An Old Man
Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.
But where in meadow or mountain shall I match
The individual accent of the speech
That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute
The honeyed warmness of his smile?
To which of the deciduous brood is german
The angel peeping from the latticed eye?
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Evans
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle"s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.
It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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A Gift of Lovers' Red Rose!
Lovers exchange red roses for Valentine's Day;
Why only Red Rose and Red Heart greeting cards?
Red is colour of blood vital for human survival!
Impure, used, blue blood turns pure red blood
By vital heart of body of flesh and bone in all!
Blood circulating all over in the body brings air
Fresh, pure and life supporting oxygen for man
Pumped and purified by heart ever till all life!
Red heart and rose denote vital heart, red blood
To keep this human body of flesh, bone and blood
Ever healthy, happy and hopeful of joy in all life!
Heart with Red Rose greets lovers with joy long
On Valentine's Day to celebrate love in life ever
Starting from Lovers' Day on all round the year!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Sorry
Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Album
My father is dead.
I who am look at him
who is not, as once he
went looking for me
in the woman who was.
There are pictures
of the two of them, no
need of a third, hand
in hand, hearts willing
to be one but not three.
What does it mean
life? I am here I am
there. Look! Suddenly
the young tool in their hands
for hurting one another.
And the camera says:
Smile; there is no wound
time gives that is not bandaged
by time. And so they do the
three of them at me who weep.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Springhill Mining Disaster
Bono: like to...Id like to try a song that I think weve only played once before, so. this is a city that a...a lot of irish people came to this city, right? so this time...this irish...t
Irish people came as rock and roll band, okay? so...but this is a folk song. its like...the irish kinda hold america in a very special place because, for over a hundred years or more, irish have come over here to find work and find a future. and they brouught with them songs, old irish folk songs that became old american folk songs. and, I hope maybe wed leave behind some songs one day. this is a song written by peggy seeger. its a song...i wished Id heard this song on the raidio during the miners strike in england a few years ago. this is called springhill mining disaster.
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads--
Bono: shut up for a second, will you? stop whistling cause Im not in the beatles, okay? its u2 here.
In the town of springhill
They dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Listen to the shouts of the black faced miner
Listen to the call of the rescue team
We have no water, light or bread
So were living on songs and hope instead
Living on songs and hope instead
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads that never saw sun nor sky
In the town of springhill
Dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bono: thanks for your patience. thank you.
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life's Winter
Idle, semiconscious winter fog
Settles heavy on deforested nude,
Grey and dull, everywhere, dull lull;
Spine-chilling cold, blinding grey fog,
Nowhere light streaks to warm-up heart.
Flowers and fruits of yester seasons
Only breed pains ‘neath smashing dead-weight
And drags life unto cold slow death;
Eyes go red in search of shadows
That grow tall in dusk’s twilight
To squeeze blood in bone-chilling pain.
Days are short, nights are along,
No greens, bare top everywhere;
Winds bite, old memories sting,
Eyes well up like dense white clouds
In distant brood of blue sky.
No colours, only shades of grey;
Thin dull shrieks of deep pain
Leak in slow moves form gulfs
Of grim wilderness of loneliness;
Cold void all round till eyes stretch,
No ripples of joy or warmth anywhere.
What a contrast in winter and spring!
How the spring deepens the chill of winter!
That fulsome spring; this bald winter;
Where has gone those fragrance and musics?
Those warmth, colours and sensuous tastes?
poem by Praveen Kumar
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Primrose
Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, I said, to find
One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear--
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but the shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Only a Flicker
Singly stripped from off the bark
of life our days may not return,
only a flicker in the dark
swift sparkles, - matchless pages turn.
Branches leaved now bare and stark,
scarecrow stand as seasons burn
concentric rings which leave their mark
beneath the bark mid forest fern.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Book, Trees and Leaves
The book
at the used book store
had a leaf pressed between its pages,
its veins showing;
pressed flat
and brown;
an unwilling bookmark-
the pages of the ages.
The tree
its mother,
died for those pages
her offspring
flattened out
upon mother's page breast
tiny lines and squiggles
between the veins;
no tree can read
no leaf can comprehend.
I take the leaf to give it a proper burial
in the compost heap
so that its remains
have a small chance
of one day
becoming part of a tree.
I lay its leafy body down
thinking;
'I think I shall never see
anything a lovely as a tree.'
In years
a bookmark it will make
upon my backyard landscape
marking Nature's Chapter entitled
'Ironies.'
.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Death Of A Poet
Laid now on his smooth bed
For the last time, watching dully
Through heavy eyelids the day's colour
Widow the sky, what can he say
Worthy of record, the books all open,
Pens ready, the faces, sad,
Waiting gravely for the tired lips
To move once -- what can he say?
His tongue wrestles to force one word
Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases
For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry';
Sorry for the lies, for the long failure
In the poet's war; that he preferred
The easier rhythms of the heart
To the mind's scansion; that now he dies
Intestate, having nothing to leave
But a few songs, cold as stones
In the thin hands that asked for bread.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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The Japanese tear
Her curved lip struck, shining in late light.
While she was coming to nothing.
The big wave was clothed only in its sound
And the earth's withered bark
Was pushing very strong the life’s water,
While hoarding the days
And keeping the water's life.
Late lily curved over its stricken lips
Taking out at the last sliver of light
The bulk of time
And the whole white in waiting.
