A Death in the Woods
The road fell out of the mountains
Into a field that spread toward the horizon,
Dark trees rose slowly,
Climb toward the sunset.
Presence to the traveler's eye
On road reach the crest of hill
Drop to the small river,
Climb down the sunset.
The horses slosh through,
The wagon wheel bolts below
Cross to the entrance of the forest
Known simply as Blackbird.
He escaped two days before,
His partner decides to give in
And turns to head toward sheriff
A bullet race through his head.
poem by A.K. Karam
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Related quotes
At cross road
Never but at cross road,
Are we at cross road?
Is there any load?
Why not we meet?
Even at cross road.
Are we blood thirsty?
And care for no one,
who may come but none?
Doesn’t concern everyone?
Even at cross road.
Can we not share?
Misery and poverty,
happiness and unhappiness,
hunger and roofless human,
even at cross road.
Why do we cut?
Burn the green forest,
and big trees,
do we want disaster?
Even at cross road.
Rain is scarce,
food also less,
nature is finished,
no bloom for ever,
even at cross road.
Why do we cut throat?
Merely for greed,
does the religion preach?
Priests or heads just teach
Even at cross road.
I may not survive,
peace may not revive,
nobody will also survive,
we will soon be extinct,
even at cross road.
Time is running out,
Still human race is not out,
We may still be in,
Kindness may be over,
Even at cross road,
Life is worth to live in,
forget not but just be in,
embrace but not embarrass them,
help but not reject them
Even at cross road.
We May still not adopt,
remain at large but not still opt,
is the nature so cruel?
Kill and get also killed?
Even at cross road
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Meeting
The ox-team and the automobile
Stood face to face on the long red road,
The long red road was narrow
At the turn of the hill,
And below was the sun-dancing river
Afoam over the rocks.
The mild-mannered beasts stood par, chewing their cud.
The stubble-bearded man from the mountains,
Rustier than his wagon,
Unmoving eyed the proud chauffeur.
The little ragged girl,
With sun-bleached hair,
Sitting on a ahrd, yellow-powdrey bag,
Looked across at the smart motor hats of the ladies,
And their chiffon scarfs
That the light breeze fingered.
The proud chauffeur blew his horn,
But nothing moved-
Except the foaming, sun-dancing river down below.
Then he jerked his head,
And turned the wheel,
And slowly, carefully,
The automobile moved back over the long red road.
And the mild-mannered beasts lifted their feet,
And the stubble-bearded man flipped his rein,
Ad the ragged little girl looked ahead up the hill,
And the ox-team lumbered and limped over the long red road.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Creation of the Moon
The man cut his throat and left his head there.
The others went to get it.
When they got there they put the head in a sack.
Farther on the head fell out onto the ground.
They put the head back in the sack.
Farther on the head fell out again.
Around the first sack they put a second one that
was thicker.
But the head fell out just the same.
It should be explained that they were taking the head
to show to the others.
They did not put the head back in the sack.
They left it in the middle of the road.
They went away.
They crossed the river.
But the head followed them.
They climbed up a tree full of fruit
to see whether it would go past.
The head stopped at the foot of the tree
and asked them for some fruit.
So the men shook the tree.
The head went to get the fruit.
Then it asked for some more.
So the men shook the tree
so that the fruit fell into the water.
The head said it couldn't get the fruit from there.
So the men threw the fruit a long way
to make the head go a long way to get it so they could go.
While the head was getting the fruit
the men got down from the tree and went on.
The head came back and looked at the tree
and didn't see anybody
so went on rolling down the road.
The men had stopped to wait
to see whether the head would follow them.
They saw the head come rolling.
They ran.
They got to their hut they told the others that the head
was rolling after them and to shut the door.
All the huts were closed tight.
When it got there the head commanded them to open the doors.
The owners would not open them because they were afraid.
So the head started to think what it would turn into.
If it turned into water they would drink it.
