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No greater thing is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.

quote by Epictetus
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Leaf, A Twig, A Little Bird

Adam, am i,
i got this only fig
leaf to
cover my
insufficiency,
this deficiency
of the
centerfold
in me.

Adam am i,
i have this little twig,
attached to
my upper leg,

and Adam am i,
i have this little bird,
so coy like a turtle dove,
yet so fierce
and shrewd

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Watch My Steps

Dig around it and fertilize it with love,
And like the fig tree planted in the vineyard of love;
But the heat came in because of the wind!
And like the south wind blowing around you.

Dig, big, fig, nig, pig, cig, jig, rig, wig;
For three years i have benn searching for the fruit of your love,
But try to watch my steps to understand my muse;
And like butter given to the women in your town at last.

With hope to climb to the top,
With love to care for you,
With my mind to be at the right place always,
But i will still search for you;
Because you are like a tree planted by the river of waters!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Never Trust Women

NEVER TRUST WOMEN

Never trust women, men’s ruinous ribs,
and when they speak truthfully you should beware;
no fig-leaves can cover their feminine fibs
if offered an apple they want you to share,
so when you are thinking of planting a garden,
and find someone feminine, fair, photogenic,
don’t fall for her, since you may not get a pardon
once you have discovered that she's not Edenic.

Inspired by two lines Zachary wrote to Abe Mezrich to celebrate the first portion of the Torah which is read tomorrow on Shabbat Breishit:

Trust not ye: woman, the gullible rib,
lest from home you are driven, and left with a fig.

© 2009 Gershon Hepner 10/16/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Wander to the Land of Fog

Arjuna walked slowly to the top of the hatch train,
to the land of mist-gray sky
iron wheels of the train collided with rocks
cruising round the wheels to follow his heart troubled wanderer
drown the eastern horizon traces the wheels spin on the horizon,
naim is abandoned, the shade of a fig tree
Petruk fig shady place to lie down, weaving Asa.
Petruk subject to a stroke sleepiness, nodding off
Whether dreaming, whether menginggau on a speeding train
His heels were moving from side to side, legs bent in too long hold ubtuk train.
Iron wheels keep turning, keep heading west, the land where the fog of wrinkles
Cold arctic air to penetrate the bones, which vibrate the body shivering, scared
Wandering soul is troubled, not met the meaning is sought.
Here a mist, wrinkled faces
Arctic air snow and frozen heart.

poem by Prasetya Utama
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The Good Craft _Snow Bird_

Strenuous need that head-wind be
From purposed voyage that drives at last
The ship, sharp-braced and dogged still,
Beating up against the blast.

Brigs that figs for market gather,
Homeward-bound upon the stretch,
Encounter oft this uglier weather
Yet in end their port they fetch.

Mark yon craft from sunny Smyrna
Glazed with ice in Boston Bay;
Out they toss the fig-drums cheerly,
Livelier for the frosty ray.

What if sleet off-shore assailed her,
What though ice yet plate her yards;
In wintry port not less she renders
Summer's gift with warm regards!

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poem by Herman Melville
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The Robbers

Alas! I see that thrushes three
Are ravishing my old fig tree,
In whose green shade I smoked my pipe
And waited for the fruit to ripe;
From green to purple softly swell
Then drop into my lap to tell
That it is succulently sweet
And excellent to eat.

And now I see the crimson streak,
The greedy gash of yellow beak.
And look! the finches come in throng,
In wavy passage, light with song;
Of course I could scare them away,
But with a shrug: 'The heck!' I say.
I owe them something for their glee,
So let them have their spree.

For all too soon in icy air
My fig tree will be bleak and bare,

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poem by Robert William Service
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The Barren Fig-Tree

The church a garden is
In which believers stand,
Like ornamental trees
Planted by God's own hand:
His Spirit waters all their roots,
And every branch abounds with fruits.

But other trees there are,
In this enclosure grow;
Which, though they promise fair,
Have only leaves to show:
No fruits of grace are on them found,
They stand but cumb'rers of the ground.

The under gard'ner grieves,
In vain his strength he spends,
For heaps of useless leaves,
Afford him small amends:
He hears the Lord his will make known,
To cut the barren fig-trees down.

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poem by John Newton
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What The ****? !

All was quiet in the Garden of Eden
and not a fig-leaf stirred...

but after the Fall of Man
(usually forwards and enthusiastically, we note)
literature
required some word for what happens
when evening falls, the curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
lovers begin to nuzzle, friends
remember a prior engagement, journalists
try to bribe the night porter, and
some novelists, blushing, draw the curtain, while others
brighten and begin to enjoy their work; and filmmakers
need to decide between a darkling screen,
a symbolic firework display, or
box-office returns.

Egyptian hieroglyphics afford little clue (there's
a chance missed) : but jump-cutting now to Anglo-Saxon usage,
Chaucer, Father of the English Language so we're told,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The battle of Isandhlwana

Shaded by a wild fig tree
where the Tugela river enters the ocean
representatives of British queen Victoria
demanded that the Zulus give up
their independence.

The Zulu king Cetshwayo
would never again send his impi
into battle against the Boer farmers,
but the British his impi would spear
and bash to death
and he ordered
his general Nishingwayo KaMahole Khoza
to halt the British invaders.

The Zulu commander remembered the battle
at Blood River well
where four hundred and seventy
Boer farmers fought
from behind their wagons

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poem by Gert Strydom
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