were voices of many friends.
Its branches were far reaching,
Its limbs, like little hands,
That touched the lives of many,
As it grew upon the land.
Its flowers bloomed in sunshine,
-They were countless little smiles,
That offered joy to others,
If but only for a while.
For the Farmer who was helping,
His little tree grow tall,
Knew of a better orchard,
The best one of them all.
Se he placed His hands around the tree,
And lifted it with care,
He took it to an orchard,
Where He himself was near.
The tree had all the sunshine,
Its leaves were there to stay,
Its flowers bloomed in happiness,
Every single day.
The Farmer loved the little tree,
Far more than people knew,
Now it lives forever,
In our hearts and Heaven too.
-In loving memory of Charles McMichael
poem by Jean Penner
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Those Who Come To Bull
When is BS,
BS?
And begins to spoil the atmosphere?
When bullies attempt to jump over the Moon,
To stumble over pebbles instead.
With a sneaking done over a fence,
To stench the field.
With disguises to pass themselves off,
As prized cows...
To spy on the thoroughbreds grazing.
As the real prized cows swoon,
To gain the attention...
Of those who are true champions.
No matter what those who come to bull do!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I am a farmer
I am a farmer
who are up before first light
and I drink my coffee
between the cows in the stable
where milking machines
are doing their thing sucking
and I pour cream into the black.
A few eggs from my own chickens
and sheep chops from the animals
that grazes right over the farm
is great for breakfast.
Later I walk down to the fields
or ride on Umfaan
my Arabic stallion
to see
if the keepers
are tending the cattle
and where they are grazing.
Sometimes I can stay for hours
in the grassland
and look at the bushes
about me
and the serenity
of it all climbs very deep
down into my heart.
I am as strong as the earth
that I love
and help to hack holes
right through iron stones
with a pickaxe
where the new fence
pole after pole
is beginning to stand.
I am pitched into this Africa
just like this
and have nowhere else
to go to
and my hands are hard as rock
from years of work
and years of resistance
against the sun and weather
and I love my farm
and my country.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Rural View Of My Village
today the women wearing buri hats are planting rice
on the muddy rice fields of Katipunan
the sun is up
the petals of white flowers are
still holding on to their dews
the finches are flying low
and hovering on the grass
the buffaloes are grazing on the field
the children are chasing chickens
and playing with the dogs
the amor secos are growing wild still uncut
as the some men are singing songs with their old guitars
a wooden sled filled with wood is hauled by a big spotted cow
the path is covered with stones that grate their sounds in the open air....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Soul, Afire
The rising sun sets my soul afire
At the dawning of every new day-
I see life as a new beginning-
Cardinals, robins, blue jays and finches
Carry on with their tune as the
Orchestra of a gentle spring like breeze
Rustles the newly unfolded leaves upon every tree-
Alone to enjoy the mystery of the woodlands-
The sun’s rays shining through the
Branches of the maple trees-
Dogwood blossoms both crimson pink and white
Against a sky of cerulean blue
Evoke a chorus from my spirit-
A hymn of freedom and ecstasy, as
My spirit and soul have been reborn.
As the day progresses
I am overcome by fear and
At the noon of the day the sun rises above the mountains
The world comes out from hiding-
This is the time when strangers become invasive,
Clouds overtake the light and
The rain begins to fall.
Thunder would clap and rain would pour downward in a
Spitefully intrusive manner
Quenching the magical flames
That had my spirit and soul dancing to the
Early morning symphony that the world has
Maliciously taken aback-
When the night takes over
I see the full moon ascend over the horizon and the
Stars are bright-
The stars are bright and Mars is a brilliant red while
Venus winks at me with its eyes of green-
Stars and planets are gratifyingly beautiful in their own way, though
Light years away-
If I listen vigilantly-
I can hear ancient music imminent from
The stars and planets in the vastness of the universe as
The moon appears above the treetops-
It shines its light upon me and sets my spirit dancing and once again-
Sets my soul afire-
poem by Claudia Krizay
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I am just a Child of Beloved nature!
I am not that,
I am not this,
I am that words can't say,
Just like unpredictable,
I Live like child of the nature,
Having sunshine in my mind,
Having cloudy sky too,
Just like a child playing with mother,
I see stars in her sky reflect in my eyes,
Those stars also brighten my dreams!
My need she fulfills,
For my questions she responds with great answers,
I am loving my mother,
I dance with her jumping with frogs and flying with butterflies,
Singing with birds,
mew with kittens, playing with puppy,
Seeing all of them as my own,
I am the child and never like to live more than that!
Life is not real for me,
Just flow of time make me sleep, dream and awake,
Work is my play, problems are quiz,
Whole life is not a puzzle,
Only wonderful play of rainbow of colourful light,
Pain or happiness are momentary,
I feel everything temporary,
Self is that playing with self alone,
Self is that ever like to live like a kid,
neither born nor die,
Never aging truth beyond time is me!
