Sense of Smell
Doesn't matter
if you were hiding
from chores
back at the ranch
in the middle of the orchard
or years later
raking leaves and
the dead ones
from the single tree
in your backyard
after a rain
the smell of apples
is still the same
poem by Tom J. Mariani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
In The Fall And When The Autumn Leaves
In the Autumn
When the beauty of the leaves begins to fall
One keeps on raking
Not to think about the beauty nature calls
One keeps on raking
Bagging leaves and wanting to get one and all,
One keeps on raking
And raking
Until their back is aching
In the Autumn
When the beauty of the leaves begins to fall
One keeps on raking
Not to think about the beauty nature calls
One keeps on raking
Bagging leaves and wanting to get one and all
One keeps on raking
And raking
Until their back is aching
One keeps raking
And raking
Until their back is aching
One keeps raking
And raking
Until their back is aching
In the Fall and when the Autumn leaves
Begin to lose their grip from trees
One keeps up raking
And raking
Until their back is aching
One keeps raking
And raking
Until their back is aching
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Backyard Brawl
Got a cut on my thigh, got a nail in my eye
And I'm bleedin' all over the wall
Got a barbed wire bat and a dude on the mat
Ain't getting up soon at all
Got a head full of rage and a belly full of hate
I'm the neighborhood legend that just can't wait
For the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Don't matter who you are, don't matter what color
Brown or white'll do
But if you're yellow you'll be covered in red
A whole lotta black and blue
Jump off the trailer in a pile full o' guys
Scratching and kicking and pulverized
For the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Only got six teeth but three of those
Are sharp enough to bite off your nose
At the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
[Spoken:]
You think you're so tough
You talkin' to me?
You're mine
Come on, let's go
Come on stitches...
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Men In The Leaf Smoke
The old men rake the yards for winter
Burning the autumn-fallen leaves.
They have no lives, the one or the other.
The leaves are dead, the old men live
Only a little, light as a leaf,
Left to themselves of all their loves:
Light in the head most often too.
Raking the leaves, raking the lives,
Raking life and leaf together,
The old men smell of burning leaves
But which is which they wonder &mdash whether
Anyone tells the leaves and loves &mdash
Anyone left, that is, who lives.
poem by Archibald MacLeish
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Flask of Time
There is a single leaf flying
in this my autumn gloaming,
a leaf fluttering light
as if being orchestrated
by your words in flight
rushing to my inner ear;
'I have fallen in love
with another you said.'
My leaf stammered,
swaying in its downward flight
unable to remount the tree,
terrified to crash the ground
suspended forever there
as was also true of your words;
better to not reach my inner ear
better to not have my leaf touch down dead.
Between us all these years
neither war, nor peace;
we existed in the troubled middle ground
purgatoried, unsensed, fluttering, leaf bound
frozen between tree and ground.
Now you have burned our tree down-
lit the leaf and made it flame-
and pulled from under us the very ground.
No matter the dead leaves, the burning tree
no matter the absent ground
these things will
in turn return
for the seasons never-end.
Therefore, I shall take my sip of sorrow
sipped slowly from my Flask of Time
and await
the Spring.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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His Old Dog
His old dog now in her long rest her lot will be ours one day
In her grave by the apple tree in his backyard her bones forever lay
She passed on a few years ago with sadness he recall
The clock of life keeps ticking on and time takes care of us all.
His old dog a black and white border collie to him was a true friend
Far more devoted than his ex wife she loved him till her end
He found her dead in her kennel from a heart attack over-night
Though twelve years old she had not shown signs that her end was in sight.
Although he always kept a dog in years and decades past
No canine now in his backyard his old bitch was the last
Dog for to bark in his back-yard he too feels the weight of time
It has been five decades or more since he was in his prime.
On the rose tree on the old dog's grave red roses are in bloom
And the Summer air scents sweetly of Nature's own perfume
And no more beautiful place to rest in peace than beside an
apple tree
In the backyard where you lived your life in your Hometown by the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It Really Doesn't Matter
You say your ugly, i say it doesn't matter.
You say you have a dark past,
i say it doesn't matter.
You say theirs overwhelming responsibility,
i say it doesn't matter.
I don't believe in walking away when things get hard.
In fact they are my spark to continue my march.
Through thick and thin where to begin.
You say you don't have a way.
I say it doesn't matter.
You say that you cant give back what you would like.
I say it doesn't matter.
You say, you say oh it really doesn't matter,
I live one day at a time.
Choices will be made that will save the day
but hurt me financially.
It doesn't matter Choice will be made
that will set me back in my expectations.
It doesn't matter,
It really doesn't matter.
