Making Things Right In Exile - After the Chinese Poet, Po Chui 772 - 846 CE
He rests awhile in the wide orchard
where bright plum flowers rain. He
unrolls his pallet to sleep inside
the humming glade.
'Raiment, ' he writes in his sleepy
head, 'of leaves and bees. An old man
puts the best plum in his sleeve to
bring home to his bitter wife.'
'Why strive when nature is bounteous
and all ills can be made right with
wet sweetness? '
poem by Warren Falcon
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Po Chu-i, Ancient Governor - 772-846 CE, From Far Away Thinks On His Angry Wife
Of Po Chu-i: 'As one of his poems explains,
he suffered from paralysis at the end of his
life, one leg becoming useless.'
'A well-fed contentment...
is there no greater achievement in life? '
Her heavy face displaces among
clouds, is swollen with hard tears,
her sorrowful gaze calls for the
always hungry child that was lost
when they were poor, without work
and down on luck. The frozen ground
reluctantly yields these many years
to slowly make his little grave,
too long unmarked.
It now wears a monument tall, of finest jade.
'Too late for you, Little Stinger, '
he carves it himself, again and again,
years now, upon the stone,
'A well-fed contentment...'
and all the rest, but in his
mind it is never done.
'Old Po Chu-i, ' he thinks to himself,
writing another verse in his head,
his own epitaph upon the other side
of the jade-stone, 'now rides a wild
horse to the end of all roads.'
Weary with the business of state.
Of commerce he can now care less
though he once was poor and
one dear son has died as a result,
'Pffftt! Old wife will never let me forget.'
'Of pleasing the inconsolable, '
he writes such in his head,
upon horseback, in the mane
and the tail poems wait to be
untangled, brushed smooth
with the ink and quill of miles
until there is some rest,
a cozy inn rare, more a tent
pitched which gives much simple
peace compared to the mansion
back home in the wealthy province,
the ponds full, the barns full,
the servants many and busy,
all the fruit of miles traveled
to keep the fragile peace which
needs constant mending,
'much like a wife.'
'It is as it is, and should be, '
he thinks, 'it is of love these
conditions come, bringing many
mouths and fuller hearts to break,
for love like life seeks to be
undone again and again.'
'Such is the life the Allotter
gives. Why complain when one
has the gift of a patient horse,
steady, an obedient, good companion? '
'Why lament when eyes are still
able to rejoice at beauty of all
kinds, for even of human woes
which break the heart much music
can be made, and without false pity.'
'And without false pity, ' he sings,
'a coin can be given and heaven
restored until the next pang of
hunger, from this real friendship
with strangers is born, the best,
of gentleness without debt,
untangling from mane to mind.'
'Untangling from mane to mind,
one finds, takes, such real
pleasures as they come and,
thanking the glad day, banks
them in the vaulted heart.'
Not given to self-pity, only
fond of nostalgic reminiscence,
he loves fabrics smooth, soft,
purchased in Yangshao, where
he loves the Spring's First
Blossom Girl with whom he grew
up, courting her near the auspicious
old well of Silk Moths Aplenty.
He thinks of these and many things
upon his horse during the long journey
through the difficult passages,
'Through the difficult passages
one cannot avoid accumulating
much dust, ' he composes out
loud for the horse to hear,
'perhaps our only wealth,
dear friend, of friendless miles.'
He rests awhile in the wide
orchard where bright plum flowers
rain, decides to unroll his pallet
to sleep beside the humming glade.
'Raiment, ' he writes in his sleepy head,
'of bees and leaves. An old man puts the
best plum in his sleeve to bring home
to his wife.'
'Why strive when nature is bounteous
and all ills can be made right with
wet sweetness? '
poem by Warren Falcon
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Plum's Destiny
A little plum dropped from the tree
and struck a frog upon his knee.
The frog did hurt and cried a lot
the plum said Oops, I plum forgot.
Which wasn't altogether true
you see a plum is always blue
a frog however must be green
thus he can easily be seen.
So, folks, it truly stands to reason
that in the Fall, the ripening season
a bit of care would be advised
that way a frog is not surprised.
In any case, the knee did swell
the plum just stayed right where it fell,
so in an effort now to heal
the frog fell for the plum appeal.
