Picture Poem #212 (From, This is my Wasteland)
Morning fresh
with sound of rustle wind
at the treetops
blowing sunset leaves
tomorrow's
a hunter of dream
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Voice
`
leaves rustle in a dance
the wind, their live band
birds, their vocal ensemble
but your voice remains still
not a sound to be heard
leaves rustle on a tome
your words printed out and bound
inked clues guide memories
but your voice still remains -
faded familiar sound
leave, just leave without a word
your thoughts riding on the wind
echo back that distant call
bring to life this one last time
the hearts you left behind
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Picture Poem #213 (From, This is my Wasteland)
Hungry birds
fly in tomorrow's wind
with mornings river
like fresh dew
sunrise and sunset
painting the leaves
poem by Peter S. Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet Tree
Rustle, little leaves above, rustle in the breeze...
Rustle, little leaves of love, rustle mid God's peace!
Rustle, every night and day, rustle every hour...
Rustle, rustle, come what may, rustle mid God's power!
Rustle, for then wise words are formed,
Great expectations made!
Through such as these, men's hearts are warmed
And children's prayers are prayed!
Rustle upon the Poet Tree,
Above the poets' ears,
So they may learn each melody,
These God-picked volunteers...
Rustle sweetly, and gently on,
Persist from age to age -
Let all God's poets write upon
Their separate nearby page...
Rustle until all humans die
And no more poets live!
Until no soul would question, 'Why? '
And there's no cause to give!
Rustle until God tells you stop,
'Dear friends, at last, be free...
'Tis time for you to fall, to drop...
Beneath the Poet Tree...
I've loved each poem, every one...
And Jesus loved them, too!
You've blessed the world! Your task is done!
Your rustle days are through...'
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Wind is Blowing
The wind is blowing,
Blowing slow and fast on my skin,
Blowing fast and hard on his skin.
The wind is cold tonight,
Blowing scary in the woods,
Blowing swiftly throw the night.
The wind is warm today,
Blowing hard in town,
Blowing soft in the county.
The wind is cool,
Blowing all the time,
As they say,
The wind is blowing!
poem by Angela M. Maynard
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The Scent Of Summer
The woodpecker picking skins from the trees,
Summer air hardly blowing, heavy and humid,
Make female flutter in the wind as naked goddess,
Greet the fluttering fan blowing in their hand.
A windy ripple of joy amides fragrant the smiles,
Like the scent of mist loitering in a new morning ray?
Falling from heaven upon rugged hills with limpid tress,
Make a noise blushing in leafy shade of the day.
Up in the sky, morning glory shows a brilliant fire,
And the young hairy grass whisper with a different voice,
Call unto drowsy fields for nature to awake from slumber,
Take into the air beauty of presiding choice.
Between dimpled leaves come the buzzing bees,
Clouds go higher, gathered sweat in boughs as rain,
The season bring the scent of summer bloom with ease,
Mingled fragrance in the lovely leaves contain.
A special display of all the aspirations that people have,
Stored up in many small changes of fresh fantasies,
Orchards paths in distant dreams many do crave,
But we can all swallow reality much nearer the pansies.
In sunset shadows the glitter of gold pass sublimed,
Where painted mausoleum pervades dark places,
Which mark that imprint in the sands of our time?
Wind and rain gently step aside from the gorgeous isles.
poem by Gerry Legister
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The Hunter’s Song
RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.
Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O’er furrows, o’er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!—as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,—away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?
’T is the conquering voice of the hunter’s horn.
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter’s horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What ’s the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse’s back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter’s horn!
The horn,—the horn!
O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter’s horn!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Blowing Hot and Cold
You blow like a hot wind through my heart,
Raising me up to feel full of life,
A wind that takes away my pain,
Leaves me feeling like a man,
Tomorrow you blow like a cold wind through my heart,
Doubt tears me apart,
A wind that leaves me in pain,
Wishing me down the drain,
Blowing hot and cold,
You can be too bold,
Slow down baby,
We can work it out, maybe,
So what is it you want from me?
Do you really just want to be free?
Maybe you just don't know how to grow,
Sometimes it's better to go with the flow!
While I wait for your wind to slow and warm,
All I want is for you to be safe from harm,
Sometimes I make you mad,
I don't want to see you so sad,
Blowing hot and cold,
You can be too bold,
Slow down baby,
We can work it out, maybe,
Live life to the full, good and grand,
When things are tough I will give you a hand,
Together we can go higher,
Love is our only desire!
23 May 2012
NYC
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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The Whistle's Dirge
The dog trod the path
Towards the den.
The hunter sounded his whistle
Towards the dog.
The rarefaction and compression
Of the whistle sound,
Like the rustling of forest leaves
And the howling of passing wind,
Journeyed hollow through its ears.
The hunter's whistle sings its dirge,
Sooner, the dog is bathed in blood.
poem by Adeoye Adetoba
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If I Could Be The Wind
I want to be the wind blowing in forest playing their own song.
I want to be the wind bringing smiles for farmers.
I want to be the wind bringing rain, helping fireman in his hardest time.
I want to be the wind assisting plant to expand their kingdom.
I want to be the wind smoothly blowing over the sea and bringing fisherman home safely.
I want to be the wind covering the thing which ought to be left in past.
I want to be the wind clearing the mind of those with agony
I want to be the wind blowing in summer and tending to those without shelter.
I want to be the wind which bring happiness to the children taking their kite high up in the sky.
I want to be the wind removing clouds of torment and allowing sun to lay down its vital warmth.
I want to be the wind which remove thorn from path and help people to move forward.
I want to be the wind helping bird to take their first flight.