Its well worth it.
To see the beauty that
you have placed before me.
Oh how its worth it.
To settle down and not be looking to be found.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Giving Tree
Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'
And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.
And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Orchard Lands Of Long Ago
The orchard lands of Long Ago!
O drowsy winds, awake, and blow
The snowy blossoms back to me,
And all the buds that used to be!
Blow back along the grassy ways
Of truant feet, and lift the haze
Of happy summer from the trees
That trail their tresses in the seas
Of grain that float and overflow
The orchard lands of Long Ago!
Blow back the melody that slips
In lazy laughter from the lips
That marvel much if any kiss
Is sweeter than the apple's is.
Blow back the twitter of the birds--
The lisp, the titter, and the words
Of merriment that found the shine
Of summer-time a glorious wine
That drenched the leaves that loved it so,
In orchard lands of Long Ago!
O memory! alight and sing
Where rosy-bellied pippins cling,
And golden russets glint and gleam,
As, in the old Arabian dream,
The fruits of that enchanted tree
The glad Aladdin robbed for me!
And, drowsy winds, awake and fan
My blood as when it overran
A heart ripe as the apples grow
In orchard lands of Long Ago!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Apple Orchard
A sunny afternoon, with blanket spread,
Beneath some apple trees, with ample shade,
We'd sit with tray of tea and gingerbread,
Scones with cream, and these were freshly homemade.
Apples hung above us, each ripe and red,
So colourful, they somehow set the scene.
Sampling strawberry jam on thin sliced shortbread,
We'd lay and watch the leaves, with sun between.
Peaceful lazy days were these, and so free,
Whiling away hours, with paint and book,
Our orchard, where under a favoured tree,
We'd relish Peter Pan and Captain Hook.
Those rosy apples, that we'd all consume,
And savour juicy flesh so soft and sweet,
Eating them until we had no more room,
Those halcyon days were to us a treat.
Dappled sunshine sparkled amids the boughs,
And danced on, with a gentle pleasing sway,
Oh What I would give to again just browse,
In that apple orchard, for one more day.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Aunty Anna's Orchard
it was the largest house
next to it an orchard
full of apple and plum trees
and one lonesome old pear tree
in the corner of the backyard
this was
where she spent several summers
most of her time
leaning against
the gnarled trunk
she could dream
she could hide
she could feel free
for a few minutes
or all day
she could watch
the growth of the leaves
creating a green roof
it was a shelter
if some rain fell
the glorious pear blossoms
and it's private perfume
filled her room
for a while
the blossom leaves disappear
with the wind
more than a few
stayed behind
for coloring a carpet
on the floor
sometimes
nothing happened
nothing changed
all though she was not being patient
about the growth of the pears
out of reach
high in her old tree
still standing on her toes
she needed to be tall
she stretched every day
and grew too
at last
picking that first pear
enjoying that view above
showing she would reap
very soon
so much more
she just had to wait
for the pears to fall
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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August
THERE WERE four apples on the bough,
Half gold half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.
The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the cloven veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.
There were four apples on the tree,
Red stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.
The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun,
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady’s feet
Draw close before the day were done;
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.
In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.
That August time it was delight
To watch the red moons wane to white
’Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees;
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.
But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.
I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.
The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root
Felt the mould warmer: I too felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.
There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Just because someone's dead doesn't mean it's over. My grandfather died more than 25 years ago, but I still think of him a lot and smell his smell.
quote by Julian Clary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cat and The Apple Tree
A house in the garden
Un-robed compound
Dried leaves stretched out
Under an apple tree
Ripen apples fell down
And on the tree like bulbs
Being rotten lied on the floor
Making a quite picture
Leaves fall one by one
Letting to be naked
Surrounding nature gets ready
To warm up the winter
Through a side opened window
An old cat was sitting on the sill
Saying something to ins and outs
On one cannot understand
Postman comes and puts into the box
On one comes to open it
A rain with a rough wind last night
Ruined the apple tree
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thought Frost Could Not Surprise Me
Robert Frost is one of the ones
That got me started
When the only poems I would read
Had to be assigned
'Read pages 21 to 28 and
on Monday be prepared
to discuss campare and contrast.'
