Sir, Say No More
Sir, say no more.
Within me 't is as if
The green and climbing eyesight of a cat
Crawled near my mind's poor birds.
poem by Trumbull Stickney
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The Sorrows of the Blind
Pity the sorrows of the poor blind,
For they can but little comfort find;
As they walk along the street,
They know not where to put their feet.
They are deprived of that earthly joy
Of seeing either man, woman, or boy;
Sad and lonely through the world they go,
Not knowing a friend from a foe:
Nor the difference betwixt day and night,
For the want of their eyesight;
The blind mother cannot see her darling boy,
That was once her soul's joy.
By day and night,
Since she lost her precious sight;
To her the world seems dark and drear,
And she can find no comfort here.
She once found pleasure in reading books,
But now pale and careworn are her looks.
Since she has lost her eyesight,
Everything seems wrong and nothing right.
The face of nature, with all its beauties and livery green,
Appears to the blind just like a dream.
All things beautiful have vanished from their sight,
Which were once their heart's delight.
The blind father cannot see his beautiful child, nor wife,
That was once the joy of his life;
That he was wont to see at morn and night,
When he had his eyesight.
All comfort has vanished from him now,
And a dejected look hangs on his brow.
Kind Christians all, both great and small,
Pity the sorrows of the blind,
They can but little comfort find;
Therefore we ought to be content with our lot,
And for the eyesight we have got,
And pray to God both day and night
To preserve our eyesight;
To be always willing to help the blind in their distress,
And the Lord will surely bless
And guard us by night and day,
And remember us at the judgment day.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Poor Can Feed the Birds
Ragged, unheeded, stooping, meanly shod,
The poor pass to the pond: not far away
The spires go up to God.
Shyly they come from the unpainted lane;
Coats have they made of old unhappiness
That keeps in every pain.
The rich have fear, perchance their God is dim;
’Tis with the hope of stored-up happiness
They build the spires to Him.
The rich go out in clattering pomp and dare
In the most holy places to insult
The deep Benevolence there.
But ’tis the poor who make the loving words.
Slowly they stoop; it is a Sacrament:
The poor can feed the birds.
Old, it is old, this scattering of the bread,
Deep as forgiveness, or the tears that go
Out somewhere to the dead.
The feast of love, the love that is the cure
For all indignities—it reigns, it calls,
It chains us to the pure.
Seldom they speak of God, He is too dim;
So without thought of after happiness
They feed the birds for Him.
The rich men walk not here on the green sod,
But they have builded towers, the timorous
That still go up to God.
Still will the poor go out with loving words;
In the long need, the need for happiness
The poor can feed the birds.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Car On A Hill
Ive been sitting up waiting for my sugar to show
Ive been listening to the sirens and the radio
He said hed be over three hours ago
Ive been waiting for his car on the hill
He makes friends easy
Hes not like me
I watch for judgement anxiously
Now where in the city can that boy be
Waiting for a car
Climbing
Climbing
Climbing the hill
Hes a real good talker--i think hes friend
Fast tires come screaming around the bend
But theres still no buzzer
They roll on...
And-Im waiting for his car on the hill
It always seems so righteous at the start
When theres so much laughter
When theres so much spark
When theres so much sweetness in the dark
Waiting for a car
Climbing
Climbing
Climbing the hill
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My singing is part of me, like my stoutness, or my light hair, or my poor eyesight.
quote by Kate Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr. Green
Green leaves tell you
How green your mind is,
Wide boroughs tell you
How broad your mind is,
Velvet grasses tell you
How soft your hair is,
Clean water ponds tell you
How your tears are,
White clouds tell you
How your floating thoughts are,
Birds in group tell you
How you enjoy friend’s company,
Peacock tells you
How you dance in rain,
Lion tells you
How to react with pride,
Deer tells you
How you enjoy your freedom,
And environment tells you
How you can become Mr. Green.
poem by Biswajit Ganguly
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Settled in Nettles
I remember climbing nettles-
Nettles climbing our wooden fence,
The excitement of touching,
The thrill of the blisters-
The red and the oozing
Beneath my long sleeves.
