Pisciatoio de Nero in Zero world
[reveries from many years viewings of Fellini's 'Amacord' -
'Pisciatoio de Nero' means 'black pissoir' in Italian]
'Hear me a moment...
Perhaps it is better
if the jubilee of small birds
dies down, swallowed in the sky...
The senses are graced with an odor
filled with the earth.' - Eugenio Montale, 'The Lemon Trees'
the blowing spring blossoms
the falling snow
the sex-crazed madwoman
has her place and is made place for
in the seaside town - Gradicia
sacred prostitute
important to matters of State
of stuttering male
desire of all ages
at film end her
marriage
a new beginning for all
motorcyclist
as Time too
zooms in/out
punctuates
scenes throughout
spring blossoms again
return the final scene
the ubiquitous blind
accordion player
Time's other guise
pestered by brats
perpetually pull his tattered hat
plays throughout
eternal return
*
film family
the schizophrenic brother/
uncle of papa/nephew
climbs a tree on an
out-of-the-asylum family picnic
the day is late
family needs to leave
countryside for city
Tio, uncle, refuses to
descend from the tree top
end of the stony world
loudly shouts
hours over quiet
farmland and fields,
I WANT A WOMAN!
I WANT A WOMANNNNNN!
deeper sanity reveals
in his call for the restoring
Woman
the sanity of Desire
his coniunctio
(consummation call)
in the arms of a tree
rocks tossed
plucked from
coat pockets
rags
keep saner
interlopers at bay below
the love-mad one
in piss pants
sways embraced of
the Woman Tree
reunites vistas
seen above
tearing opposites
of the seen world
mean in over
extended glory
coagulates
the promised
black boots
of State
Unpersuaded he
in primeval arms
innocent
returns to life
wants a wife
or lover
lightens his load
throws stones from
threadbare
pockets full o full
upon the glass house
the loo-loo world
spread out beneath him
a 'pisciatoio de nero'
in Zero world.
*
actively dreaming I am
of a cabin, some woods
(or Tio's Tree) or Mexico
mountain crotch
draw water from
artesian well deep
bathe with night stars
swelling in night-mirage
heat vectors from day
heated earth making
giddier stars dance...
my vocation then -
porch sit
write
pick up
paints again
seek the missing
Ear
hike/walk/wobble
a patch of canvas
dirt squabble
the 3-legged
dog his name
is 'Trinidad'
(his 3 legs)
whose meanness
knows an evil man
when he sees one
cogitate to more write
cook simple fare
raise some corn
a little hay the locals
that itch of skin for
skin embrace Tio's
primal call to sin over
into the blurred sanity
of digitally hog-tied
corralled world too
easily pixilating O dust
to dust
after all is said/done
Go back in time then
'io recordo amacord '
is always circular
as space is not linear
but spherical live off
grid as chimera
an old man tin-can spit-
cup in hand can without
doing harm to self chewing
a niggardly weed tobacco
growing wild in Mexico
ditch and dale
will need espresso
wine nearby (or larders
laid coolly in the ground
for chill and preserve) ,
space large enough for
books and to entertain
2-leggeds - even
Trinidad come to pant
happily at my heels -
who will come if they
come for counsel
talk story
dirty jokes
side by side silent
readings an occasional
'hear this' something
then read aloud which
becomes bread
heads nod agreement
smiles and meals beneath
the witnessed reel of
glancing stars gathering
stones at dusk filling
their pockets own
while climbing
World Tree at apogee
they downward turn
fling themselves low
toward the dawn stumbling
Sun alone fire seeking
fire
I WANT A WOMAN!
I WANT A WOMAN!
in such male heat
Light cries up/
reveals the morning
dove the crow their
sonorous response
to the Sun's Call,
different as they are
unconcealed...
what is revealed:
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole,
how the serpent's tail shimmers as one has
tossed it with a very long stick out the door
shouting - the door shouts too - 'be gone!
no more! ' one has learned to shake the
sheets, the pants, the socks, the topsy
turvy heel-worn shoes before the getting
into because scorpions and spiders dwell
therein and even a snake loves a warm bed,
my pillow for its head, found a skin shed
on a flower-patterned pillow case where
fleecy lambs forever pink silently low
as the cloth grows thin from head wear
dream wear because I was once a sleeping man
(this happened
to me
lived 3 great years
a mountain
one hundred year old house no electric
a well for water
spring house chill in
cold mountain spring
milk butter meat
thick mesh and laden
plywood over basin
keep critters out
bathing
on the porch at night
(so the shy mountains could
not see) from rain water
gathered rhythmically
from the tin roof tonal
toks
glocks in pots all kinds) ...