If it turned into earth they would walk on it.
If it turned into a house they would live in it.
If it turned into a steer they would kill it and eat it.
If it turned into a cow they would milk it.
If it turned into a bean they would cook it.
If it turned into the sun
When men were cold it would heat them.
If it turned into rain the grass would grow and the
animals would crop it.
So it thought, and it said, "I will turn into the moon."
It called, "Open the doors, I want to get my things."
They would not open them.
The head cried. It called out, "At least give me
my two balls of twine."
They threw out the two balls of twine through a hole.
It took them and threw them into the sky.
It asked them to throw it a little stick too
to roll the thread around so it could climb up.
Then it said, "I can climb, I am going to the sky."
It started to climb.
The men opened the doors right away.
The head went on climbing.
The men shouted, "You going to the sky, head?"
It didn't answer.
As soon as it got to the Sun
it turned into the Moon.
Toward evening the Moon was white, it was beautiful.
And the men were surprised
to see that the head had turned into the Moon.
Demise Of My Horses
Demise of My Horses
I had been away for a few days,
visiting the aunts of Cascais,
and found my three stone horses gone.
Just cheerless holes
where they had been tethered.
Widening the road, they said
and for that beauty must go.
When a road is enlarged more
cars will fill the space until
the bigger road is too small and
they decide to build a motorway.
The other side of the road will be
impossible to cross and neighbours
will become strangers.
Sun or rain endlessly stunning my horses were
before turned into grit.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sonnet- My Poetry
I thought I started climbing just a hill;
With time, it dawned to me it was a peak;
I knew I had to climb up further still,
The peak was nowhere seen that I did seek.
I wasn't a mountaineer to begin with;
I slowly learnt to climb requiring skill;
Tho' an accident, my climb had its pith,
With ease I'll climb the summit on the hill.
And now I know the gradient so well,
And dangers of the terrain I climb in;
When I will reach the peak, no one can tell,
But now onwards, my ambition's to win.
A beacon from above doth goad me on,
And soon a dress of starry clouds, I'll don.
poem by John Celes
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Another Mountain To Climb
this day
we climb another mountain
this summer
when the grasses are brown
when the earth cracks
we shall climb more mountains
we do not mind
if we get so tired along the way
the joy is
when at the top we see
clouds covering
mountains
sunset in orange
unfolding and then fading
we sleep on the grass
under the stars
so near us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As The Sunset
As the sunset I think to myself why.
As the sunset I sit down and cry.
Wondering why life got to be a lie.
As the sunset I dropp my head.
As the sunset I think about you instead.
How can I go home and get in my bed.
As the sunset I say no.
As the sunset I just don't know.
My love that I have for u just wont go.
As the sunset I look to the sky.
As the sunset I wait to die.
Tell me how to say good-bye.
As the sunset I say a prayer.
As the sunset how can I dare.
I'm giving up, I just don't care.
Sitting by the window watching the sun to set.
Knowing I'm going to see you again,
and you coming back home at the end.
By: Brittany Smith
9/25/08
poem by Brittany Smith
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The Road That Runs Beside The River
follows the river as it bends
along the valley floor,
going the way it must.
Where water goes, so goes the road,
if there's room (not in a ravine,
gorge), the river
on your right or left. Left is better: when you're driving,
it's over your elbow across
the road.
You see the current, which is
what the river is: the river
in the river, a thing sliding fast forward
inside a thing sliding not so fast forward.
Driving with, beside, the river's flow is good.
Another pleasure, driving against it: it's the same river
someone else will see
somewhere else downstream -- same play,
new theater, different set.
Wide, shallow, fairly fast,
roundy-stone streambed, rocky-land river,
it turns there or here -- the ground
telling it so -- draining dull
mountains to the north,
migrating, feeding a few hard-fleshed fish
who live in it. One small sandbar splits
the river, then it loops left,
the road right, and the river's silver
slips under the trees,
into the forest,
and over the sharp perpendicular
edge of the earth.
poem by Thomas Lux
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The River And The Road
THE merrymaking's over
The riverside is still,
The Sun, a radiant rover,
Gone down behind the hill.