He grabbed the plum and opened wide
the plum prepared for its last ride.
And said before it was too late
a plum is to be eaten, mate.
So, you can see that those that fall
from trees or buildings, big and tall
will usually just fail to see
the maker of their destiny.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Cherry plum blossom in an old tin jug
Cherry plum blossom in an old tin jug —
Oh, it is lovely, beautiful and fair,
With sun on it and little shadows mixed
All in among the fragrant wonder there.
Cherry plum blossom on the workroom bench
Where we can see it all our working hours.
In all my garden days of ladyhood,
I never met girls who so loved sweet flowers.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Fruit Tree
Twilight, soon it will be dark, sparrows are flying back, god knows
where they have been. A flock meet in my plum tree, there is livid
arguing, who is going sit where. My tree doesn’t bear crops, yet
it is a fruit tree, my neighbour says so. I’m a plum tree too grew
up tall and stylish women flocked around me, I married five times
... and not a bloody plum. Grey trunk, limp leaves and when dusk
comes no one sits on my twigs; I have to invent stories of plums
I never had. Fine plums, juicy plums all of them females that never
matured and left me alone to fend for myself in time of solitude.
Night, and in my heart there a is longing for the unfeasible.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Pluck A Plum Where There Is No Tree
PLUCK A PLUM WHERE THERE IS NO TREE
God who freed
from fruit the seed
can pick a pear
from a baby tree.
God who sired
the hallowed fig
does harvest fruit
from a barren sprig.
God made blooms pastel
and bright fruits
and can a kumquat take
from a tree of quince.
Who made Pluto and
the Pleiades
can pluck a plum
where there is no tree.
================================ =====
(to Senator George Mitchell
.. tireless worker for peace
in America and Europe)
The Sanskrit word for the Wish
Fulfilling Tree is Asritakalpalateeka.
It is spoken of in Revelation.. the
tree with 12 kinds of fruit.)
poem by Saiom Shriver
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07. Love, what is Love?
love, oh what is love?
flowers in so many shapes and hues
giving sweetness to butterflies and bees
in so many shapes and hues
in the field, a buzz, a joy, these insects
help create another world
another paradise, warm colourful flower garden
for lovers of the world
help spread cheers everywhere
with the sweetness the flowers
where the flowers are, the butterflies, the bees are
where there is love, joy spreads
wide as the field
just look at the butterflies and the bees
how they cheer up the field with their songs and dance
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Tz'u No. 13
To the tune of "Song of Peace"
Year by year, in the snow,
I have often gathered plum flowers,
intoxicated with their beauty.
Fondling them impudently
I got my robe wet with their lucid tears.
This year I have drifted to the corner
of the sea and the edge
of the horizon,
My temples have turned grey.
Judging by the gust of the evening wind,
It is unlikely I will again
enjoy the plum blossoms.
poem by Li Ching Chao
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Inspired by Issa - Blooming Plum
blooming plum -
baby girl lifts her skirt
to dance
inspired
blooming plum-
the voices of children
sound reverent
-Issa
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Bring Flowers
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The boxer and the punisher
beating my blackness
into a exotic Avatar purple....
blistered firestone skin
that darkened with every thud
ol purple plum face
ol purple plum face
keeping it up against the golden gloves
of Mike Tyson
poem by Martin Lochner
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For An Autumn festival
The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine
Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more;
The woven wreaths of oak and pine
Are dust along the Isthmian shore.
But beauty hath its homage still,
And nature holds us still in debt;
And woman's grace and household skill,
And manhood's toil, are honored yet.
And we, to-day, amidst our flowers
And fruits, have come to own again
The blessings of the summer hours,
The early and the latter rain;
To see our Father's hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o'er
With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!
Once more the liberal year laughs out
O'er richer stores than gems or gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.
Our common mother rests and sings,
Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,
Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.
Oh, favors every year made new!
Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent
The bounty overruns our due,
The fulness shames our discontent.
We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;
We murmur, but the corn-ears fill,
We choose the shadow, but the sun
That casts it shines behind us still.
God gives us with our rugged soil
The power to make it Eden-fair,
And richer fruits to crown our toil
Than summer-wedded islands bear.
Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?
Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold,--
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with northern ices cold.