*
but for now
out the theater
into city street
I've been drawn
out and now
long overdrawn
am drawn the
more in
drawn in
not sketched out
but stretched as such
state old men are or
soon to be, arrive
their ire in retire
crow songs
strong for not
too much longer
but damn it all
hear such
being here hurts,
stone stars
I'm cold! I'm cold!
I shout up to them
Sun star tumbling old
bodies down to dirt song
of the earth
'Das Lied von der Erde'
I will listen then
as I do now, Mahler's,
pour out red wine
hiss at the intrusive
mouse herald of The End
in alto sung
over-strung/wrought-out
I will listen will
recover such enough
air around to go on
sing my song
a tio-tangle in
treelimbs the kind
Van Gogh still somewhere
paints
knees, sore,
now and always
a call
to prayer
to woo
in old boots
worn leather
weak knees
make me to
existence/being
adore
to which I
have only just
in a dream
renewed my wedding vows.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Related quotes
What Is Revealed, Variation
side by side
silent reading
occasional
'hear this then'
something read aloud
becomes bread
heads nod agreement
smiles and meals beneath
the witnessed reel of
glancing stars
gather their
stones at dusk
fill their pockets own
climbing World Tree at
apogee
then downward turn
they fling themselves
low toward dawn-stumbling
Sun alone
fire seeking
fire
VOGLIO UNA DONNA!
I WANT A WOMAN!
such male heat
alight Light cries
up/reveals -
the morning
dove the crow their
sonorous response
to Sun's Call,
different as they
are unconcealed...
what is revealed:
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole,
how the serpent's tail shimmers as one has
tossed it with a very long stick out the door
shouting - the door shouts too - 'be gone!
no more! ' one has learned to shake the
sheets, the pants, the socks, the topsy
turvy heel-worn shoes before the getting
into because scorpions and spiders dwell
therein and even a snake loves a warm bed,
my pillow for its head, found a skin shed
on a flower-patterned pillow case where
fleecy lambs forever pink silently bleat
as the cloth grows thin from head wear
dream wear because I was once a sleeping man
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tio, Losing His Sums, Ontologizes 'What Has Become of Me
[translated from the Spanish of Raul Voz]
'The world of dew is
a world of dew...
and yet...
and yet...' - Issa
Y que? Yet what?
I am a cabin
some woods
Tio's Tree
a crotch mountain
in Mexico
I am drawn water from
artesian deep well
I am a bath with night stars
I am swelling in night-mirage
I am heat vectors from
day-heated earth making
I am giddier star dance
bathing
on the porch at night
(so the shy mountain
cannot see)
I am rain water
gathered rhythmically
from the tin roof tonal
toks
glocks in pots all kinds) ...
I am
porch sit
write again
pick up
paints again
seek the missing
EAR
hike/walk/wobble
a patch of canvas
dirt squabble
(I am) the 3-legged
dog his name
is Trip
(the missing leg)
whose meanness
recognizes evil
stumbles when he
sees me
me (I am) neck hairs
fiercely rising
I am gums drawn
exposed teeth
the terrible tongue
sound of fear
the hunger pit
the stomach wants
wants
the burn there
the dejected bone
tossed to the heap
the creeping past
the field's edge
the burning stalks
the tin can bent
beneath a child's
bare feet playing
the brown eyes do
not see
the worn chain red
brittle in dust lost
without locking
embrace of gates
doors the sweet
child whose name
is known only
from her smile
the bruises
her arms tell
something of
what is sheltered
the squat house
always smokes
the valley
the dry arroyo
trace
snake crawl and
vermin chase
I am the food chain
NOT rusted
brittle the war
is on unseen
real beyond the
porch the tin
above groaning
witness for me
asleep
the hammock
leaves grids
on naked skin
I am the dead
weight the
sleight-of-hand
of eyes shut
the unseen battle
only a dream I am
the wasted
the water gathered
from dew the few
drops winking
in the web
and yet the
black spider and
yet the dawn
and yet still...still
it (I am)
yet waiting
as such
state old men are or
soon to be,
arrive
their ire in retire
crow songs
strong for not
too much longer
pour out red wine
hiss at the intrusive
mouse herald of
The End in
alto sung (I am)
an old man tin-can
spit-cup in hand
can without
doing harm chew
a niggardly weed
skunk tobacco
growing wild(I
am) in ditch
and dale
cogitation to
more write
I am cooked simple fare
the raised corn
the little hay the locals
play that itch of skin for
skin embrace Tio's
primal call to sin over
into (I am) the blurring sanity
of digitally hog-tied
corralled world too
easily pixilating O dust
to dust after
all is said/done I
am and so run on
over-strung/wrought-out
(as is this poem) I will
yes yes my love
listen will yes
recover such enough
air around to go on
sing my song
a tio-tangle in
treelimbs the kind
Van Gogh still somewhere
paints
I am knees sore
now and always
a call
to prayer
to woo in
old boots
worn leather
weak knees
make me to
existence/being
adore
to which I
have only
just
in a
dream
renewed my wedding vows
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tio Tangles For Love
the love-mad one
in piss pants
sways embraced of
the Woman Tree
reunites vistas
seen above
tearing opposites
of the seen world
mean in over
extended glory
coagulates
the promised
black boots
of State
Unpersuaded he
in primordial arms
innocent
returns to life
wants a wife
or lover
lightens his load
throws stones from
threadbare
pockets full o full
upon the glass house
the loo-loo world
spread out beneath him
a 'pisciatoio de nero'**
in Zero world.