Yeah - yeah more homework
Thank God Robert was in there
Somewhere between
Pages 21 to 28
I don't recall which one grabbed me
But he had me looking for more
On my own nothing due by Friday
We talked about doubt and
Dealing with death 'OUT, OUT-'
This was before I met Macbeth
Robert was talking to me
Not down at me
I thought I knew him
I've invited him to family funerals
'Reluctance' got him a ticket
To my great-grandmother's
'Bravado' to her daughter's
'Devotion' for my father
'Never Again Would Bird's
Song Be The Same' shared
With my mother aunts in chorus
Today he surprised me
Found some humor in there
That I had read over before
I tripped over his cow
'...IN APPLE TIME
As a very young youngster
I was at our family ranch
When it had cattle and apples
Part of my job
Was to keep them apart
Robert shows in this poem
He knew why better than I
While she the cow
May scorn 'a pasture
withering to the root.'
He knows what happens
When as he describes
'Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit.'
Don't look for Adam and Eve
Allthough they may have been on his mind
Get out of the way when 'She leaves'
the apples 'bitten when she has to fly.'
AKA The green apple dirties
That's what my great-grandmother
Called the affliction when I had eaten
Too many free apples off the trees
AKA The back door trots
Quickest way to the outhouse
It was more important
And not as funny when
A cow would get into the orchard
As Robert ends his poem
'She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry'
If it's taken me this long to get this
What hope is there for generations hence
Whoes apples all have bar codes on each one
In season they are not free
They are going to overthink this poem
poem by Tom J. Mariani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old Flower....
there is only one flower that i have
i am hiding it behind my back
and it is not for you
it is for someone else..
i am hiding it behind my back
so you may not see what it is
so you may not quarrel about it
it is for someone else...
i have only one flower in my hand
behind my back
it does not have complete petals
it is wilted and does not have any scent
it is dead
it is a dead flower and it am hiding it behind my back
it is for someone else....
this is an old flower that i have taken
from my antique trunk
tonight i shall burn it
and it shall have the smoke
which shall tell my story
to the cold moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Last Night
Well, there's a light in your eyes
That's guiding my way to your doorstep
And your voice called my name
With a sound that I've never known
I was a kid in a comicbook-world looking for answers
When out of the darkness she came
Like a cat on a crown
In the middle of the night
Doesn't care if it's late
Doesn't matter if it's right
And I laugh when I think
I may never have knocked on your door
(Chorus:)
Last night
You turned a frightened little boy into a man without shame
Last night
We tore the hands off a clock and it read just the same
Last night
I had a crazy little dream and you turned it all around
Last Night
We took a chance, we shook it up, and now the world's upside down
All the fire in your heart
And the heat of your touch I'll remember
And you're dancing like a flame
Perfection in motion
It was the masterpiece from the start
Only you and I could have rendered
And I'll never be the same
I'm a cat on a crown
In the middle of the night
Doesn't care if it's late
Doesn't matter if it's right
And I laugh when I think
I may never have knocked on your door
(Repeat chorus)
(Instrumental break)
Like a cat on a crown
In the middle of the night
Doesn't matter if it's late
Doesn't matter if it's right
'Cause I laugh when I think
I may never have knocked on your door
(Repeat chorus)
Last night...
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bohemian Folk-Song
(From the French)
The moon was in the sky,
Pale, pale her light had grown
I went into the forest
All alone.
All alone,
My heart was well-nigh glad,
But when I thought of thee
Grief came and made me sad.
It came with the winds of autumn
When the dead leaves drop from the tree,
Because thy heart hath forgotten
Thy lover afar from thee.
It came with the rain fast falling
Through the dead leaves again,
Because that over a dead love
The heart must weep like rain.
poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pity For Poor Africans
I own I am shocked at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.
I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see;
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea?
Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes,
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains:
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will:
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.
If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they got riches by purchasing blacks,
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?
Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind
A story so pat, you may think it is coined,
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint;
But I can assure you I saw it in print.
A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
And asked him to go and assist in the job.
He was shocked, sir, like you, and answered -- 'Oh, no
What! rob our good neighbour? I pray you don't go!
Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread;
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.'
'You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.'
They spoke, and Tom pondered --'I see they will go:
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could,
But staying behind will do him no good.
'If the matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they dropped from the tree;
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too:
He will lose none by me, though I get a few.'
His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize;
He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan;
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.
poem by William Cowper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: the Drumstick Tree
The drumstick-tree I thought was dead and gone
Is fully clothed by green leaves and flowers;
The bees are active and some fruits are born;
The tree awaits August’s Monsoon showers.
I see the tree growing so fast each morn;
My eyes perceive not the blossoming act;
How well does Nature heal its parts much torn;
Human beings are blind with eyes- the fact.
So, numerous small birds visit the tree,
To eat the flowers that gets dropped nearby;
The tree makes the backyard look so lovely;
Some Millipedes remain and will not die!
The tree looks resurrected, simply great!
God gave a new lease and a newer date.
7-31-2000
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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