En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Neutral Tones

WE stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
--They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro--
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing....

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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The timetable of four

The golden glows of sunlight hit me
The smell of freshly cut grass reached me
The sight of freedom exhilarated me
The sounds of birds intrigued me

The beauty around me radiated from everything
The long open stretches of grass
The shady woodlands going on and on
The unending number of livening creatures

The cawing raven in the tree branches
The worm busily digging in the soil
The fish swimming idly in the pond
The child playing happily in the park

It is summer now but soon it will change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Autumn
I’ll still be in my tree

The children are playing in the heaps of leaves
The leaves have all gone a golden colour
The ravens are searching for bugs in the leaves
The fish are swimming slower in their pond

It is Autumn now but it will soon change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Winter
I’ll still be in my tree

There are no children playing
There are no leaves on the trees
The ravens have all gone south
There are no fish in the pond

It is Winter now but it will soon change
It will soon change
It will soon change into spring
I’ll still be in my tree

The children are starting to come back
The ravens are backing cawing in the trees
There is new fish in the pond
There are new buds on the trees

It is Spring now but soon it will change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Summer
I’ll still be in my tree

Waiting
Watching
Writing
Thinking

poem by Eben S J
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The Swan ~ A Villanelle

Floating upon the crystal pond
She kept wearing her diamond crown
While the other white swan was gone

Never doubting their fierce loving bond
As the leaves went from reddish to brown
Floating upon the crystal pond

Her blue eyes searching far beyond
Couldn't see that he'd recently drowned
While the other white swan was gone

So curling, becoming withdrawn
When ten suns in the sky settled down
Floating upon the crystal pond

She talked to the geese that were blond
And asked where he was with a frown
While the other white swan was gone

They cared not and didn't respond
In the reeds was a kings golden crown
Floating upon the crystal pond
While the other white swan was gone

poem by Sara Fielder
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A Kingfisher On A Dead Tree

on a glass pond
a dead tree stands
perched is a kingfisher
on one of its weak twigs

i sit alone on a
rock thinking about nothing
i must have been lost
this day

blue wings and some
white feathers on the neck
black sharp beak
the kingfisher looks at me

a leaf falls on the glass pond
the eyes of the kingfisher
and my eyes ride on the ripple
like small paper boats
going nowhere

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Pond

Night covers the pond with its wing.
Under the ringed moon I can make out
your face swimming among minnows and the small
echoing stars. In the night air
the surface of the pond is metal.

Within, your eyes are open. They contain
a memory I recognize, as though
we had been children together. Our ponies
grazed on the hill, they were gray
with white markings. Now they graze
with the dead who wait
like children under their granite breastplates,
lucid and helpless:

The hills are far away. They rise up
blacker than childhood.
What do you think of, lying so quietly
by the water? When you look that way I want
to touch you, but do not, seeing
as in another life we were of the same blood.

poem by Louise Gluck
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The heart of a tree

With branches reaching out as if for a embrace
The tree may bow to nature with grace.
He stands alone when the wind blows strong.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
In winter's cold chill, You can see the tree stand still.
Leaves are gone but the tree stands strong.
Until winter turns into spring and the birds begin to sing.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
Through storms and the wind. Bowing with a graceful bend,
Until the sun shines again, still standing at the end,
The tree is like a true friend.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eye can't see,
Like the heart of a tree.
The old Tree's secrets
How many lovers sat together under the old tree?
If only the tree could speak.
The stories would be of weary travelers
finding a place of peace, and dreams in their sleep.
Stolen moments of lovers, perhaps a sweet caress.
A young man with a ring, a young girl said yes.
Tree I only imagine, I enjoy the guess.
Gentle breezes that lifted the leaves
to let them gently fall to earth.
Misting rain to meet the tree's thirst,
Perhaps two trees inter-twined are
Two lovers that were curst.

poem by Judy Arline Puckett
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When Green Leaves Come again

WHEN green leaves come again, my love,
When green leaves come again,--
Why put on such a cloudy face,
When green leaves come again?

'Ah, this spring will be like the last,
Of promise false and vain;
And summer die in winter's arms
Ere green leaves come again.

'So slip the seasons--and our lives;
'T is idle to complain:
But yet I sigh, I scarce know why,
When green leaves come again.'

Nay, lift up thankful eyes, my sweet!
Count equal, lost and gain:
Because, as long as the world lasts,
Green leaves will come again.

For, sure as earth lives under snows,
And Love lives under pain,
'T is good to sing with everything,
'When green leaves come again.'

