Tess... Tess
Sad tortured hillside, against
a pastel slate sky;
mute; purple stucco stubble.
Smoking chimney; early morning lit.
Wind blown, lean trees
beautified mystical silver birch;
doors of classrooms; I to enter do not want.
Morning tea; on a wooden bench.
Black top, sexy miniskirt
terracotta pots;
matchbox houses; ghastly trousers.
Leaves sparkling; wind turned.
Smoking crayon, set
against an ash-grey sky;
swirling; blue grey mist.
Toast; vapour steamed.
Dog!
lichen on wild; wall top undisturbed;
man on lawn mower; that win lotto didn't.
Dog!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fog
Old movie morning...
The sun barely breathes, silver & grey colours.
Black & white grass heads, crying dew tears.
The land wakes with mugs of stemming smoke.
Revealing absorbing true shapes
Of tree grey morning bones
Wet tongue on my ears.
Whisper shadow from the lamp light.
Blind eyes draw, unintelligible figures.
Not much to see, on the walls' house.
Trapped in mimic cage.
The fog tricks silver and grey hats.
Of smoking breaths.
poem by Luca Menin
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Outside And Inside
this early morning
the rains are raging
outside is a rampage of
blown leaves and trees
you are afraid may
finally be uprooted
in the room
the brown dog sleeps
beside a wooden wall
on the floor
the glass doors
& windows are closed
the silence reigns
inside you begin
on another journey
you began last night
on some short breaths
until you think
you had a nice sleep
inside there is something
that rages
it is not the wind or the rain
it is something else
that you want to know
more & more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Smokin The Herb Again
Yo yo yo, yo, yo yo what
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Damn, I really wish I could find my sack man
Must have got eaten by pac-man
If I had it I could smoke again
Smoke with my friends to the very end
But now Im trying to comprehend
Whens the next time that Ill smoke again
I need to know, please tell when will we smoke again
I got a buddy, his name is ted
Hes got a problem going through his head
He doesnt know how to puff puff give
But I like so Ill teach him and Ill let him live
Everyday we teach him right
When he divides, we have to fight
But at the end of the trying day
We says its ok and we puff away
Just the other night, I saw you, you were smokin not sharing and being tight
But thats ok, you are my friend, well smoking until the very end
The lessons that we put out, we order you to try it out
Its nice to smoke, yea thats what were all about
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Hey, ho, hey ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking everywhere
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking all together
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chimney
this morning...this morning..this morning
the chimney of the desolate house in front of mine
is smoking...smoking...smoking
what a lovely sight
who may be there
on the snow
white smoke onthe white snow
the bare plum tree is
grinning...grinning..grinning
the black crow
on the hazel nut tree
crowing...crowing...crowing
as if life is newly beginning...beginning...beginning
guess..who is there...who is there
behind the yellow lignt seen at night
shining from the desolate window
someone...someone....someone
living. ..emerging from the house
ı wish all the chimneys of the lonely poor smoked
in the wilderness of the cold..cold of the snow
what a happy and a lovely sight
the desolate chimney is smoking...smoking...smoking
ı wish ı were in this old house too
with the mystery of the ancients
where they have come
ı never knew
the desolate house is reviving this morn
ı only see the shadows
growing...growing....growing..and moving
poem by Metin Sahin
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The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz
At Loschwitz above the city
The air is sunny and chill;
The birch-trees and the pine-trees
Grow thick upon the hill.
Lone and tall, with silver stem,
A birch-tree stands apart;
The passionate wind of spring-time
Stirs in its leafy heart.
I lean against the birch-tree,
My arms around it twine;
It pulses, and leaps, and quivers,
Like a human heart to mine.
One moment I stand, then sudden
Let loose mine arms that cling:
O God! the lonely hillside,
The passionate wind of spring!