**Italian for 'black pissoir'
poem by Warren Falcon
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Das Lied Von Der Erde
[*The Song of the Earth, by Gustav Mahler,
a song cycle of poems by Chinese poet Li Bai,
the famous wandering poet of the Tang Dynasty]
for Selin
I will listen then
as I do now, to Mahler,
I will out pour this
red wine, half fill
the glass, at the
intrusive mouse hiss,
herald of The End that
is in contralto sung
overwrought,
outstrung,
I will listen,
will recover such
enough air around
to go on sing my
song tio-tangle in
tree limbs Van Gogh
still somewhere paints
knees sore
now and always
a call
to prayer,
to woo, in old
boots, worn leather,
weak knees
make me to
existence/being
adore
to which I
have only just
in a dream
renewed my wedding vows
*
I am drawn water
from artesian wells
deep
I am a bath with night stars
I am swelling in night-mirage
I am heat vectors from
day-heated earth making
I am giddier star dance
bathing
on the porch at night
(so the shy mountain
cannot see)
I am rain water
gathered rhythmically
from the tin roof tonal
toks
glocks
in pots all kinds
*
O stand radiant-starred late afternoon
O stained stark shadows black frieze
astonished stooped man
time's wee piss-boy
damp bunk-bed mattress fears
O stand glazed from edges
gaze to bark
vine maps of escape
Iron shadows
impress long into
wet pit
sun shard
spy glass
throat sore
cracked song for dirty boots
poem by Warren Falcon
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What Is Revealed Side-By-Side
Recalling Barnardsville days in the Blue Ridge
1
Silent, side-by-side, reading.
An occasional 'hear this then. '
Read aloud, words, bread, jam;
familiar tarnished knives spreading;
wedding set, grandmother's, all hands
forget intent on feeding, reading to each
gathered mouth.
Heads nod agreement.
Backs of hands and books
as napkins. Smiles all
around.
2 - What Is Read Out Loud
Beneath witnessed wheels
dancing stars gather stones at dusk,
pockets fill climbing World Tree to
apogee
then downward turn,
stones flung low to dawn,
that largest sun stumbles
alone to blue, screaming,
I WANT A WOMAN
heat enough to reveal morning's dove-blind croon,
burnt crow, having no use for light, missing
a leg, perches hard against solar winds.
Sun's call, different as bird and star, discloses.
3
What is revealed:
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole.
How the serpent's tail shimmers when tossed
out the door -
BE GONE
How one has learned to shake the sheet,
the pants, the socks, the heel-worn boots
before the getting-into, the putting on,
for even a snake loves a warm bed,
a pillow for its head - found once a
skin shed on my flower patterned
pillowcase, fleecy lambs forever silently
bleat as the cloth thins slowly slowly
from head wear, dream wear
because I was once a sleeping man.
poem by Warren Falcon
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What Is Revealed
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole,
how the serpent's tail shimmers as one has
tossed it with a very long stick out the door
shouting - the door shouts too - 'be gone!
no more! ' one has learned to shake the
sheets, the pants, the socks, the topsy
turvy heel-worn shoes before the getting
into because scorpions and spiders dwell
therein and even a snake loves a warm bed,
my pillow for its head, found once a skin
shed on a flower-patterned pillow case
where fleecy lambs forever pink silently
low as the cloth grows thin from head wear,
dream wear, because I was once a sleeping man
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Poems, Remembering Barnardsville Days, Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina
1
Uses For Wings - Variations From 'We Can Be Broken' & Other Discarded Poems
'It means so much that we can be broken.' - from an early poem,1978
for Tien Ho, departed,
and Michael carving
the empty space
of her leaving still
*
Here is a Presence beyond
illicit fires bearing witness
to evidence, remains of flight,
contrived escapes blocked by panes,
walls striped in ramming panic,
of ritual and a broken neck,
petrified wings placed in open
spaces they once could range.
