Georgia Forest
This Georgia forest,
is sundered
by winding highway
into green canyon walls.
Dark pines subsume
the mid-day dusk;
black trunks thrust
into red forest floor
when, with sudden, golden shaft,
the faithful sun splits
its sullen core.
poem by Steven Federle
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Melting Snow
Melting snow runs down from high peaks, into creeks,
over flowing waters, carry off layers of the forest floor,
nutrients, twigs, leafs and insects are all swept clean,
little creeks bulge into violent streams, and mighty rivers
churning, tumbling, and roaring down waves, into the ocean's mouth.
Melting snow on the forest floor uncovers chains of small islands,
spreading under pines and oaks and elms, low lands and high lands,
contrasting, the dark colored ground against the white melting snow,
the season of change calls to awaken the forest floor,
with a splash of melting snow, and a degree of heat,
natures cycle is complete.
poem by Michael Andrew
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The Green Roads
The green roads that end in the forest
Are strewn with white goose feathers this June,
Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest
To show his track. But he has never come back.
Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest.
Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers.
An old man along the green road to the forest
Strays from one, from another a child alone.
In the thicket bordering the forest,
All day long a thrush twiddles his song.
It is old, but the trees are young in the forest,
All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep.
That oak saw the ages pass in the forest:
They were a host, but their memories are lost,
For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest
Excepting perhaps me, when now I see
The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge of the forest,
And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song.
poem by Edward Thomas
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The magic forest
At the Bois de Boulogne lies magic
Magic that cannot be evitable
Magic that lures people into the evergreen forest
In the forest, soft earth is like a comfy bed
Meadows of grass are green sheets for the bed
If you happen to lie down on the bed
The sunlight hugs your body gently like a mother
Your eyes are heavy weights, unable to keep your eyes open
You fall into the sweetest dream as time goes by…
Night walked into the forest as day walked out of the forest
The pale moon is like a glass eye of a witch staring at you
The dark magic falls into the forest
Lusty monsters fill the magic forest
And the magic forest falls asleep…
The trail to lillooet
Sob of fall, and song of forest, come you here on haunting quest,
Calling through the seas and silence, from God's country of the west.
Where the mountain pass is narrow, and the torrent white and strong,
Down its rocky-throated canyon, sings its golden-throated song.
You are singing there together through the God-begotten nights,
And the leaning stars are listening above the distant heights
That lift like points of opal in the crescent coronet
About whose golden setting sweeps the trail to Lillooet.
Trail that winds and trail that wanders, like a cobweb hanging high,
Just a hazy thread outlining mid-way of the stream and sky,
Where the Fraser River canyon yawns its pathway to the sea,
But half the world has shouldered up between its song and me.
Here, the placid English August, and the sea-encircled miles,
There--God's copper-coloured sunshine beating through the lonely aisles
Where the waterfalls and forest voice for ever their duet,
And call across the canyon on the trail to Lillooet.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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To H.L.S.
I WANDERED on a lonely quest;
And deep within a dark forést
That lightened upward to the sky
A maiden, with her head borne high,
Went lightly by.
A bending shape, a glancing eye,
Long slender limbs borne maidenly,
Bound golden hair, — she trembled lest
She fright the butterfly at rest
On either breast.
So she went on into the west
Beyond the dark-green, dim forést
That fell to blackness — all the sky
Closed down, — when on my lips felt I
A butterfly!
poem by Philip Henry Savage
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The Landscape
Painter, painter paint a scene-
A dainty cottage on a mound,
In a forest beautiful.
Paint it white and ashen grey,
With a meadow surrounding,
Filled with grass, all green and mowed.
Paint arcading cedars few,
With a narrow winding road,
And hedges on either side.
Paint a teenager with bike,
Ready for a hiking trip,
In the forest adjacent.
Make the day dawn early when
Air is fresh and birds fly past,
In the search of early worms!
When the light shall fade by eve,
Let the eyes that pry within,
Sense the ghosts of beasts and men!
And an eerie silence fall,
Broken by weird shrieking sounds,
Shadow-play of setting sun!
Turning forest pitch-black till,
Bats and owls come out to look
For their prey, in dark profound!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-19-2007
poem by John Celes
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Georgia On My Mind
Stuard gorrell / hoagy carmichael
Georgia
Georgia, the whole day through
Just an old sweet song keeps georgia on my mind
Georgia
Georgia, a song of you
Comes as sweet and clean as moonlight through the pines
Other arms reach ot to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see the roads leads back to you
Georgia
Georgia, no peace I find
Just an old sweet song keeps georgia on my mind
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Summer Sonata
Rotten fruits smell stunning.
Bushes and trees sound sunnily,
Swarms of black flies sing
On the brown forest glade.
In the pool's deep blueness
The light of weed-fires blazes.