I am a part of its play,
I have to play a role,
I learn to act and play my role,
years after years roll,
I too roll life after life,
Yet remain as kid for ever!
I complain about my pain,
She has that ever soft hands to wipe tears!
When I am sad, she sends birds to sing for me,
when I am mad, she has that teacher to correct me,
She is my beloved mother, I am her loving kid!
I am learning what I am,
She teach me well with all love!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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New For Old
Bud blisters into life
Stretching for the light
Unfolding radiant green
Upturned palm to the sun
Life seeping in, breathing out
Green, Green so Green
Resurrected hope, so Green
Summer breeze stroking
Branches ebb and flow
Leaves so Green strong now
Fear not wind of change
Mellow summer turns
Green, green, green-yellow
Yellow area of dieing heart
Green lingers no more
Limp transparent yellow
Barely a breeze takes one
Fierce Hyde-like wind now
Cracking and ripping
Wind torn leaves fall
Life chords snapped
Death too early, still Green
Nourishment broken not ended
Seasons build up to tear down
To build up, to tear down
Leaves fall, Green leaves fall
And then some more
Until leaves are falling, falling
Trees and branches revealed
In the x-ray of autumn blast
Winter is coming
Winter is coming
Yellow pale yellow carpet
Beneath the naked tree
Yellow, mulchy brown
Once crisp leaves scatter
Green, yellow, transparent veins
Tired, half dead, leaves lose their grip
Join the autumn rain soaked mound
Providing new life to the roots
Old for new, New for Old
Seeds buried in death
Bring new life in Spring
In the end is the beginning.
poem by Adrian Wait
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Cultivated Is My Valley
Cultivated Is My Valley
Peaceful is the landscape and the lane that meanders
amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land
a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich.
Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes
there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines.
In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof
tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise
islands too one has to look out for falling coco- nuts
they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only
petals of the almond tree flower fall.
Birdsongs and breeze that caresses olive trees, now that’s
peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate
a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her
potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio
on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so
why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows
with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of
galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane,
flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s
too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Untitled 24
outside the window
this early morning
blue clouds hover
on the green hill
like the curly hair
of a little boy
on the guava tree
a twig without leaves
a bird sings
with blue feathers
the kingfisher
below it a pool
of rippled waters
a fish is seducing
its black beak
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In May
Yes, I will spend the livelong day
With Nature in this month of May;
And sit beneath the trees, and share
My bread with birds whose homes are there;
While cows lie down to eat, and sheep
Stand to their necks in grass so deep;
While birds do sing with all their might,
As though they felt the earth in flight.
This is the hour I dreamed of, when
I sat surrounded by poor men;
And thought of how the Arab sat
Alone at evening, gazing at
The stars that bubbled in clear skies;
And of young dreamers, when their eyes
Enjoyed methought a precious boon
In the adventures of the Moon
Whose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars,
Searched for her stolen flocks of stars.
When I, hemmed in by wrecks of men,
Thought of some lonely cottage then
Full of sweet books; and miles of sea,
With passing ships, in front of me;
And having, on the other hand,
A flowery, green, bird-singing land.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Mother Nature
For seasons of life
Each one different
In its majestic wake
Spring
The beginnings of life
Were flowers come to breath?
On a field full of dreams
Butterfly's flutter
Their brilliance in flight
A cycle of life
That gives meaning to life
Summer
Its gentle breeze
Wave's the fields of corn
Its beauty of nature
Grows its colours of gold
The sun shines down
On children at play
As the days drift by
Colours spring to life
Autumn
Golden rays of sunshine
Moves across the fields
Capturing the colours
Of summers falling leaves
Mystical dew drops
Cling to the leaves
As showers and thunder
Cascade upon dead leaves
Winter
Its barren life no more
But buried underground
Beats a life Mother Nature hordes
Then just when you think
There is no life no more
The cycle of life
Begins again once more
Were Mother Nature welcomes
Springtime once more
poem by Kaila George
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Milking Time
There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;
There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;
There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,
And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain.
For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;
For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;
And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming
That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.
Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here;
And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;
The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,
And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.
And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb,
And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,
And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing,
And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.
Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown;
And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;
And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,
And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.
And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;
And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;
And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry
Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.
So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;
And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;
And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,
And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.
And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?
And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist;
And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying
That Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! How close that missed.
A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;
That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;
That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches
Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.
Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;
And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime;
And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather
We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . .
(English voice, months later): --
"Ow Bill! A rottin' Frenchy. Whew! 'E ain't 'arf prime."
poem by Robert William Service
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