I want to be the wind which leaves versifier rapt giving him his divine words
I want to be the wind blowing all over place bringing happiness to people and vanishes stealthily, unnoticed.
I WANT TO BE THE WIND…
poem by Parth Gwari
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0018 Man Raking Leaves (re Jim Morrison lyric)
The sound of wooden rake scratching concrete.
walk nearer - rustle of dry leaves.
This, the beginning of a Japanese haiku
or maybe a Japanese film -
dry sound first, then rake, then leaves, then man -
that evokes autumn
too near the heart
to need a title
the sound stops. silence. man leans on rake.
then match strikes, there's almost yes an echo
from the dry leaves not yet fallen from the trees
in the forest all around.
then the first tickle in the nostrils
of burning leaves which
the two-year old scrunching through the trees
hand in hand with older sister
will remember all his life
like the silence between
two lines of a haiku or
the silence of the moment when the seasons turn.
and who can say
what the golden-orange-yellow-brown trees
slowly stripping in a rustle as of silken nightgown
to the tune of, more a whisper than a breeze -
what the trees feel
as the incense of their, their, burning leaves
steals like a last caress
for each such faithful
lover?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Say Well Meet Again
Written by lindsey buckingham.
Just say well meet again
When the sunset spell is gone in the wind
Please say well meet again
Everyone sees a tear in the seam
But talks about the weather
Everyone pays a price for these dreams
So why not dream these dreams together
Just say well meet again
When the sunset spell is gone in the wind
Please say well meet again
That was a dream, that was a time
But nothing lasts forever
Sooner or later we all must go blind
But we can dream these dreams together
Just say well meet again
When the sunset spell is gone in the wind
Please say well meet again
song performed by by Lindsey Buckingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Memories
the memories have become brown leaves
with the slight touch of the wind
this summer
all of them fall to the ground
some will be blown far away
some will stay and crack
and become dust
in a little while,
i will hear the sound of everything
the wind blowing,
the falling of the leaves
the cracking and
then how the dust
whispers
that it still want to stay and wait
even longer
for the next season of rain
like some seeds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wind, Light, Leaves and Men
wind
leaves
they dance
with each other
they carress too
you hear the sound
of their love making
each time they meet
light joins in
to enrich the dance
and become one entity - laugh
louder than the sea
leaves - they are the dream of
wind and light comes true
wind, light, leaves
whenever they gather
men, animals join in their fun
take away one
and the world cries to an end
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Why Do I Write Such Silly Stuff?
the wind blows my window
i'ts near time to go
across the cold alley way
the dried leaves blow
outside every one's looking at me
but, their eyes look down; afraid to talk
is it them or me, my sanity or vanity
that makes them balk!
it's a San Francisco wind
blowing in
blowing the leaves around
i wanted to travel
but i'm locked in Chicago
with the Alburquerque blues
with all i have to lose
with the whole world from to choose
i'm back in my room, alone
with the any where i'm at, i'm still the same blues!
poem by Francis E.rudy
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Reeds
They grow so tall
like solemn reeds,
swaying in the morning sun,
and rustle when the wind blows,
only when the wind blows.
Like revelers with the saddest songs
the wind tells them to sing along,
but to and fro with tame resolve
they move, and grow, and life goes on,
softly in the morning sun.
When the wind has come and gone,
and silence is the evening song,
they'll be at rest, but shiver some,
gently in the falling sun.
poem by by unknown author
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Moons And Horror Shows
Today is a day when many fine things will come
Today is just a memory tomorrow
I know that there's some bad things to come
But I'll forget them all until tomorrow
The days are long and nights don't come at all
We eat and drink and then we fall asleep
And then I dream of moons and horror shows
And then I'll wake up fresh and new tomorrow
Then I dream of moons and horror shows
And then I'll wake up fresh and new tomorrow
Hmmmm...
song performed by by Zutons
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Soft and Tenderly
Soft and tenderly,
A breeze comes to me...
And then it leaves.
Quick and fresh it is.
Taking me within in its midst,
Ever gently.
Cool, fresh and sweet...
Then it goes.
How it flows to tease with blowing,
No one knows.
The sky clear and crisp.
As my eyes lift to witness,
The Sun rise and glow.
The birth of this day...
Has a peaceful way to say,
Share this and grow.
A wealth of Spring begins,
And I sing without end...
A melody that is soft,
With a tenderness I seldom show.
Soft and tenderly,
A breeze comes to me...
And then it leaves.
Quick and fresh it is.
Taking me within in its midst,
Ever gently.
How it flows to tease with blowing,
No one knows.
And I'm glad to sit as it drifts,
Unresisting the giving,
It bestows.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Saving Love
Would we but love what will not pass away!
The sun that on each morning shines as clear
As when it rose first on the world's first year;
The fresh green leaves that rustle on the spray.
The sun will shine, the leaves will be as gay
When graves are full of all our hearts held dear,
When not a soul of those who loved us here,
Not one, is left us--creatures of decay.
Yea, love the Abiding in the Universe
Which was before, and will be after us.
Nor yet for ever hanker and vainly cry
For human love--the beings that change or die;
Die--change--forget: to care so is a curse,
Yet cursed we'll be rather than not care thus.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Partisan
When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender,
this I could not do;
I took my gun and vanished.
I have changed my name so often,
I've lost my wife and children
but I have many friends,
and some of them are with me.
An old woman gave us shelter,
kept us hidden in the garret,
then the soldiers came;
she died without a whisper.
There were three of us this morning
I'm the only one this evening
but I must go on;
the frontiers are my prison.
Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we'll come from the shadows.
Les Allemands e'taient chez moi,
ils me dirent,
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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