I Stop Walking
I STOP WALKING
I stop walking
The wind is pleasantly cool-
I sit down on the wooden bench
Surrounded by fields of weeds and wildflowers
The sky is light - grey spring-
I don't know why
I am so so happy
Happy just to be alive-
Soon I will walk again
The pain in my knee
Less than it was-
All around me is Jerusalem morning light
And the fields dancing in the morning wind
Like my happiness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Short; Nature: Out Our Window On A Breezy Evening
The sun has finally settled behind the nearby Belmont hills,
but its lingering light, the evening sky, with blue pastel fills.
Our star has warmed another San Carlos April day,
and now westward it recedes, as outside calls a jay.
A few grey clouds were briefly-edged with bright orange for my eye,
but it won't be long before the planet Venus sparkles in the sky.
A fragile birch tree peeks at me through a nearby window,
its limp branches swaying as the wind moves them to and fro.
Beyond the birch, beyond some roofs, a wooded hillside rises,
concealing roosting birds and browsing deer and more nighttime surprises.
(4-23-2012)
poem by Bri Edwards
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There Is Peace
in an early morning
walk
along a path
winding through
the hillside
just the wind
brushing with the leaves
of trees
and some interfering
cicada cacophony
this hot summer
day
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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[Month of] June
Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset fades into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
The way was waiting for your own adorning
That should complete the broad adorned day.
Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple grey:
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;
It is the very promise of the morning.
Lux Tua Via Mea: your light's my way -
Then do rise up and make it perfect day.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
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A measured beauty: the Japanese mind
Between the high grey residential block
and the busy, noisy Japanese street
there’s a small park: three tall trees
in a broad bed of grey slate chips;
this autumn afternoon, the trees
have shed their golden-yellow leaves
over the grey ground; the gardener
has carefully brushed them with his wooden broom
off the chips, and into tidy golden rings
around the bases of the trees;
as if the leaves were gathered in some joyful ceremony
of gratitude, respect, and friendship; not farewell,
but time dissolved into a circled beauty;
the passers-by note this timeless act of worship;
share this with the others as they pass,
politely glancing towards strangers;
meeting, respectfully, not their eyes,
but, as leaves to trees, their heart.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Rain Is Like A Man
the rain this early morning
has an accompanying wind
i look at them by the window
my inner world divided by a thick glass
the trees are swaying and some leaves
begin to fall like some kind of a dance
the rain like a man carries the wind
on his arms and the wind leans down
i catch a glimpse of how they passionately kiss
it is sad and lonely and then the rain stops
the morning sun comes and the leaves
are at the feet of the trees kind of wet with tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shades of Grey
Black is the color of the night
Grey is the shadow of you I sight
White is the shirt you wear
Black is your suit I declare
White is the wall you lean against
Grey is our path I sensed
Black is the memory I lost
Black is the road we never crossed
Grey is the prospect of the day
Grey is the taxi driving away
Black is the truth to never find you
Black is everything I can't undo
Black is my room without light
White is my color of hope in spite
Grey is the circle around my heart
Black is the truth like a work of art
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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The Grey World
Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.
Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.
Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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The Wild Wind
For the time of year, the weather is mild,
But the raging wind is running wild.
The rain has stopped, and now there’s sun,
But the wild wind is very far from done.
Bins are upended – their contents spilled.
Weeping willows wave their long tendrils.
A garden fence rocks dangerously to and fro;
A sudden gust comes along, and over it goes.
By a cottage doorway, wind-chimes dangle;
Caught by the wind, they now joyously jangle.
With such brutal force, I am blown along;
Helped on my way, by the wind, so strong.
Trees take a battering; some have broken boughs.
The wild wind lets out one long, horrendous howl.
Across the ground, crinkled leaves skip and skitter,
As do pieces of paper, crisp packets, and other litter.
The clothes on my washing-line, are, very soon, dry;
They are securely pegged, so that, away, they don’t fly.
By the wild wind, an open gate is slammed, firmly shut.
On the radio, there are numerous reports of power cuts.
The sky is a mixture of dull grey and bright blue;
The weather is undecided on what it wants to do.
By the time evening arrives, the wind has died down;
It gives one last wave, and with that, it slowly drowns.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Grey
Grey road stretched through grey rain.