I remember nettle necklaces
Burning the fingers that linked
The green leaves- big green leaf
To big green leaf- How
My neck had red blotches
Itchy and sore. I scratched
And then bled and then wore fluffy scarves.
I remember Justin Whiles
Who scrunched up his face and bit
On his lip and tied me with rope
And dragged the green nettles
Over my skin and asked, 'Why
Did we do this again? '
And now in my cabinets are nettles
In jars- jar after jar- big glass
Jars, brimming with nettles,
Their thick green leaves.
And sometimes the night
Gets quiet and cold
And I walk to my cabinets
And pull down the jars
And pull out the nettles
And bite on the leaves
And bite and then chew
And then swallow the leaves-
Leaf after leaf-
Jar after jar-
Till the night's not so silent.
Till I throw up green mulch
In my hands.
poem by Alicia Adams
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Climbing
High up in the apple tree climbing I go,
With the sky above me, the earth below.
Each branch is the step of a wonderful stair
Which leads to the town I see shining up there.
Climbing, climbing, higher and higher,
The branches blow and I see a spire,
The gleam of a turret, the glint of a dome,
All sparkling and bright, like white sea foam.
On and on, from bough to bough,
The leaves are thick, but I push my way through;
Before, I have always had to stop,
But to-day I am sure I shall reach the top.
Today to the end of the marvelous stair,
Where those glittering pinacles flash in the air!
Climbing, climbing, higher I go,
With the sky close above me, the earth far below.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Blue Swallows
Across the millstream below the bridge
Seven blue swallows divide the air
In shapes invisible and evanescent,
Kaleidoscopic beyond the mind’s
Or memory’s power to keep them there.
“History is where tensions were,”
“Form is the diagram of forces.”
Thus, helplessly, there on the bridge,
While gazing down upon those birds—
How strange, to be above the birds!—
Thus helplessly the mind in its brain
Weaves up relation’s spindrift web,
Seeing the swallows’ tails as nibs
Dipped in invisible ink, writing…
Poor mind, what would you have them write?
Some cabalistic history
Whose authorship you might ascribe
To God? to Nature? Ah, poor ghost,
You’ve capitalized your Self enough.
That villainous William of Occam
Cut out the feet from under that dream
Some seven centuries ago.
It’s taken that long for the mind
To waken, yawn and stretch, to see
With opened eyes emptied of speech
The real world where the spelling mind
Imposes with its grammar book
Unreal relations on the blue
Swallows. Perhaps when you will have
Fully awakened, I shall show you
A new thing: even the water
Flowing away beneath those birds
Will fail to reflect their flying forms,
And the eyes that see become as stones
Whence never tears shall fall again.
O swallows, swallows, poems are not
The point. Finding again the world,
That is the point, where loveliness
Adorns intelligible things
Because the mind’s eye lit the sun.
poem by Howard Nemerov
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When the birds fly
When the birds fly
the mind opens its eye
the heart looks up to the sky
the birds fly.
The birds fly south
the ear opens its mouth
the nose sees summer
the kids they are playing out...
When the birds fly
we dream our words dont die.
Reborn with a babys cry
the birds fly leaving stars
they stay in the night,
we are the birds
we escape to the light.
poem by Daniel McCann
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The Lay of Poor Louise
Ah, poor Louise! the livelong day
She roams from cot to castle gay;
And still her voice and viol say,
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way,
Think on Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The sun was high,
It smirch'd her cheek, it dimm'd her eye,
The woodland walk was cool and nigh,
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie
To cheer Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The savage bear
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair;
The wolves molest not paths so fair-
But better far had such been there
For poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold;
His baldric was of silk and gold,
And many a witching tale he told
To poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine;
For peace of mind that gift divine,
And spotless innocence, were thine,
Ah, poor Louise!
Ah, poor Louise! Thy treasure's reft!
I know not if by force or theft,
Or part by violence, part by gift;
But misery is all that's left
To poor Louise.