*
I began
a bird flown down a chimney
dying in an empty house,
a hidden mountain valley,
night time fires upon surrounding
hills, moonshine stills signaling
flame warnings, bootleggers' silent
spirits conjuring drip by drip
metal and grain.
*
Here are uses for wings:
something returning,
or turning inward
eventually climbed,
rested upon,
or fallen to some chimney life.
*
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal,
what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men,
as present as God. My own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in unstoried astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones
are only creases for once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fires,
leaning into changes.
2
What Is Revealed Side-By-Side
....recalling Barnardsville days
in the Blue Ridge, North Carolina
1
Silent, side-by-side, reading.
An occasional 'hear this then. '
Read aloud, words, bread, jam;
familiar tarnished knives spreading;
wedding set, grandmother's, all hands
forget intent on feeding, reading to each
gathered mouth.
Heads nod agreement.
Backs of hands and books
as napkins. Smiles all
around.
2 - What Is Read Out Loud
Beneath witnessed wheels
dancing stars gather stones at dusk,
pockets fill climbing World Tree to
apogee
then downward turn,
stones flung low to dawn,
that largest sun stumbles
alone to blue, screaming,
I WANT A WOMAN
heat enough to reveal morning's dove-blind croon,
burnt crow, having no use for light, missing
a leg, perches hard against solar winds.
Sun's call, different as bird and star, discloses.
3
What is revealed:
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole.
how the serpent's tail shimmers when tossed
out the door -
BE GONE
how one has learned to shake the sheet,
the pants, the socks, the heel-worn boots
before the getting-into, the putting on,
for even a snake loves a warm bed,
a pillow for its head - found once a
skin shed on my flower patterned
pillowcase, fleecy lambs forever silently
bleat as the cloth thins slowly slowly
from head wear, dream wear
because I was once a sleeping man.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seen in a Glass
Behind the tree, behind the house, behind the stars
In the presence that I cannot see
Otherwise than as house and stars and tree.
Tree, house and stars
Extend to infinity within themselves
Into the mystery of the world
Where whirl the wheels of power whose pulse beat
Out of nothing, out of night,
Leaves, stones and fires,
The living tree whose maypole dance
Of chromosome and nucleus
Traces the maze of boughs and leaves.
The standing house of stone that poured
In molten torrent when was hurled
Out of chaos this great world,
And suns whose kindling begins anew
Or ends the course that tree, house, world move through.
Upheld by being that I cannot know
In other form than stars and stones and trees
Assume in nature’s glass, in nature’s eyes.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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First Water
The water had its beginning before time began
Before even the first born our God would call earthly man.
The creator knew the value and significance of water
Just as its second human creation we call an earthly daughter.
Man certainly does not live by bread alone
But along side the children who sleep at home.
Man can survive without food for a long, long time
But not for long without water nor drinking wine.
The universal one covered earth with two thirds water
Still not as miraculous as the gift of a daughter.
More bounty in the water than in the soil
How expressive is the holy one when we toil.
A green tree grows on coral with a great deal of salt
A desire of the eternal God who has no fault.
The creator separated the birds from the land and sea
Also for man and woman and their child to be.
Water cleans, heals and provides
Mother nature gives, replenishes and renews with each new tide.
poem by chuck Hurley
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Don't call a tree a tree
Don't call a tree a tree
The world is full
Of grace and silent laughter
Constellations
Of dusty flowers arise
From air so thin
So icy-blue
Through all the heat and sweat
Of noisy day
The petals are the wings
For us to fly away
Some time
One day
They cringe and shrink and fall
To dust
To rust
The wings are weak
Are weak enough for us
Don't call a tree a tree
poem by Sveta Guralnik
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Dead-Maid's-Pool
Oh water, water-water deep and still,
In this hollow of the hill,
Thou helenge well o'er which the long reeds lean,
Here a stream and there a stream,
And thou so still, between,
Thro' thy coloured dream,
Thro' the drownèd face
Of this lone leafy place,
Down, down, so deep and chill,
I see the pebbles gleam!