The red Road goes awinding
Along the riverside;
The River, no man minding,
Winds on to meet the tide.
O Naiad of green places!
I pray you pause and say
How many pretty faces
Looked down on you to-day?
The River runs in silence
(A fern-frond is her load);
Just here and just a mile hence
She curves to kiss the road.
And now the kiss is over,
And now the tryst is done,
By flats of fern and clover
The River ripples on.
Again the Road turns to her,
Red-winding through the green;
The Road would pause and woo her,
But gray rocks stand between.
And here he rounds a boulder
And hurries to her side:
The River turns her shoulder;
She will not be his bride.
O fickle River, straying
Through green lands on and on,
A fern-tree heard you saying
'The Road will come anon.'
Not so, but you will waken
To lonely days and sore.
The Road a vow has taken
To play Love's fool no more.
On high the sunset lingers
With one still star above,
And there the merry singers
Sing silverly of Love.
And now in distance dewy
They halt awhile, and so
Wave hands with 'Coo-ee, Coo-ee!'
Ho, laggard down below!'
If she should cease to worry
And say, 'I love but you' —
'O hurry, hurry, hurry!'
And 'Adieu, Adieu, Adieu!'
This one last chance I give her
To lighten my heart's load,
And if she play the River
Then I shall prove the Road.
I caught her, heard her sighing,
And felt the moment's charm. . . .
'Tis sweet when day is dying
To walk so, arm in arm!
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Our Mountains
Everyone has their mountains
that they want to climb,
mountains whose summits
reach up and touch the sky.
We go through our lives
climbing our mountains
and at times, we stumble
and slip a little behind.
Picking ourselves up
then start our trek again
never losing sight
of what lays a head.
One day we will reach the summit
and stand there breathing in
the clear cool air
when we finally get there.
Our achievement is recorded
along with all the other
mountains we’ve had to climb.
Our testament of determination.
It’s our dreams that seem elusive
until we make them come true
through our struggles and modifications
to taste the clear cool air.
(22 May 2011)
poem by David Harris
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Long Roads
Where have I known you before?
Seems like lifetimes, maybe more
Our time together goes so fast
And so slowly when that time has past
I want to walk on the long roads with you, Love These days it's all that I can think of
And the love runs so deep, these nights
I can't even sleep
I want to walk on the long roads with you
I have a place where we can quench our thirst
But we'll have to swim an ocean, climb a mountain first
The mountains high, the valleys wide
Oh just sit back and enjoy the ride
Behind us the road is fading fast
While in front of us a light shines that says the fate's been cast
And the road we now must climb
Comes so easily one step at a time
song performed by by Dixie Chicks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Mountains
Each day I climb new mountains
in the struggle for life.
Sometimes my limbs get weary
and I want to give, but I have to go on.
Giving up would mean losing
everything my life was meant for.
Therefore, I must struggle
never giving my body a rest.
I must climb these new mountains
or I am doomed forever more.
There is no turning back once started,
as it doesn’t work that way.
Each day there is a new mountains
that gets bigger with each day
and we must reach the summit by nightfall
or get stuck on the mountain going nowhere.
The harder we climb,
the higher we get
until we reach
the pinnacle of our dreams.
8 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Coming From The Heart
by Bob Dylan and Helena Springs
We have got to come together
How long can we stay apart?
You may get it maybe never
But it's coming from the heart.
Your life is full of indecision
You can't make up your mind.
We must get it in position
And move it on down the line.
'Cause the road is long, it's a long hard climb
I been on that road too long of a time
Yes the road is long, and it winds and winds
When I think of the love that I left behind.