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Autumn In July

It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Waldon Pond Productions
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Liebestraum

ripples of the clear pond
a white swan
dignified to its own interpretation
of flight

tiny leaves from cypress trees
browning
the earth still so usual to its deep
silence

the last note is played on the piano

a little bird jumps out
from my hair and begins to sing

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Broken Down Angel

She used to be someone you could depend on
To brighten up your coldest winter day
But the one she leaned upon
Let her down, noow has moved on
And morning brings another empty day
Now shes only a broken down angel
Shes only a bird thats broke her wing
Shes only someone, somone whos gone wrong
Shes only a child thats lost her way
She used to be a girl of simple pleasures
A breath of spring to chase your blues away
But now she bears a cross, for a love that she has lost
No sunshine in her life just clouds of gray
Now shes only a broken down angel
Shes only a bird thats broke her wing
Shes only someone, somone whos gone wrong
Shes only a child thats lost her way
Shes only a broken down angel
Shes only a bird thats broke her wing
Shes only someone, somone whos gone wrong
Shes only a child thats lost her way
Now shes only a broken down angel
Shes only a bird thats broke her wing
Shes only someone, somone whos gone wrong
Shes only a child thats lost her way

song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Holly-Tree

O reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;
But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree
Can emblem see
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, -
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere;
To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And should my youth - as youth is apt, I know, -
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I, day by day,
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree? -

So, serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they;
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-tree.

poem by Robert Southey
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We stood at the sea on a winter day

We stood at the sea on a winter day,
the waves were grey
as if made from steel
and rain was sifting from the sky
with bleak clouds covering the sun
as if it would not shine for months to come

and I felt almost lifeless
when your eyes avoided mine
roving away to the distant bay

and somehow I had lost the thing
that brought the magic to us
and the spark in the touch,
your voice and eye was gone
and my legs felt like lead.

We stood at the sea on a winter day
and the sun was cursed away,
our love was dead
and I learnt how easy love could deceive
and the pain shaped me
into someone else.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I C E D A N C E R

In engaging a walk, on a Winter's crisp morn,
On a snow-feathered path,
Glazed with ice-ladened branches,
Lies a Pond of most striking impression,
Mother Nature's Kiss.
Crystalized Ice in the shape of a Heart,
An ardor of Winter's Majesty.
Subtle breezes stir the Pines,
As I step towards the Mirror-like Pond.
Wafts of Snow leave their landing
And looking up I'm bedaubed,
With a breath-chilling freckling Snowmist.
And the Pond, an image of Celestial capture,
A figuration of amorous grandeur.
Its surface in shades of Silver and Amber;
Kaleidoscopic, from the young Sun in Birth.
A spindrifting Breeze
Snares the cusp of my Nose,
And my eyes close.
The Wind changes course, and am soon alerted
To a clarion Whisper before me.
I open my Eyes with anxious Emotion,
And behold a most Utopic Impression.
'Tis a Maiden donned softly in White Linen gown
Kneeling, poised, at the edge of the Pond.
Lacing gold bladed skates, clad with Pearl-studded Leather,
Reflecting its Beauty, towards the new Rising Sun,
And nodding her head, she has acknowledged my awed presence.
I respond with a Shy, Boyish grin.
Then a curling, sweet Smile adorns her Lips
As she engages the ice, and begins her dance.
Swirling, encircling, indulged in her Whimsy, each Movement
A freeze-frame of Grace...
My Breath far behind me, as she raises her arms,
And with her Eyes, she beckons me closer.
Sweat on my temples, Sun gaining strength...
I haven't much Time, for Daybreak has sprung.
Mother Nature no Friend now, to my Lady in waiting;
I must counter and lay her to Shade.
I stumble to the Pond, but alas, I descry,
As all's left be an Oval of crisp, muddled water,
A Teardrop, as I watch in open Sorrow,
And the Wonder if my Lady had escaped her Eclipse,
And the Soulburning Hope, that this not be a dream.
So I'll sit by this Pond, wait for night's frosted stage,
And my Icedancer's Encore.........

poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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We Were Talking Under The Talisay Tree

we were talking under the talisay tree
about our future
one summer
when the leaves are brown
and falling to the ground

where the red ants
are busy taking their food
under a heap of
dry leaves

we will be there
to reach our destinies

but we may not be there
together

there is always a season for me
and for you
the wisdom lies in the waiting
the goodness in the waiting

and the beauty that we will see
lies in the content of our eyes
the tranquility of the pond
where the moss begins
to grow again
in stones.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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274

we were talking under the talisay tree
about our future
one summer
when the leaves are brown
and falling to the ground

where the red ants
are busy taking their food
under a heap of
dry leaves

we will be there
to reach our destinies

but we may not be there
together

there is always a season for me
and for you
the wisdom lies in the waiting
the goodness in the waiting

and the beauty that we will see
lies in the content of our eyes
the tranquility of the pond
where the moss begins
to grow again
in stones.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chemin De Fer

Alone on the railroad track
I walked with pounding heart.
The ties were too close together
or maybe too far apart.

The scenery was impoverished:
scrub-pine and oak; beyond
its mingled gray-green foliage
I saw the little pond

where the dirty old hermit lives,
lie like an old tear
holding onto its injuries
lucidly year after year.