Let poor Louise some succour have!
She will not long your bounty crave,
Or tire the gay with warning stave-
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave,
Poor poor Louise.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Diabolist
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
My deepest thoughts
I cannot share
even with my dearest friends.
When I pour my heart out,
when I sing the blues,
their cloven lips
clap, claptrap
on the evening news.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
In the solid core of my mind,
I realize,
Satan can accomplish
nothing without acquiescence.
For all his evil deeds
he needs accomplices.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
From time to time
the Adversary baits and switch.
Discontent is his arsenal tool.
He plays us for the fool
with his enticements.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
Fighting off Diabolist,
anticipating his tricks.
We knew he could act,
we knew he could rap
and we both knew he is wily like that.
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Tree Climbing
When I was 6 years of age,
I would go tree climbing all through the day.
My older brother would say to his friends,
“My sister Suzy can climb highest, you want to bet? ”
I would then look up at the tallest tree,
I knew I could make it without falling on my knee.
Yes, I would go straight to the top,
the top of the highest tree and then I’ld stop,
I would look down to see the world,
I was the happiest little girl.
All the trees where close together,
I felt like a bird with a lot of feathers.
I had made it to where the birds do roam,
I was at the top of the tower at my throne.
This reminds me of “Rising of the Planet of the Apes,
When Cornelius was happy to escape.
Climbing the tallest tree,
watching him brought back memories.
Memories of my tree climbing days,
I will always remember it in a special kind of way.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 28,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Those that have seen you never came back
You must notice by now
Those that have seen you
The birds that once stopped by your window
The vine with flowers climbing the walls
Beside your house
They have seen you
My happiness, my love
The birds have flown away and the vines have long wilted
After a glance and they have no way wanting to see you again
But I, who has seen you, shall come again
Even to kneel again before you
On a sunset behind your antiquated walls
Because I love you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green, Green, and More Green
There is green everywhere,
even in peoples' hair.Some
on hands, some on shirts.
There is green everywhere!
Green, green, and more green.
I think I'm going crazy over green.
If you don't wear green you get pinched,
then you'll start to itch.
So many people are obsessed with green.
Green Spring, green air.Green feet, green wheat, green meat.
Green isn't very neat!
poem by Autumn Howard
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One Who Can Be My Lord!
Running along the coast,
Climbing the mountain peaks
and ghats man made towers,
Walking along the unknown
paths
here and there in the green meadows,
Searching along the stream,
Raising above the clouds of trifles
to look at the rainbow,
I never found one,
I couldn't as there
wouldn't any one!
The one with that golden feet on
which my head can rest!
So many saints and so many
books,
some were giants and some
were crooks!
They offer not only nuts that are hard to crack,
But Some were most intelligents
to give iron Ingots for my
nuggets,
Some offered their impractical thoughts full of magots,
Some are too selfish,
showed that old books half eaten
by termites and silverfish!
Only thing I understood by all
these,
The green forest and meadows
once if become desert, no one
can create that lush green
meadow or forest and singing birds,
Springing water, which I can
drink, watch and rest
Sprinting deer, dancing peacock,
shining rainbow in my heart!
If some one is able to bring all these glory back,
All that was green,
He can be my Lord forever!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Haunting Mystery of Kollihills(Hills of the Ghosts)
I sallied out for the first time in 1980
with my friend, skillful to cut jokes,
on a sinuous road with curves and bends
to Kollihills well known for herbs and rills.
When the bus rolled down a little
and crawled up on a hair-pin bend,
we were speechless with fear-laid eyes.
We were off the bus at noon
and looked at the way down
leading to the famous water-falls.
“ Shall I come with you? ”-a fair lady
of our age in a sable sari
and a bunch of jasmine on her head
asked and smiled at us.
We looked at each other and grinned:
“ Oh, you’re welcome”
We put on frills to our speech
and queried if she wasn’t feared.
Smiles were her silent answer.
“ There are no secure footholds,
you take my hand”, we both yelled
and stretched our hands in glee.