Grey rain fell though grey mist.
Grey mist enveloped all,
all the eye could see,
all the land,
all the sky
and me.
Grey covered all,
all the way down to the sea.
Glimpsed through grey the swell of the ocean,
riding the waves a wind surfer surfing,
chopping, fighting the crests with swift motion
skirting the spray, sail unfurling.
Stopping, I stared at that sight in the mist,
oh how he came dancing over the sea,
right through the rain a state of sheer bliss,
the wondrous frolic rippling throughout me
making me tingle right down deep inside.
That misty image ripped all grey apart
a glorious vision of freedom untied,
returning tremendous joy to my heart
filling me up, bringing tears to my eyes,
emerging from grey a great love of life.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Grey Lagoons
(ferry)
Blue suns and grey lagoons
Silver starfish with honeymoons
All these and more to choose
If you
Satin teardrops on velvet lights
Morning sickness on friday nights
Heaven knows what others I might bring
To you
Broken partings making strange goodbyes
Hopeless cases with fake alibis
Even hoping well be there to share
With you
Blue suns and grey lagoons
Grey lagoons
Grey lagoons
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wind's Journey
Winds blowing from the east
Transplanted scents into the west,
Wandered into jungles of concrete wall,
Struggling to fit in cranny nooks of tall
Structures, that hastens its journey through
Man-made woods – a jungle of towers blew
And drove the wind from western grey mist,
Back to the east, refresh and crisply blest,
While easterly mist touched the west wind
And blow forth again to trees and leaves of green
From east to the west its circular route dawdle
Wanting to re-touch thus lingered to mingle
Attempting to refine a wind made stale
By man’s rancorous ill will, east wind’s wail
The west wind wavered, intertwined forever
To retouch and refresh the earth’s dwindling fresh air
poem by Jona PoloRamirez
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A Chord of Colour
My Lady clad herself in grey,
That caught and clung about her throat;
Then all the long grey winter day
On me a living splendour smote;
And why grey palmers holy are,
And why grey minsters great in story,
And grey skies ring the morning star,
And grey hairs are a crown of glory.
My Lady clad herself in green,
Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;
Then round my spirit spread, I ween,
A splendour of forgotten grass.
Then all that dropped of stem or sod,
Hoarded as emeralds might be,
I bowed to every bush, and trod
Amid the live grass fearfully.
My Lady clad herself in blue,
Then on me, like the seer long gone,
The likeness of a sapphire grew,
The throne of him that sat thereon.
Then knew I why the Fashioner
Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;
And ere 'twas good enough for her,
He tried it on Eternity.
Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree
Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:
'The World's a bubble,' solemnly
He read, and turned a second page.
'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,
'God keep you in your weary wit!
'A bubble--have you ever spied
'The colours I have seen on it?'
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An autumn storm
An autumn storm
~
The sky turned grey, clouds rolled over
A wind picked up howling through trees
Birds took flight, flew into hiding
Rain patted down gathering pace
The horizon drew a charcoal grey
While winds picked up and rain ran down
Windows rattled, trees swayed
Whistling high pitch, almost screaming
The storm it came and raged wild
Then as quickly, as sudden as it came
It broke to clear skies, wisps of cloud
A gentle wind rolling through leaves
Rain soaked water dripping down
Drying in the sun now shining
An autumn storm in its passing
Captured the imagination to write
On an otherwise ordinary day
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Fall Leaves
Wind-ripped leaves
cover my yard
severed flesh, leathery
fingers splayed
grip the brick walkway.
Flush winter roses
dropp petals,
red shrouds cover
glistening gold veins
sundered
from ravaged trees.
Yet the trees survive.
mimicking death’s
grey angularity
oblivious to the wind,
nude limbs
lean into the howling storm
and dream of June breezes,
singing green afternoons,
the faithful thrush
thrusting new life to flight.
But for now
black clouds gather
the winter wind sings dirges
for these sacrificial leaves
nourishing the famished earth.
poem by Steven Federle
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