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
Bending o'er the well,
Why there thou bendest,
Kind hearts can tell.
'Tis that the pool is deep,
'Tis that-a single leap,
And the pool closes:
And in the solitude
Of this wild mountain wood,
None, none, would hear her cry,
From this bank where she stood
To that peak in the sky
Where the cloud dozes.
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
That art so sweet and good,
If any creeping thing
Among the summer games in the wild roses
Fall from its airy swing,
(While all its pigmy kind
Watch from some imminent rose-leaf half uncurled)-
I know thou hast it full in mind
(While yet the drowning minim lives,
And blots the shining water where it strives),
To touch it with a finger soft and kind,
As when the gentle sun, ere day is hot,
Feels for a little shadow in a grot,
And gives it to the shades behind the world.
And oh! if some poor fool
Should seek the fatal pool,
Thine arms-ah, yes! I know
For this thou watchest days, and months, and years,
For this dost bend beside
The lone and lorn well-side,
The guardian angel of the doom below,
Content if, once an age, thy helping hand
May lift repentant madness to the land:
Content to hear the cry
Of living love from lips that would have died:
To seem awhile endowed
With all thy limbs did save,
And in that voice they drew out of the grave,
To feel thy dumb desire for once released aloud,
And all thy muffled century
Repaid in one wild hour of sobs, and smiles, and tears.
Aye, aye, I envy thee,
Pitiful ash-tree!
Water, water-water deep and still,
In the hollow of the hill,
Water, water, well I wot,
Thro' the weary hours,
Well I wot thee lying there,
As fair as false, as false as fair.
The crows they fly o'er,
The small birds flit about,
The stream it ripples in, the stream it ripples out,
But what eye ever knew
A rinkle wimple thee?
And what eye shall see
A rinkle wimple thee
Evermore?
Thro' thy gauds and mocks,
All thy thin enchantment thro'-
The green delusion of thy bowers,
The cold flush of thy feignèd flowers,
All the treacherous state
Of fair things small and great,
That are and are not,
Well I wot thee shining there,
As fair as false, as false as fair.
Thro' the liquid rocks,
Thro' the watery trees,
Thro' the grass that never grew,
Thro' a face God never made,
Thro' the frequent gain and loss
Of the cold cold shine and shade,
Thro' the subtle fern and moss,
Thro' the humless, hiveless bees,
Round the ghosts of buds asleep,
Thro' the disembodied rose,
Waving, waving in the deep,
Where never wind blows,
I look down, and see far down,
In clear depths that do nothing hide,
Green in green, and brown in brown,
The long fish turn and glide!
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
Bending o'er the water-
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
Hadst thou a daughter?
Ash-tree, ash-tree, let me draw near,
Ash-tree, ash-tree, a word in thine ear!
Thou art wizen and white, ash-tree;
Other trees have gone on,
Have gathered and grown,
Have bourgeoned and borne:
Thou hast wasted and worn.
Thy knots are all eyes;
Every knot a dumb eye,
That has seen a sight
And heard a cry.
Thy leaves are dry:
The summer has not gone by,
But they're withered and dead,
Like locks round a head
That is bald with a secret sin,
That is scorched by a hell within.
Thy skin
Is withered and wan,
Like a guilty man:
It was thin,
Aye, silken and thin,
It is houghed
And ploughed,
Like a murderer's skin.
Thou hast no shoots nor wands,
All thy arms turn to the deep,
All thy twigs are crooked,
Twined and twisted,
Fingered and fisted,
Like one who had looked
On wringing hands
'Till his hands were wrung in his sleep.
Pardon my doubt of thee,
What is this
In the very groove
Of thy right arm?
There is not a snake
So yellow and red,
There is not a toad
So sappy and dread!
It doth not move,
It doth not hiss-
Ash-tree-for God's sake-
Hast thou known
What hath not been said
And the summer sun
Cannot keep it warm,
And the living wood
Cannot shut it down!
And it grows out of thee
And will be told,
Bloody as blood,
And yellow as gold!
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
That once wert so green!
Ash-tree, ash-tree!
What hast thou seen?
Was I a mother-nay or aye?
Am I childless-aye nor nay?
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
Bending o'er the water!
Ash-tree, ash-tree,
Give me my daughter!
Curse the water,
Curse thee,
Ash-tree,
Bending o'er the water!
Leaf on the tree,
Flower on the stem,
Curse thee,
And curse them!