Make me up a bed of roses
And hang them down from the vine
Of all my loves you've been the closest
That's ever been on my mind.
Please don't talk about tomorrow
I'm really not one to care
This world is filled with too much sorrow
That nobody's heart should bear.
'Cause the road is long, it's a long hard climb
I been on that road too long of a time
Yes the road is long, and it winds and winds
When I think of the love that I left behind.
Please, please give me indication
Stop and talk to me
Like a river that is flowing
My love will never cease to be.
You will always be my honey
No one could take your part
Our love can't be bought with money
'Cause it's coming from the heart.
'Cause the road is long, it's a long hard climb
I been on that road too long of a time
Yes the road is long, and it winds and winds
When I think of the love that I left behind.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Last Balloon
The last balloon is leaving, the last balloon from fear
The last balloon is leaving, form that line right here
Climb aboard, climb aboard you menfolk
You wont need any bombs or knives
Climb aboard, climb aboard you menfolk
Leave all that to your former lives
Drop it all
The last balloon is leaving, the last balloon of all
The last balloon is leaving, undress, discard, let fall
Climb aboard, climb aboard you women
You wont need any gems or furs
Climb aboard, climb aboard you women
Leave all that to the bad old years
Drop it all
The last balloon is leaving, the last balloon theyll fly
The last balloon is leaving and we wont qualify
Climb aboard, climb aboard you children
Move aloft, while youre fleet and fast
Climb aboard, climb aboard you children
Were weighed down by our evil past
Drop us all, you should drop us all
Drop us all and free your hand
Drop us all, you should drop us all
Drop us all like so much sand
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Noon Song
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!
Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
Of all the day the best!
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
To his home by the way of the west.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Red BMX Bicycle
There was a small boy
In the countryside
Who had a small red BMX bicycle
Kept in the store besides the herbicides
Every evening like a cycle
He would ride down the dusty road
The sun a yellow ball
on the west side
Glittering under the sun`s rays
Was that small
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
Who had nothing…
Totally nothing
He was a friend to the small boy
Every evening like a cycle
He would wait by the dusty road
To have a chance
On the small red BMX bicycle
His face would be all smiles
Even after falling off that
RED BMX BICYCLE
One day at dusk
The smaller boy
Stood next to the small boy
And asked
“When you grow up, would you give me this bike? ”
The small boy without thinking
Said YES..
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
One night
He had a bad stomach ache
His mum wiping the tiny streams of tears
That fell from his small face
That was pale…
Due to dust from the dusty road
As he played with his the small boy
And rode on that
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a small boy
In the countryside…
Now HE is all grown
And in the university
Far away in the city
That RED BMX BICYCLE
Now long gone
Given to some relative, I guess
If I could go back
To those days…
Those days with beautiful sunsets
Back in the countryside
Waiting for my chance
On my red BMX bicycle
Watching that smaller boy fall off
I would give him…
I would hand him that bicycle
And never expect it back
And watch him ride
Towards the beautiful sunset
On my red BMX bicycle
But if I can go back
All will be in vain
Because on that night…in the dark
He struggled with pain
His small heart couldn`t keep on
Outside there was rain
The gods possibly wanted to cleanse
All the evil that night
That took him away
Now I reminisce
As I keep moving on
About that smaller boy
And our small
RED BMX BICYCLE…
poem by Paul Oguda
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The Spirit Of Sunset
There is magic at the end of everyday
You can see it on the horizon of play.
The sun slowly drops down to take a rest,
And then we lay down for the night until the morning crest.
There is beauty in every sunset, open your eyes to see perchance.
You may see the Sunset Spirit rest upon the suns departing glance
Her beauty is beyond reproach; her eyes leave a lasting impression.
And although she does not speak, her lips speak the night's confession.
The Sunset Spirit is this and more, she comes from the suns inner core.
She guides are sunsets for our pleasure, so that we are left wanting more
Her lust for attention motivates her, to show all of sunset's glory.
