Squirrels in Play
Below the beckoning Beech Nut tree
The squirrels in pleasure play;
Each a member of that kinship
Gathering forage while they may.
Gregarious in their pleasure
As they patter here and there
Filling cheeks with beech nuts
With a squirrelish flair.
Up and down the Beech Nut tree
They chase in shadowy delight
For pleasure or picking rights
They engage in playful fights.
They scold and chatter as they play
As warning or from fright;
One can never humor them
They will chase away from sight.
Sit and watch them by the hour
With their acts all on display;
They surely then will humor you
In their uninhibited way.
poem by Justin P. Malady
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Related quotes
Generations
You are like the stem
Of a young beech-tree,
Straight and swaying,
Breaking out in golden leaves.
Your walk is like the blowing of a beech-tree
On a hill.
Your voice is like leaves
Softly struck upon by a South wind.
Your shadow is no shadow, but a scattered sunshine;
And at night you pull the sky down to you
And hood yourself in stars.
But I am like a great oak under a cloudy sky,
Watching a stripling beech grow up at my feet.
poem by Amy Lowell
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In a Herber Green Asleep Whereas I Lay
In a herber green asleep whereas I lay,
The birds sang sweet in the middle of the day;
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go;
But when I wak'd it was not so:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Therefore my heart is surely pight
Of her alone to have a sight,
Which is my joy and heart's delight:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
poem by Robert Wever
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In Youth is Pleasure
IN a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay,
The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day,
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go--
But when I waked it was not so:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Therefore my hart is surely pyght
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and hartes delight:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
poem by Robert Wever
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Poplar And Beech
Beseeched the beech
the poplar
asking how to be more popular
Replied the beech
'Move to the beach.'
poem by Saiom Shriver
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An ever-relished chase
It has been a long chase
For something or the other
Over these years
As a kid it was a chase
For toys and play things
As a student it was a chase
For marks and ranks
As a youth it was a chase
After career and growth
And later it was chase
For getting the right life partner
The chase continued
For off-springs’ upbring
It was later to chase
For helping children settle
Ageing made me chase
For cure from illnesses
And other physical malfunctions
Yes,
It was a long chase for
Something or the others all these days
One understanding dawned in me
That
You will not get that
Which you have not chased
And
You will not get every thing
Which you have chased
Even if you get the object of your chase
It is not going to be in that form
In which it was when you started the chase
Unfruitful chase proves frustrating
Fruitful chase exciting
Wisdom will tell you that
The pleasure is more with the act of chase
Than getting hold of the object of chase
Holding of the object of chase
And sustaining its charm
Are essential after the end of chase
Very likely, chase for objects of
Worldly significance
Takes away your energy
And a lot of time elapses
Before you get in possession
Of your chase-objects
The duration at times is so large
That you wonder at the end of the chase
As to what for this object has been chased
The one chase which
Has the least probability
Of ending and
You hardly get hold of the
Object of chase
Is the
Chase for self-actualization
Or self-realization
This is the chase after your spirit
That kept you going all these days
And that will keep you going
Till that time when you away
Spiritual scholars assure
That this chase is really exciting
And remains so for any long
Whether or not
You come across what you are chasing
Develop a taste for such a chase
As this chase
Never makes you tired
But helps you remain balanced, cool
And unmindful of happenings
Around you
It is indeed an ever-relished chase
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The biggest mistake
With the palyful gait of a chid,
i was playing with my friends,
in the rocky hill and sand,
With all might i was playing the game.
All were busy pushing, pulling, running,
I too was doing the same,
but my attention was driven away from the game,
The sight of a playful goat was alluring me away.
The sight of the shiny black goat,
made me thought to chase and play with it,
But the goat was not ready to do the same,
so i was running fast to chase.
Its unwillingness to play with me,
was making me crazy to play,
So i was running with a frenzy,
to catch it with all my might.
I didnt realise what my chase may lead to,
my mind was filled with the only thought of catching it,
and running away from my mad chase,
It met its death inside a well.
Till date and every date of my life,
I regret and will always do so,
till the end of my life for my mad chase,
My mad chase leading to an innocent death!
poem by Winnie Angel
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Governed By The Libido
A chase by a cock, a chase by a bull,
Or a man's pursuit, after their females
Might be feared or frowned but not hated,
With sexual instincts dictating pleasure.
The case is like a praise any one will like
Not minding which quarters it has come from.