Trunk and shoot,
Herb and weed,
Bud and fruit,
Blossom and seed,
Above and below,
About and about,
Inside and out,
Grown and to grow,
Curse you all,
Great and small,
That cannot give back my daughter!
But if there were any,
Among so many,
Any small thing that did lie sweet for her,
Any newt or marish-worm that, shrinking
Under the pillow of the water weed,
Left her a cleaner bed,
Any least leaves that fell with little plashes,
And sinking, sinking,
Sank soft and slow, and settled on her lashes,
And did what was so meet for her,
Them I do not curse.
See, see up the glen,
The evening sun agen!
It falls upon the water,
It falls upon the grass,
Thro' the birches, thro' the firs,
Thro' the alders, catching gold,
Thro' the bracken and the brier,
Goes the evening fire
To the bush-linnet's nest.
There between us and the west,
Dost thou see the angels pass?
Thro' the air, with streaming hair,
The golden angels pass?
Hold, hold! for mercy, hold!
I know thee! ah, I know thee!
I know thou wilt not pass me so-
The gray old woman is ready to go.
Call me to thee, call me to thee,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blue Jay
Tell me of the 'Blue Jay'
who sings from tree to tree in the early hours of the morning.
Has he found his nest and mate well hidden amongst the hanging Moss?
On what Oak tree lies his precious treasure,
his hearts and ever needing desire?
Across the pond close to the waters edge
the Ducks family celebrate Water, Fire and Earth.
Readying for their Sunday walk through Avalon.
Duck~feet firmly on the Earth clutching nail~down into an unbreakable pace, they march one by one making most of time and space...
BLUEJAY lost amidst desire wanders now from tree to tree,
misplace and forgotten by the nights heavy storm....
Tell me!
Tell me of the dreary song of lost souls in morning sun,
are they of the Blue Jay or of your own heart?
Are you home smiling to the stars or on a collision course with desire?
Is getting hot outside but where is home with Moss on every tree and Duck's all around?
poem by Gengis Capote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Loving Tree
Three women walked upon a road,
And the first said airily,
“Of all the trees in all the world
Which is the loving tree?”
The second said, “My eyes have seen
No tree that is not fair;
But the Orange tree is the sweetest tree,
The loving blood is there.”
And the third said, “In the green time
I knew a loving tree
That gave a drink of the blood-red milk,
It was the Mulberry.”
Then the first one said, “Of all the trees
No sweetest can I name;
Ask her who yonder slowly comes—
That woman lean and lame.”
Grief like a hideous suckling hung
Along her hollow breast,
Pain was upon her as she walked,
And as she stooped to rest.
“Why will you question so?” she said,
“Is it to mock at me?
For how should I, who walk in Hell,
Know of a loving tree?
“My eyes are not as woman's eyes,
They hope not east or west:
Dull Famine my bed-mate is,
And Loneliness my guest.
“ 'Tis not the most delicious flower
That leaves the scent of Spring,
Nor is it yet the brightest bird
That loads his heart to sing.
“A tree may dance in the white weather
Or dream in a blue gown,
A tree may sing as a sweetheart
To bid the stars come down:
“Some trees are slim and lovable
And some are sleek and strong,
But the tree that has the cripple's heart
Will know the cripple's song.
“The sweetest death is the red death
That comes up nakedly,
And the tree that has the foiled heart
It is the loving tree.
“While ever lip shall seek for lip,
While ever light shall fall,
The tree that has the ruined heart
Is tenderest of all.
“Oh, ye may have your men to kiss,
And children warm to hold,
But the heart that had the hottest love
Was never yet consoled.”
The women three walked on their way,
Their shamed eyes could see
How well the tree with the foiled heart
Is still the loving tree.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Visualize and Wonder
Night-blue, starlit river
like a ribbon across the rugged land,
reflecting a transition of the heavens
traveling from night into morning
rushing into a churning, tumbling lake
just below the mighty waterfall
icy black water in a tiny loch,
rippling like deep emerald history
ancient and wise, impenetrable mystery
smelling musty, like fresh earth,
or old books in a dusty library
the heartache glows like hot iron.
doused in this unexpected chilly water
taking away the anxiety and uplifting
thoughts come clear and clarifying,
like breathing jackfrost puffs of winter
dark walls rising up on three sides,
cradling morning in a ragged half circle
of smoothe, mossy and black mountain rock.