Hear sudden love cries whirring
From yellow flower walls.
Butterflies chase themselves for a long time;
Drunkenly my shadow dances
On sultry meadows of thyme.
Brightly ecstacized blackbirds trill.
Clouds show stiff breasts,
And wreathed by foliage and berries
Under dark pines you see
A skeleton play the violin grinning.
poem by Georg Trakl
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The Nature of an Un-Dead Man
He threw the ball for five miles it reached,
The route to put the shot was black and dark
In the middle of a forest at night, fully dark;
It was perhaps what? It was a sacred instrument
But a silver bullet, one for the masters of least leniency,
He was to spread the monster of an un-dead nature
On the floor of the forest where the wild mushrooms were found;
It may be different, but this man was unfed by dread
And he left his soul to the dead, like a man who fed
The life of evil, and scourges happened from him,
He left the messages of old that were ours;
Just so that he did, he left us for he hated us, and when should he die?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Cycles Of Light
For just a little longer
reside I in a familiar
foreign land of human
resource grabbing aspirations,
as I write
out last
dreamscapes,
praising
pristine forest
beauty in call
of conservation,
as land rape
earth rape
swift plunder
reap
human
potentialities
destinies.
The Totara spirit
stands in native forest,
forgotten
in termite cities,
unadored unfelt
unknown unthought
of unseen unappreciated
from birth
earth
forest floor,
spirit guardian
last
to kiss sunset
yellow golden
dusk
eclipse rays,
first
to welcome
embrace
creeping
golden
fingers
of dawn light,
where will
your flesh skin
bark reside
tomorrow,
for if mighty
Totara falls
who will sentential
greet honour
glory life
cycles of light?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Modern Manichee
He sayeth there is no sin, and all his sin
Swells round him into a world made merciless;
The midnight of his universe of shame
Is the vast shadow of his shamelessness.
He blames all that begat him, gods or brutes,
And sires not sons he chides as with a rod.
The sins of the children visited on the fathers
Through all generations, back to a jealous God.
The fields that heal the humble, the happy forests
That sing to men confessed and men consoled,
To him are jungles only, greedy and groping,
Heartlessly new, unvenerably old.
Beyond the pride of his own cold compassion
Is only cruelty and imputed pain:
Matched with that mood, a boy's sport in the forest
Makes comrades of the slayer and the slain.
The innocent lust of the unfallen creatures
Moves him to hidden horror but no mirth;
Misplaced morality rots in the roots unconscious,
His stifled conscience stinks through the green earth.
The green things thrust like horrible huge snails,
Horns green and gross, each lifting a leering eye
He scarce can call a flower; it lolls obscene,
Its organs gaping to the sneering sky.
Dark with that dusk the old red god of gardens
Still pagan but not merry any more,
Stirs up the dull adulteries of the dust,
Blind, frustrate, hopeless, hollow at the core;
The plants are brutes tied with green rope and roaring
Their terrible dark loves from tree to tree:
He shrinks as from a shaft, if by him singing,
A gilded pimp and pandar, goes the bee.
He sayeth, 'I have no sin; I cast the stone',
And throws his little pebble at the shrine,
Casts sin and stone away against the house
Whose health has turned earth's waters into wine.
The venom of that repudiated guilt
Poisons the sea and every natural flood
As once a wavering tyrant washed his hands,
And touching, turned the water black with blood.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Wheels Are Turning
Written by gerry beckley and dewey bunnell, 1998
Found on human nature.
Albuquerque will be there in the morning
Purple mountains will rise up from the floor
After that you can just lift up the curtain
And the whole world will be there at your door
Down the road you see the heat waves a waving
All the signs are telling you where to go
And for you, this is a bold invitation
Its all you need, you dont need any more
Those wheels are turning once again
Now the sun is rising out of the ocean
Diesel trucks are flying by on the shore
Yes thats your spirit inside you just waiting
Its time to move, now that much you must know
Step outside and take a breath of the morning (step outside the door)
And the wind will tell you which way to go
You are the needle on the compass for certain
The missing map has come back to your door
Those wheels are turning once again
Thunder in the canyon waking up the night (waking up the night)
Black crow with an indigo glow on the highway
Albuquerque will be there in the morning
Purple mountains will rise up from the floor
After that you can just lift up that curtain
And the whole world will be there at your door
Those wheels are turning once again
Thunder in the canyon waking up the night (waking up the night)
Black crow with an indigo glow on the highway
Barking in the canyon waking up the night
Black crow with an indigo glow on the highway
Those wheels are turning once again
Theyve always been your truest friend
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home From The Forest
Oh the neon lights were flashin
And the icy wind did blow
The water seeped into his shoes
And the drizzle turned to snow
His eyes were red, his hopes were dead
And the wine was runnin low
And the old man came home
From the forest
His tears fell on the sidewalk
As he stumbled in the street
A dozen faces stopped to stare
But no one stopped to speak
For his castle was a hallway
And the bottle was his friend
And the old man stumbled in
From the forest
Up a dark and dingy staircase
The old man made his way
His ragged coat around him
As upon his cot he lay
And he wondered how it happened
That he ended up this way
Getting lost like a fool
In the forest
And as he lay there sleeping
A vision did appear
Upon his mantle shining
A face of one so dear
Who had loved him in the springtime
Of a long-forgotten year
When the wildflowers did bloom
In the forest
She touched his grizzled fingers
And she called him by his name
And then he heard the joyful sound
Of children at their games
In an old house on a hillside
In some forgotten town
Where the river runs down
From the forest
With a mighty roar the big jets soar
Above the canyon streets
And the con men con but life goes on
For the city never sleeps
And to an old forgotten soldier
The dawn will come no more
For the old man has come home
From the forest
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We go no more to the Forest
WE go no more to the forest,
The rimus are all cut down.