Woman likes being loved though not the lover,
With her libido releasing as pleasure.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Beechwoods at Knole
How do I love you, beech-trees, in the autumn,
Your stone-grey columns a cathedral nave
Processional above the earth's brown glory!
I was a child, and I loved the knurly tangle
Of roots that coiled above a scarp like serpents,
Where I might hide my treasure with the squirrels.
I was a child, and splashed my way in laughter
Through drifts of leaves, where underfoot the beech-nuts
Split with crisp crackle to my great rejoicing.
Red are the beechen slopes below Shock Tavern,
Red is the bracken on the sandy Furze-field,
Red are the stags and hinds by Bo-Pit Meadows,
The rutting stags that nightly through the beechwoods
Bell out their challenge, carrying their antlers
Proudly beneath the antlered autumn branches.
I was a child, and heard the red deer's challenge
Prowling and belling underneath my window,
Never a cry so haughty or so mournful.
poem by Victoria Sackville-West
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Feuilles D'Automne
Gather the leaves from the forest
And blow them over the world,
The wind of winter follows
The wind of autumn furled.
Only the beech tree cherishes
A leaf or two for ruth,
Their stems too tough for the tempest,
Like thoughts of love and of youth.
You may sit by the fire and ponder
While darkness veils the pane,
And fear that your memories are rushing away
In the wind and the rain.
But you'll find them in the quiet
When the clouds race with the moon,
Making the tender silver sound
Of a beech in the month of June.
For you cannot rob the memory
Of the leaves it loves the best;
The wind of time may harry them,
It rushes away with the rest.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Opposite displeasure
Success gives pleasure.
Conquest gives pleasure.
Revenge gives pleasure.
Hunting gives pleasure.
Coveting gives pleasure.
Mind; every pleasure
Gives equal and opposite
Displeasure to others.
In a way we act as sadists
04.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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To Paul: A Lost Identity
Thus can art be fair, no excuse to be fairer.
Those soft touch of liquor and desire,
Ever falls and sleep in eyes of pleasure.
With no mistaken sight to admire,
As life’s extremity starting the fire.
Wandered in depths of an old promise
That kissed the scent of bliss.
The broken past upon the quietness;
A shed of tears and despair drew.
Wearing mask, play with fire, more or less
The fire and hunger around it grew
But behind a mask is where love lies
Showing humor under the starry skies
Most true it is thy will that doth fulfill
And full with will making love that doesn’t still
Yet so they talk, only speaking of their woe
That every word says guilt should look so
An impasse puzzle, an indelible sight
And only she was the pieces of delight
Pity thyself as the greatest thief
Wanting falsehood and made the darkest grief
But thou, to her still lay the weary heart
That whence pleasure thou may not come and part
From all the lies, sin, and knavery
Want only but to know an identity
Find love, find a name, for being unacquainted
And place the treasure of glory to remain disconnected
Crown thyself a king for the true things deemed
Maybe an oaf, crafty or well esteemed
With thy powerful humor and appeal
If you can’t know, well can’t I still?
poem by Jan Dennis Destajo
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For All Prisoners And Captives
OVER the English trees and the English meadows
Twilight is falling clear,
But my heart walks far in the homeless winds and the shadows
For those who are not here.
Youth and pleasure and peace and the strong flesh clothing
The freeman's soul, they gave;
Beauty they gave for a scar and honour for loathing
And life for a living grave.
But not of the least they gave was the English, mellow
Sunlight on beech leaves spread,
And the Squirrel flickering earthward to find his fellow
Where the chestnut husks lie dead.
And not of the least they lost was the calm star climbing
Over the elm tree's height,
And the heron high in the mists, and the hoar frost riming
The ivy leaves at night.
Night and the early moon, and the dead leaves burning,
And England secure and free
By the price of uncounted heartbreaks toward her turning
Across her kindred sea.
Night, and the smell of the earth, and the blue reek lifting
Straight as a prayer from the plain.
Loose them, O Sleep, to the sun and the beech leaves drifting
And the stubble fields again!
Night, and the robins still, and the long smoke folding,
The fallow on either hand,
And the spirits of those who sorrow afar, beholding
In dreams their native land.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Johan Ludvig Heiberg 1860
To the grave they bore him sleeping,
Him the aged, genial gardener;
Now the children gifts are heaping
From the flower-bed he made.
There the tree that he sat under,
And the garden gate is open,
While we cast a glance and wonder
Whether some one sits there still.
He is gone. A woman only
Wanders there with languid footsteps,
Clothed in black and now so lonely,
Where his laughter erst rang clear.