The hermit shot off his shot-gun
and the tree by his cabin shook.
Over the pond went a ripple
The pet hen went chook-chook.

"Love should be put into action!"
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
tried and tried to confirm it.

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Fallen In Love

Pardon me
What a rare mood Im in
Check the glorious grin
And the bright eyes above
Well, excuse me world for being alive
At last Ive arrived
Ive fallen in love
Ate with augustine monks, babbled in tongues
Climbed the highest hill in peru
Took a walk on the ganges, peeled the wraps of rameses
Slayed me a dragon or two
Turned saviors and saints, and little green men
Moonshine and miracle drugs
But I never quite saw the light
till I fell in love
Pondered zen and zoroaster, and the life ever after
Blavatsky, marx, moliere
Found jesus and siddhartha in a bar in djakarta
Chatting where the air is quite rare
Let solomon keep his philosophers stone
Let jove keep his heavens above
To my mind it aint near as divine as falling in love
Im in love!
Pardon me
What a rare mood Im in
Check the glorious grin
And the bright eyes above
Well, excuse me world for being alive
At last Ive arrived
To my mind it aint near as divine
Not nearly as sweet and sublime
As falling in love
Im in love!
Pardon me
What a rare mood Im in
Check the glorious grin
And the bright eyes above
Well, excuse me world for being alive
At last Ive arrived
Ive fallen in love
Im in love
Fallen in love

song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fergus Falling

He climbed to the top
of one of those million white pines
set out across the emptying pastures
of the fifties - some program to enrich the rich
and rebuke the forefathers
who cleared it all at once with ox and axe -
climbed to the top, probably to get out
of the shadow
not of those forefathers but of this father
and saw for the first time
down in its valley, Bruce Pond, giving off
its little steam in the afternoon,

pond where Clarence Akley came on Sunday mornings to cut down
the cedars around the shore, I'd sometimes hear the slow spondees
of his work, he's gone,
where Milton Norway came up behind me while I was fishing and
stood awhile before I knew he was there, he's the one who put the
cedar shingles on the house, some have curled or split, a few have
blown off, he's gone,
where Gus Newland logged in the cold snap of '58, the only man will-
ing to go into those woods that never got warmer than ten below,
he's gone,
pond where two wards of hte state wandered on Halloween, the Na-
tional Guard searched for them in November, in vain, the next fall a
hunter found their skeletons huddled together, in vain, they're
gone,
pond where an old fisherman in a rowboat sits, drowning hooked
worms, when he goes he's replaced and is never gone,

and when Fergus
saw the pond for the first time
in the clear evening, saw its oldness down there
in its old place in the valley, he became heavier suddenly
in his bones
the way fledglings do just before they fly,
and the soft pine cracked.

I would not have heard his cry
if my electric saw had been working,
its carbide teeth speeding through the bland spruce of our time, or
burning
black arcs into some scavenged hemlock plank,
like dark circles under eyes
when the brain thinks too close to the skin,
but I was sawing by hand and I heard that cry
as though he were attacked; we ran out,
when we bent over him he said, "Galway, Inés, I saw a pond!"
His face went gray, his eyes fluttered close a frightening
moment.

Yes - a pond
that lets off its mist
on clear afternoons of August, in that valley
to which many have come, for their reasons,
from which many have gone, a few for their reasons, most not,
where even now and old fisherman only the pinetops can see
sits in the dry gray wood of his rowboat, waiting for pickerel.

poem by Galway Kinnell
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I Remember You As You Were

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

poem by Pablo Neruda
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The Quest

I am looking for Love. Has he passed this way,
With eyes as blue as the skies of May,
And a face as fair as the summer dawn?--
You answer back, but I wander on,--
For you say: 'Oh, yes; but his eyes were gray,
And his face as dim as a rainy day.'

Good friends, I query, I search for Love;
His eyes are as blue as the skies above,
And his smile as bright as the midst of May
When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this way?
And one says: 'Ay; but his face, alack!
Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black.'

O who will tell me of Love? I cry!
His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky,
And his face as bright as the morning sun;
And you answer and mock me, every one,
That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan,
And he passed you frowning and wandered on.

But stout of heart will I onward fare,
Knowing _my_ Love is beyond--somewhere,--
The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue,
And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you;
And on from the hour his trail is found
I shall sing sonnets the whole year round.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Some Tears

Water that sprays my eyes,
whose drops awake my sighs.
I close and the tears get off my eyes.
The tears were the water in the pond
that I smashed from a thin frond.

The sparkles wake up from the gravity
and show the dance of nature
like roaming in rainbow city
The white water finally splits
And again get into my eyes
and now the tears of elated highs.

Then later, sits with me a little girl,
sees the fishes of the pond that swirls
I saw, she smashes, the drops jump
I smile and the water rumps
to my eyes and stick towards the untouched (from water) girl
whose tears do not hurl

poem by Ravin Sharma
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