“ He is like your brother. Don’t worry.
Hasn’t your husband come? ”
Before I finished my words,
my well-built friend eyed me with shock
and gave of fraternal fumes.
But the charmer began to cry
and shed scalding tears.
I put a salve somehow on her hurt heart.
The precipices failed to alarm us
as we were sailing in the sky.
“Look! The monkeys screech”,
I tried to divert her mind.
But she never looked up at the trees.
We felt that our knees were breaking
and gasped for speech.
But she was hoping down with ease.
We’re thrilled by the shrill sounds of birds
but she had no ears for them.
When we got a peep at the falls
that was pouring down from sky high hills,
we cried cheers to all.
But she wasn’t stirred a bit.
My friend rushed to have a bath
And I let loose my flowery speech
but found hard to enter into
the sanctum of her heart.
“ You too go and come back soon.
I’ve to hurry up to meet my lover”,
when she spoke unfalteringly
I ran to dip and clean my mind.
When we were climbing up,
we worshipped an idol on the way,
but she kept away seeing somewhere.
“ Sister, you seem to be rational”,
when I blabbered slowly,
my friend bobbed his head
and whispered: “ You poor sap! ”.
For us, it was a long pull to the top of the hills,
but she wasn’t the least tired.
We called her to have some drinks.
She refused and sat on a rock.
We went and sipped some herbal drinks
and turned up soon to see the rock blank.
When we were looking here and there,
the shopkeeper smiled and said:
“ Oh, you search that lady,
you can’t find her again;
She came here a decade back with her lover
but she was left alone to roam here.
She appears here at noon to visit the falls,
but not found anywhere afterwards”.
We were shocked to hear his words
and sauntered towards the bus waiting.
When I visited again the Kollihills and falls
with new friends of new schools,
climbing down or up was easier for me,
for I was carrying her in my mind
till I left the mysterious hills,
where the souls of the sages of Siddha cult
said to be roaming to save people from the ghosts.
----
Note: It is in Namakkal District, TamilNadu, India.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Abstraction Fo The Word Chirp....
i hear birds chirping
early morning
on those trees
clouds arrive, light
spreads,
green becomes too green
in the fields of
life,
i hear birds chirping
sweet to my ear
i give it priority
abstract. delet morning
move out clouds from the picture
double click green fields
focus on life
delet birds
add volume to chirping
it is all chirping now
just chirping
chirping chirping
the essence of chirp.
i have abstracted it from
everything else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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May Song
BIRDS in the green of my garden
Blackbirds and throstle and wren,
Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
And so to your singing again!
Birds in my blossoming orchard,
Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark,
Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;
The May trees grow white in the park!
Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
Cuckoo and nightingale brown,
Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground--
The rain on green leaves dripping down!
Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
Rich with the promise of June,
Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part,
Love, like a bird, sings in tune!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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To Be Happy! !
Listen To The Beat Drops
Hanging In The Tree
Listen To The Beat Drops
Be Careful Of The Bee
Go...Ahead...Climbing Up The Sky
Sweep...The stars...Go Glancing Together
All Is To Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Be Happy Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Though You Have A Bit Of
Gloominess In Mind
Never Mind Of The
Hard Part Of Life
Oh...Yeah Be Careful Of The Bee
Listen To The Beat Drops
Hanging In The Tree
Go...Ahead...Climbing Up The Sky
Sweep...The Stars...Go Glancing Together
All Is To Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Happy Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Be In Present
Thinking Of The Future
Never Let Yourself
Broken Down And Cry
Go...Ahead...Climbing Up The Sky
Sweep...The Stars..Go Glancing Together
All Is To Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Be Happy Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
To Be Happy.....Everyday...
To Be Happy......Everyhours...
To Be Happy......FOREVER...
Go..Ahead Climbing Up....
poem by Ashmiya Thalvan
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The Rim Of Green
Green panties, green roses
green tits, green milk.
Green moon, posies in green.
green eyes, green full lips
green face, cheese, green..
Green around the rim,
green limes can but erupt...?
poem by Is It Poetry
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