But, this my friends is truly only half of this beautiful story.
The Sunset Spirit has always been and she will always be,
For she has been set upon this earth at the Lord Gods decree
The Sunset Sprit is a savior to ensure the beauty that we all see,
But most of all she is the beauty in the sunset, that always comforts me.
REB (MAY 2012) I Love the sunsets, and to see the real beauty of them, you just have to open our eyes.
poem by Rik Bertrand
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Me and My Sunset Love !
'bye-bye my love, ' she said
'our love aint worthy another try'
hand in hand
in the sunset, we stand
'i just want this day to end, ' she says
'so that you can have your first last kiss'
i go east, she heads west
to chase our wildest dreams
so i run and run
to catch up with the sun
and make today remain
if you see me coming down the road
my shadow taller than my saul
just know am on the race
a race against time
am trying my love am trying
to make this day a-never ending
but the sun is sinking
sinking behind the mountains
to rise again behind me
she runs and runs
away from the sunset
into the darkness
on and on to the west she goes
thank God the earth is round
eventually she emerges from the east
running towards the dawn
sunset and dawn become one
and we meet again
she falls into my arms
and makes my day again
i get my second last kiss
and at sunset our circle will progress
its craziness this love we share
we cant be together
and we cant be apart
poem by Pada Kambanji
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The Wayfarer
I. THE TREES
THERE is no glory of the sunset here!
Heavy the clouds upon the darkening road,
And heavy, too, the wind upon the trees!
The trees sway, making moan
Continuous, like breaking seas.
impotent, bare things,
You give at last the very cry of earth!
I walk this darkening road in solemn mood:
Within deep hell came Dante to a wood
Like him I marvel at the crying trees!
II. THE STAR
A mighty star anear has drawn and now
Is vibrant on the air
The half-divested, trembling trees of his
Bright presence are aware
Below within the stream I him behold
Between the marge and main -
My bone and flesh, what dust they'll be when he,
That star, dips here again!
III. THE CAPTIVE ARCHER
To-morrow I will bend the bow:
My soul shall have her mark again,
My bosom feel the archer's strain.
No longer pacing to and fro
With idle hands and listless brain:
As goes the arrow, forth I go.
My soul shall have her mark again,
My bosom feel the archer's strain.
To-morrow I will bend the bow.
IV. TRIUMPHATORS
The drivers in the sunset race
Their coal-carts over cobble-stones
Not draymen but tnumphators:
Their bags are left with Smith and Jones,
They let the horses take their stride,
Which toss their forelocks in their pride.
Not blue nor green these factions wear
Which make career o'er Dublin stones;
But Pluto his own livery
Is what each whip-carrier owns.
The Caesar of the cab-rank, I
Salute the triumph speeding by.
poem by Padraic Colum
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September 1961
This is the year the old ones,
the old great ones
leave us alone on the road.
The road leads to the sea.
We have the words in our pockets,
obscure directions. The old ones
have taken away the light of their presence,
we see it moving away over a hill
off to one side.
They are not dying,
they are withdrawn
into a painful privacy
learning to live without words.
E. P. "It looks like dying"-Williams: "I can't
describe to you what has been
happening to me"-
H. D. "unable to speak."
The darkness
twists itself in the wind, the stars
are small, the horizon
ringed with confused urban light-haze.
They have told us
the road leads to the sea,
and given
the language into our hands.
We hear
our footsteps each time a truck
has dazzled past us and gone
leaving us new silence.
Ine can't reach
the sea on this endless
road to the sea unless
one turns aside at the end, it seems,
follows
the owl that silently glides above it
aslant, back and forth,
and away into deep woods.
But for usthe road
unfurls itself, we count the
words in our pockets, we wonder
how it will be without them, we don't
stop walking, we know
there is far to go, sometimes
we think the night wind carries
a smell of the sea...
poem by Denise Levertov
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