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Inspired by Issa - Bathing in the fallen plum blossoms
bathing in the fallen
plum blossoms
me and my worries
inspired by
bathing in the fallen
plum blossoms...
the croaking frog
-Issa,1815
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A peach is a peach
A peach is a peach
A plum is a plum
A kiss isnt a kiss without some tongue
So open you mouth
Close your eyes
And give your tongue some exercise
poem by Kimberly lilley
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A City Plum Is Not A Plum
A city plum is not a plum;
A dumb-bell is no bell, though dumb;
A party rat is not a rat;
A sailor's cat is not a cat;
A soldier's frog is not a frog;
A captain's log is not a log.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Lullaby, Go To Sleep
I'll ne'er forget the day,
When I was young and gay,
A rolling 'round the floor in Tennessee;
From th' cotton field so white,
My ma would come at night,
And fondly hold me in her arms and say:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
In winter cold and chill,
At night, when all was still,
I'd wake to find her standing over me,
A smile upon her face,
A creepin 'round the place,
She'd tuck the cover over me, and sing:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
So many years have passed,
Since we assembled last,
That dear old soul has gone away to dwell.
If this whole world was mine,
The wealth I would decline,
If I could only hear my mother sing:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
poem by James Ephraim McGirt
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Two Sonnets On Fame
I.
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gypsy,-will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
II.
'You cannot eat your cake and have it too.'~Proverb.
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;
It is as if the rose should pluck herself,
On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,
Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,
The undisturbed lake has crystal space;
Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,
Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?
poem by John Keats
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Colours
Blues and greens are my delight
Set in garlands of the white.
When God made the violet
He made nothing better yet.
Lilac and the lavender
Fit for queens of Heaven to wear.
Many russets and the rose,
God be praised for these and those!
For the silvers and the greys
Likewise ye shall give Him praise.
Scarlet is a King's colour
That the King of Kings once wore.
Yet when everything is said,
Bring me neither rose nor red.
Give me blue and green below,
Apple bloom and cherry snow.
Blue forget-me-nots beneath
Pear and plum-bloom in a wreath.
Or wild hyacinths in a glade --
Nothing better God has made.
Blues and greens and a white bough
Turn the earth to Heaven now.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Wasps In A Garden
The wall-trees are laden with fruit;
The grape, and the plum, and the pear,
The peach and the nectarine, to suit
Every taste, in abundance are there.
Yet all are not welcome to taste
These kind bounties of Nature; for one
From her open-spread table must haste
To make room for a more favoured son:
As that wasp will soon sadly perceive,
Who has feasted awhile on a plum;
And, his thirst thinking now to relieve,
For a sweet liquid draught he is come.
He peeps in the narrow-mouthed glass,
Which depends from a branch of the tree;
He ventures to creep down,-alas!
To be drowned in that delicate sea.
'Ah say,' my dear friend, 'is it right
These glass bottles are hung upon trees?
Midst a scene of inviting delight
Should we find such mementos as these?'
'From such sights,' said my friend, 'we may draw
A lesson, for look at that bee;
Compared with the wasp which you saw,
He will teach us what we ought to be.
'He in safety industriously plies
His sweet honest work all the day,
Then home with his earnings he flies;
Nor in thieving his time wastes away.'-
'O hush, nor with fables deceive,'
I replied, 'which, though pretty, can ne'er
Make me cease for that insect to grieve,
Who in agony still does appear.
'If a simile ever you need,
You are welcome to make a wasp do;
But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed
With things that are serious and true.'
poem by Charles Lamb
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On Fame
I.
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gipsey,--will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
II.
"You cannot eat your cake and have it too."--Proverb.
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;
It is as if the rose should pluck herself,
On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,
Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,
The undisturbed lake has crystal space;
Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,
Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?
poem by John Keats
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Sun loaded juices
Small sour waits for ripening sun,
soaking up warm rays 'til plum
coloured sweet upon the tongue.
Plum coloured sweet upon the tongue
merry mixed with old and young
naked feet, then danced upon.
Young naked feet then danced upon
sweetness ripened by the sun.
Loaded juices run and run.
Sun loaded juices run and run,
lazy sleeping until one
day long mellow pouring done.
One day long mellow pouring done
to gather all for that one
first noble tasting on the tongue
poem by Diana Rosser
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