I love the embrace of this old rock tarn
Where the dusky green hills flow aside,
and a single worn path skirts the pool
carved, perched in a long, curved niche
above the cold, ice-fed water on one side
And stops here, just aside the curtain
that carries light in crystal swirls
from the far path on the other side
dark lines and mist converging in dew drops
Inside illusions building up like movies
Is this a time, or a place?
Or a dream of simple pleasures?
the heartache glows like warm sunlight.
Is this reality? Broken reality?
Illusions tumble apart, leaving void
Patient, comfortable void, filling me
from below the navel and up, breathing out
Close my eyes. I am smiling,
forgetting to breathe, to see,
just swinging like a slow pendulum
swinging, breathing in and out
with the open sky behind me,
and this tarn of closing dark magic,
not evil, only dark and cloudy,
like black mist obscuring an autumn night
where low above the skeletal trees
is a faint, full circle of greenish light,
that is the light on the other side,
but deeper than the night sky,
colder and further down, under the earth
exploring wide, dark caverns,
leading deeper down still,
into a black hole filled with rushing water
watching the edge of the walls rush past
and I am falling, into a wide dark void
filled with stars, and a golden light
spilling down from where the water flows in,
the droplets fling themselves into the cosmos
becoming more stars in the dark emptiness.
In the back of my head is a glowing
fading into the dull roar of massive water
Beyond the curtain of crystal clear
the light is still glowing,
the cavern, still calling.
I yearn for it, looking back as if...
hoping that I have the strength to turn back
to step through, into that world.
The morning above and behind me now,
Steep, green slope before me,
I cross out of the shadows of the tarn,
into the shafts of morning's honey
walking paths of thin brown dirt,
crossing up and down the deep green hills
into the giant woods atop the mountain
where the knowledge of flora is found
The curling mists around the tree roots
shifting and crawling deeper into the shadows
lifting simple, joyful song birds
into the morning sun and clouds.
Here between the dark forest floor,
and the vaulting forest canopy,
I am framed for a moment, looking back
at the dark V of the tarn
and the winding slip of the river,
leading away into the rocky mountains
a terrain pale and fading quickly
against the morning sun breaking free.
The dawn is so wonderful, awakening.
Light pink cuddles in the wisps of far off cumulus.
Whirling into the fall of rosy twilight tears.
Within the trees, I follow the mists
retreating into the forest depths.
Muzzy and gray, this day has yet to wake.
poem by Poet Dragon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spring's Rebirth
This is the time of year being that everything is awakening – once again-
Flowers are blooming everywhere-
Crocuses, daffodils and Cherry blossoms- and
Dogwood, both white and pink
Adorn nature’s window-
The time it is when my father passed away-
And many years ago I became a woman
At the beginning of spring’s equinox-
When everything is becoming
Emerald green and supple as every leaf unfolds on every tree-
I have found bluebirds’ nests upon branches while
Monarch butterflies gently flutter about grasses and perch upon dandelion’s petals-
For many this is the time of year
Tears and wrathfulness have been left behind and
At dawn birds sing a chorus to welcome a new day-
I would laugh if I had no care and
Sing if a tune would only awaken my spirit although
My soul once did a graveyard dance as
My father’s stone brought back multitudes of memories and
I see the ocean though only in my thoughts and recall
That my mother’s ashes were scattered at sea-
It has been nearly twenty years since we were a family-
Tears were hardly shed over the loss only because
In my family’s eyes I could do no right-
As lovely and fragrant as my father’s rose garden could be,
It is long gone and just as
Spring is a time of rebirth for trees, flowers and
A time for celebration-
Travels, longer days and evening thunderstorms-
For me and the essence of my existence this is a time
Long walks in the woods and early morning awakening-
Having abandoned sadness of past memories,
Freedom from being unfairly misunderstood-
And growth within myself in many ways-
Spring is a time for rebirth for trees, flowers and
Creeks are seemingly overflowing as I can hear the gentle breeze
Rustling the newborn leaves upon every tree-
Spring rains shall wash away and drown past remembrances as
I too- in spirit, mind and soul have also been reborn-
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Almond Tree
This snowy cold December morning
the pen
is full of almond branches, leaves
and black gnarled twigs covered
with white blossoms
the scent of that tree is intoxicating
for here on the real earth,
such trees do not ripen,
nor bear the fruit of that tree.
As children our first movement is to sing joyous songs,
innocent voices, filling mountains and dales with arias.
As adults our first movement is toward joy,
yet we give it away, venting full expression
to a gloomy tho not unfamiliar view of life.
once delighted with the world as children
now the world is in a tangle,
for opened eyes have seen only the glow of fires,
massacres, injustices, humiliations,
and the unrelenting shame
of braggarts and despots.