They are built into roof and sill and wall,
Into floors that thrill to the last foot-fall
In the dancing of the town.
We go no more to the forest,
The kauris are all cut down.
They are built into ships so stout and strong,
Bearing their cargoes safe along,
Sailing from town to town.
We go no more to the forest,
The ratas are all cut down.
There are cornfields, golden and green and wide,
For the tangled depths where a world might hide,
And our lawns lie smooth in town.
We go no more to the forest:
Young, wild things are all cut down.
We are buying and selling and making love,
As the grown folk do, with a roof above,
And our hearts are at home in town.
poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Near the Black Forest
Living in a house
near the Black Forest,
without any clocks,
she's begun
to listen to the walls.
Her neighbors have clocks,
not one
but twenty clocks apiece.
Sometimes
a claque of clocks
applauds
the passing of each day.
Listen to the walls
& wind your watch.
Poor love, poor love,
have they caught you
by the pendulum?
Do they think they've
got you stopped?
Have you
already gathered how,
living near the Black Forest,
she gets by
on cups of borrowed time?
poem by Erica Jong
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Inside and Back Out
A forest encircles the lawn,
the lawn encircles sheets of English ivy,
the ivy encircles the walls of a house,
the house encircles its furnishings,
the furniture encircles a family
the family sits on the furniture,
the furniture completes the house,
the house is cuddled by walls,
the walls are warmed by English ivy,
the ivy loathes the horizontal lawn,
the lawn pines to be a forest.
poem by Sonny Rainshine
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The Forest of the Lost
She wanders curiously through
The Forest of the Lost
Past the other creatures of pity
The Lost creatures
She looks and listens
Sees and hears
Nothing and everything
Space and form
Fog rolls in
Growing thicker
It trys to devour her
Like it so easily devours
The other Lost creatures
But her strange aroura
Pitch black and brighter than the sun
Protects her with ease
She does not belong
To the Forest of the Lost
The Forest of the Lost
Belongs to her
She is not Lost
Lost is her
She is magical
Mysterious
Dark and light
Blended together
The Forest of the Lost
Has met its maker
The Lost creatures
Take shape
In the fog
And thank her
And the Girl of the Lost
Guides the creatures back
To the Land of the Found
poem by Shannon Hughes
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Season
Ruby-veins crept into the foliage.
Then the pond was calm and wide.
By the forest's edge brightly scattered
Bluish speckles and brown dust lay.
A fisherman drew in his nets.
Then dusk came over the field.
But, a yard shined still palely illuminated
And maids brought fruit and wine.
Distantly a shepherd's song died after.
Then huts stood bleak and strange.
The forest in gray shroud
Evoked sad memory.
And overnight time became quiet
And an army of ravens flew
As if in black holes in the forest and moved
Toward the town's very distant ringing.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Ich habe dich nie je so geliebt
I never loved you more, ma soeur
Than as I walked away from you that evening.
The forest swallowed me, the blue forest, ma soeur
The blue forest and above it pale stars in the west.
I did not laugh, not one little bit, ma soeur
As I playfully walked towards a dark fate -
While the faces behind me
Slowly paled in the evening of the blue forest.
Everything was grand that one night, ma soeur
Never thereafter and never before -
I admit it: I was left with nothing but the big birds
And their hungry cries in the dark evening sky.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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Lonely Tree
A lonely tree
On a lonely hill
Wishes to be
A forest still
Thou all alone
It dreams of more
Of seedlings grown
From its forest floor
Their branches growing
Ever climbing high
So feverish flowing
To reach blue sky
Covering this land
Beyond its view
A forest grand
All fresh and new
A sight to behold
It would surely be
A dream so bold
For such a lonely tree.
“closing thought”
A family is like a forest that continues to grow
From a lone simple seedling it outwardly flows
poem by Gordon Jerome
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