It pierced my wood's woven shade,
Lullabied by the late lily,
Planted in the brood of the wave's mystery,
That brood of the late low light
Flaming invisible tongue of flames
With water.
Like those lilies which are still lullabied
Are notched the white ubiquitous crosses
Speaking in the mother earth's tongue
Whitening wood's woven waters
Before crossing the notch
And ascending to Heaven.
They had been raising
On lost waved ways looking so wounded
And their speed was notched with the cross
While they seethed singing their song
For the ruin of time.
They became only voices
Being clothed in their groan
Impressing the withered bark
Of their exhausted mother earth
Losing their water of life
In water
For being elsewhere deeply buried,
Maybe in hotness.
Living their last seconds
Like dying
Or maybe eating the grey stones
For becoming grey
Or for becoming stones,
They still keep in our minds
Their heavy weight of groan.
While the pale planet
Is fissuring the wound
Of its stumbling block,
While the pale planet
Is crisping the air in its icy breathes,
And sowing its sorrow in its new seed
Of winds, which blow and down all the grey
From the overcast shadows.
With an eternal starvation of souls
The blackness fills its inside
And pink bleeding clouds
Redden the dreary rain
Waiting the rainbow of hope.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Without Angel
Without you my Angel the sun does not Shine,
Without you my Angel my heart will surely Die.
Without you my Angel i do not feel Complete.
Without you my Angel I can't even understand Me.
Without you my Angel there is no point to a Smile.
Without you my Angel I won't be able to finish that last Mile.
Without you my Angel I will always be Sad.
Because Angel you were all I ever Had.
poem by Kristopher DeLander
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Deep in My Core
Deep in my core
beats my living heart.
Fighting through years
of planetary rotation,
gravity’s transparent hand
remanding quick blood
to constricted veins,
how long can it so remain?
When will it
grow still
and let go my
straining
soul?
On that glorious day
put me deep
in the living earth,
and there at last
will I feel
the beating heart
of God!
poem by Steven Federle
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Nature
I do not understand nature.
Cannot not match bird to song,
leaf to tree, petal to flower.
Too much learned at arm's length
the secondhand story that comes
from the TV or movies.
Out among the birdsong in all
its seasons I am confused,
out of my element, feigning
disinterest, not knowing where
to start. Reading poems about
milkweed, poppies, or a thing
as lovely as a tree does
somewhat perhaps fill the gaps,
or leave me empty
-for what have I missed?
What will I never know?
poem by Ronald Shields
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Spun Done
Hope's promises spin scope's deceits
as will wealth spills, itself defeats,
to common earth uncommon noun
descends, all ends, worms' winding gown.
No guarantees, none understand,
vain King Canute's complaint command,
mind wonders, slurring speech repeats
doomed song that no tomorrow greets.
Imagination plays the clown
with hopes and fears as tears course down,
a lachrymosal saraband,
pitched keen, wails never-never land,
cruel world continues, page is turned,
appearing not the least concerned.
(6 December 2007)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Nearly Ripe
Nearly ripe, these green apples
hang heavy
from our bursting tree,
the warm evening sun
glinting through swaying branches.
They will be ready
in about a week.
Then I’ll slice them into sweet crescents
And their taste will dance upon your tongue
with all the secrets our tree has been keeping,
its living leaves,
its smooth, grey bark,
its very roots
grasping deep
into our dark soil,
and these glowing, green apples
I will make bare and white and moist,
a love offering like perfect wine for you,
and your taste will delight
in the sweet, green love
of the earth.
poem by Steven Federle
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Ninetieth Birthday
You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock. Trees are about you
At first, but yield to the green bracken,
The nightjars house: you can hear it spin
On warm evenings; it is still now
In the noonday heat, only the lesser
Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat
And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,
You will pause for breath and the far sea's
Signal will flash, till you turn again
To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.
And there at the top that old woman,
Born almost a century back
In that stone farm, awaits your coming;
Waits for the news of the lost village
She thinks she knows, a place that exists
In her memory only.
You bring her greeting
And praise for having lasted so long
With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own
World with yours, all you can do
Is lean kindly across the abyss
To hear words that were once wise.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Angel Of Heavenly Love
ANGEL OF HEAVENLY LOVE
An angel one day came
Thought it was a golden frame
Eyes wonderfully bright
Hairs veil heavenly light
An angel one day came
Thought it was just a game
Heard a voice smooth and caring
Got captured when hearing
An angel one day came
Thought I was insane
Felt a warmness washing
And my senses dashing
An angel one day came
Thought am I to blame
Held out a silver dove
Said follow it to the cove
An Angel one day came
Thought it's not the same
Kissed me on my lips
Enwrapping my hips
An angel one day came
Thought it was a golden frame
It is my Angel of heavenly love
Holding my hands forever above
poem by Morhardt Carmen Mencita Monoi Angel
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The Winds Blow For You
Angel…angel
Look at my face
Look at mine
Angel look at mine
My heart is for you
You know it’s true
Angel to see my love
Angel……..
I see you in my skies, an angel
You flying with your wings in the winds of the love
I insufflate to the skies for deluge winds for your fly in the sky
You can fly in the skies without fear
I’m be with you, my angel
the winds below for you
in order that you be happy my angel
I hope you find your love
or me or your hidden lover
my winds below for you
fly...fly...fly
my angel
poem by Aidin Azarkerdar
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A Peasant
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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