I look at the pen, it's branches, twigs, leaves
now covered, with cherry blossoms
and breathe in the intoxicating scent of that tree
knowing full well such a tree does not grow in dirt
nor can humanity cut down that tree.
That tree does not desire to save
nations or people
heal the sick,
raise the dead,
connive with politicians,
nor change drunkards and fools
with songs of hope...
The only goal is this, only this
that I see and smell the almond tree,
learn to look with love,
heal this heart,
without knowing from various ills-
for that almond tree says to me: Friend
stand in the glow of ripeness with me
not knowing what purpose served.
Through worm filled tufts
in that sweet garden
that almond tree raises it's eyes
and every blossom
enjoys the air it breathes
poem by Liberatore Suffoletta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Family
(tom eyen/henrey kreiger)
Is it a beautiful day? youre beautiful!
I mentioned earlier that the world is watching each of you. you make me so proud Im the happiest woman in the world right now. I have a dream come true.
I want you to listen to me now. this is being televised again worldwide today. just calm yourselves, come on. alright.
Can you feel me?
Yes, this may be the most important moment in my life.
There are words in this song that to me are very special listen.
Its more than you
Its more than me
No matter what we are
We are a family
This dream is for us
This one can be real
They cant stop us now
Because of how we feel
Its more than you
Its more than me
Whatever dreams we have
Theyre for the family
Were not alone any more then
There are others there
And this dreams big enough
For all of us to share
So dont think youre going
Were not going anywhere
Were staying, taking our share
If you get afraid again
Ill be there
We are a family
Like a giant tree
Branching out towaards the sky
We are a family
And so much more
Than just you and i
We are a family
Like a giant tree
Growing strong
Growing wiser
We are
We are
A family
I love you
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Echo
Salted to be a fake, welcome to my world -
The tree which grows into nothing -
Inside me -
Never wants to be a tree that sees -
Instead it is stuck with me -
Black my mind to the wind -
Dark are the stars which shades to shine from behind -
Rings of ice, fingered to vanity -
Blistered by my sanity -
Fall into my descend -
Ascent before the blow -
Echoes of my call
poem by Unic Cjonr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nature’s Christmas tree
I saw the most beautiful Christmas tree,
Adorned with a star,
For the world to see,
Standing proudly in the night,
On the top of the tree
Was a bright shining light,
Soft blankets of snow,
Covering the leaves,
This is the time,
For the world to find peace.
Inside the heart of that tree
there may be natures
Small creatures of the wild,
On top of the tree,
in the world so dark,
A star shines for the wonders
of man, woman and child,
The birds sing sweet songs,
That words can’t speak,
Look into your heart,
For the truth you seek,
The proof is
The star
,
Shining through the trees,
Don’t you think it’s time
For the world to find some peace?
Look into the distance,
It shines near and far,
For the prince of peace
God sent a shining star
For the world to see
Look on top of Nature’s Christmas tree
poem by Judy Arline Puckett
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Wild Montana Skies
This song appears on nine albums, and was first released on the its about time album, and has also been released on the greatest hits vol 3, changes, the very best of john denver (double cd),
Ry classics, the country roads collection and the rocky mountain collection albums. a live version also appears on the wildlife concert and the best of john denver live albums.
He was born in the bitterroot valley in the early morning rain
Wild geese over the water headin north and home again
Bringin a warm wind from the south
Bringin the first taste of the spring
His mother took him to her breast and softly she did sing
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
His mother died that summer and he never learned to cry
He never knew his father and he never did ask why
He never knew the answers that would make an easy way
But he learned to know the wilderness and to be a man that way
His mothers brother took him in to family and his home
Gave him a hand that he could lean on and a strength to call his own
And he learned to be a farmer and he learned to love the land
And he learned to read the seasons and he learned to make a stand
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
On the eve of his 21st birthday he set out on his own
He was 30 years and runnin when he found his way back home
Ridin a storm across the mountains and an aching in his heart
Said he came to turn the pages and to make a brand new start
Now he never told a story of the time that he was gone
Some say he was a lawyer, some say he was a john
There was somethin in the city that he said he couldnt breathe
And there was somethin in the country that he said he couldnt leave
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
Now some say he was crazy and theyre glad that he is gone
But some of us miss him and well try to carry on
Giving a voice to the forest, giving a voice to the dawn
Giving a voice to the wilderness and the land that he lived on
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
Words and music by john denver
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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