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Sonnet: Nature Resurrects

The ‘curry-leaf’ tree bears berries again!
The black fruits look enticing, succulent;
And more will ripen with the August-rain,
A feast to the spotted-grey bird, God-sent.

The guava-trees are full of flow’rs and fruits!
They ripen fast each morn to squirrel’s squeak;
The landscape will have ripe fruits like a ‘Blitz, ’
Which many birds will then happily beak.

The rain can do such magic to the lands;
It resurrects the almost dead, dry trees;
Some fairies good are working with their wands!
The fauna seems as busy as the bees.

Thus, Nature sprinkles compassion on all!
Her heart melts to each creature’s plaintive call.

8-9-2002

poem by John Celes
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A Calendar of Sonnets: September

O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung
On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;
And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped
The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late
By very reason of its precious cost.
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost
If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!

poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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To Give Tomorrow Less Reason To Exist

So gone but with a going on,
Are those yesterdays living...
Within my mind.
To find and give time.

Clinging like grapes,
Yet to ripen on a vine.
Are those yesterdays remembered.
As if to forever live.

Giving tomorrow less reason to exist.
As those yesterdays gone,
Cling on and on permitted unresisted.
Like unripened grapes on a vine,
To watch and give more time to find.

So gone but with a going on,
Are those yesterdays living...
Within my mind.
To find and give time.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Carol

Our Lord Who did the Ox command
To kneel to Judah's King,
He binds His frost upon the land
To ripen it for Spring --
To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
According to His Word.
Which well must be as ye can see --
And who shall judge the Lord?

When we poor fenmen skate the ice
Or shiver on the wold,
We hear the cry of a single tree
That breaks her heart in the cold --
That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs,
And rendeth by the board.
Which well must be as ye can see --
And who shall judge the Lord?

Her wood is crazed and little worth
Excepting as to burn,

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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We Decided To Cut Some Trees

we planted the seeds together
we were thinking of fruits
for our children
we were thinking of the shade
where they can
in the future play

then the fruits in bounty came
mangoes loaded
and some water apples
shining on the twigs

the fruits ripen and some birds
came and ate them
the fruits ripen and some fell
on the ground and some
worms came and ate them

the trees get tired finally of the
seasons

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Love Letter To You

My dear sweet lover,
I am writing this letter from my heart;
Because i've been hunted by your love!
And i've been keeping it ever since i met you.

I can't sleep off my mind so easily,
And not even in my dreams! !
For the phenomenon of this love is a thing that touches me,
And your love is as ripen as the autumn fruit.

It concerns us all on this thing called love,
And every prerequisite intelligent brain wants this fruit;
So let our consciousness stimulate each other deeply!
For everyone requires love on this earth.

My proposal to you is like the vision of making love to this fruit,
And i really love you and i cannot hide it from you!
This is because your candle of love has been burning inside me,
For your love is as ripen as the autumn fruit.

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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Recollections of a Dreamland

Rouse ye! torpid daylight-dreamers, cast your carking cares away!
As calm air to troubled water, so my night is to your day;
All the dreary day you labour, groping after common sense,
And your eyes ye will not open on the night's magnificence.
Ye would scow were I to tell you how a guiding radiance gleams
On the outer world of action from my inner world of dreams.

When, with mind released from study, late I lay note down to sleep,
From the midst of facts and figures, into boundless space I leap;
For the inner world grows wider as the outer disappears,
And the soul, retiring inward, finds itself beyond the spheres.
Then, to this unbroken sameness, some fantastic dream succeeds,
Vague emotions rise and ripen into thoughts and words and deeds.
Old impressions, long forgotten, range themselves in Time and Space,
Till I recollect the features of some once familiar place.
Then from valley into valley in my dreaming course I roam,
Till the wanderings of my fancy end, where they began, at home.
Calm it lies in morning twilight, while each streamlet far and wide
Still retains its hazy mantle, borrowed from the mountain's side;
Every knoll is now an island every wooded bank a shore,

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poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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The Lotos-eaters

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Duellist - Book III

Ah me! what mighty perils wait
The man who meddles with a state,
Whether to strengthen, or oppose!
False are his friends, and firm his foes:
How must his soul, once ventured in,
Plunge blindly on from sin to sin!
What toils he suffers, what disgrace,
To get, and then to keep, a place!
How often, whether wrong or right,
Must he in jest or earnest fight,
Risking for those both life and limb
Who would not risk one groat for him!
Under the Temple lay a Cave,
Made by some guilty, coward slave,
Whose actions fear'd rebuke: a maze
Of intricate and winding ways,
Not to be found without a clue;
One passage only, known to few,
In paths direct led to a cell,
Where Fraud in secret loved to dwell,

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poem by Charles Churchill
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A Dialogue At Fiesole

HE.
Halt here awhile. That mossy-cushioned seat
Is for your queenliness a natural throne;
As I am fitly couched on this low sward,
Here at your feet.

SHE.
And I, in thought, at yours:
My adoration, deepest.

HE.
Deep, so deep,
I have no thought wherewith to fathom it;
Or, shall I say, no flight of song so high,
To reach the Heaven whence you look down on me,
My star, my far-off star!

SHE.
If far, yet fixed:
No shifting planet leaving you to seek

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poem by Alfred Austin
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