As a child when past it going,
Through the fence she looked with longing,
Now great tears so freely flowing
Are her thanks that she came in.
Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring
Whispered to him 'neath the foliage.
She flits softly, gathering, storing
Them as solace for her woe.
*
Far his wanderings once bore him,
Bore this aged, genial searcher;
One who listening sat before him
Much could learn from time to time.
Life and letters were his ladder
Up toward that which few discover,
Thought's wide realm, with vision gladder
He explored, each summit scaled.
In his manhood he defended
All that greatness has and beauty;
Later he the stars attended
In their silent course to God.
*
Older men remember rather
"New Year!" ringing o'er the Northland.
How it power had to gather
Leaders to a greater age
Do you him remember leaping
Forth, his horn so gladly winding,
Back the mob on all sides sweeping
From the progress of the great?
Play of thought 'mid tears and laughter,
Fauns and children were about him;
Freedom's beacons high thereafter
Kindled slowly of themselves.
And his words soon found a hearing,
Peace of heart flowed from his music;
All the land thrilled to the nearing
Of a great prophetic choir.
**
In his manhood he defended
All that greatness has and beauty;
Later he the stars attended
In their silent course to God.
Northern flowers were his pleasure,
As an aged genial gardener,
From his nation's springtime treasure
Culling seed for deathless growth.
Now with humor, now sedately,
He kept planting or uprooting,
While the Danish beech-tree stately
Gave his soul its evening peace.
There the tree we saw him under,
And the garden gate is open,
While we cast a glance and wonder
Whether some one sits there still.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Pleasure Is The Bait
Excitement gives pleasure;
Exploration gives pleasure;
Sexual love gives pleasure.
Pleasures are momentary.
Pleasure can peak the happiness
Or cause the valley of sorrow.
Pleasure is the bait one's after
Not minding the after-effects.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Tree Mouse
Wherever you go, you’ll see them
assorted coloured tree mice.
They can be white, black, red and grey.
I must admit I have never seen one
with poker-dot spots,
by now your asking
what the heck is a tree mouse.
Well they are bushy tailed rodents
that love nuts and fruit and other assorted things.
Like a cat, they’ll raid a dustbin or two.
They scamper across our lawn
come the summer time
even do a high wire act
when cables are off the grown.
They tease the neighbourhood cats
with their arial displays
saying come and catch me if you can.
Knowing full well the poor cat
is no tightrope walker.
They are cheeky little fellows
and you cannot help watching them.
If you have a bag of peanuts
and your not quick enough
they will climb down your arm
help themselves, then grab the lot.
Some people call them a pest
and I know a few cats
would agree with that.
Personally, I get great pleasure
watch the tree mice play.
11 September 2009
poem by David Harris
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Nba Humor?
we need to see
more nba humor
too many serious big men
God, some humor send!
who needs ego on display?
just have fun and play!
lighten up, share that ball
short or tall
team is more fun than me
it's us - we!
pass the ball, guys
like those unselfish inspired gals
poem by Harlan Simantel
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Pleasure for one hour, a bottle of wine. Pleasure for one year a marriage; but pleasure for a lifetime, a garden.
What A Pleasure It Is
WHAT A PLEASURE IT IS
What a pleasure it is,
To walk without pain-
To not have to watch every step-
To not feel suddenly a stabbing ache
When one puts one foot on the ground-
What a pleasure
Not to have to think of my knees my tendons
And to walk and just walk,
And to see whatever I see before me-
What a pleasure just to be alright
And to appreciate in old age
A gift one took for granted in one's youth.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Childhood Memories
Each hour that passed and every moment
Gone by become a memory
There will be sad ones but most happy and gay
Childhood memories like models of clay
Sunny days spent along the river edge
Resting in clumps of clover
Picking flowers to overfill
Endless hours spent on violet hill
A race to the very old tree
With a feeling of being so free
To dance around it's matronly base
Every one ready go let us chase
That elusive butterfly purple and blue
The world only belonged to me and you
A plunge in the river immersed in emerald green
In touch only with silence a silver sheen
Drifting down to pebbles and stalks
A world of pleasure beyond believe
It once was mine but not to keep
poem by Ingeborg von Finsterwalde
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The extreme pleasure
Pleasure of luxuries,
Pleasure of victories
Or pleasure of any other kinds
Cannot stand against
The pleasure of conquest of woman,
For all potential men.
29.04.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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