Trees

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On the east side of the road
distance can't be measured
No landmarks break the ground
or spires pierce the air.
All is blank and still possible where
grass and sky meet suspended like a song-
twinned voices in a void of green and blue.

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On the west side of the road
The trees sing of dusk and
space not taken. The night has not
been dreamed of yet. It lies waiting
unbidden in the future, where shadows are cast
over earth and sky, flowing outward toward
sleep in darkening streams.

I've just read through the thread, and find I like all of the poems here. Particularly the first haiku and the final offering.

Whadya mean Ed?

You like 'em. Like you like a steak or something.

They are beautiful. What does what you like matter?

Nobody pulled your chain.

I'll leave that to Becksie and hope she is gentle.

spendius
wipe your chin. there's a bit of drool there.

You're right Ed. I'm salivating.

The thought of her getting out of the wrong side of the bed has me biting the table in frustrated impatience.

Don't want to hijack a fine thread.

No sweat Ed. Hijack to your heart's content.

Thanks Edgar. Unlike Spendius and I, you and I have must have similar taste.
How do I put this without sounding like I'm bragging? "Um...out of the poems and haiku offered on this thread - I find myself most drawn to those two pieces of writing as well". On the forum as a whole however - I've read poetry I've admired or been more taken with (by other authors, namely you and Cola). But thanks for your comment.

For some reason, that last picture reminds me of a Texas sky. Am I imagining things? I haven't been there since my grandmother died in l997, so it's not too clear in my head, but that picture just gives me a Texas vibe.

Spendius - thanks for your comment as well. Compliments from you (to me at least) are rare and valued as such (by me at least). Thank you. I'm glad you found it beautiful.

And by the way, Spendius - no wrong side of the bed today. It's nice to wake up and find that I had visitors such as this on this thread.
Edgar - I don't feel hijacked at all.

Good morning aidan. (sticks tongue out at spendius). I don't read the original writing threads every single day. I save them up to read a thread or two in a sitting.

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A Sunlit Sky

I wrote a birthday song for you
One that will not let me cry.
I sing this song for you today
No more sorrow, no more sighs
For you are where you wanted to be
And I can feel you're finally free
Beyond the blackened limbs of trees
A piece of living sunlit sky.

And all these years, I've searched for you
And now I've found that you're alright
And on this sixteenth August sixteenth
the clouds are out there is no moon-
the stars don't shine, but in my room
I sing this song, I call your name
You answer me, you're just the same
You tell me that you're always near me
You tell me that you'll always hear me.

So, Happy Birthday August boy
You never leave my heart.
The years go by and life keeps
changing
Seasons pass, we're rearranging
But you're of sky and earth and sun
Transcending, elemental, one,
You've traveled on, evolved and
waiting, and I'm on earth
anticipating, the day we'll join
all of creation in heaven's
sunlit sky.

You should read Emily Bronte's poems Becksie.

And you would love Ayesha.

Thanks Spendius - I will.

He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars;
Winds take a pensive tone and stars a tender fire
And visions rise and change which kill me with desire -

I really like these three:

To Imagination (September 3, 1844)
(Emily Bronte)
When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again
0 my true friend, I am not lone
While thou canst speak with such a tone!
So hopeless is the world without,
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world where guile and hate and doubt
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou and I and Liberty
Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it that all around
Danger and grief and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom's bound
We hold a bright unsullied sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason indeed may oft complain
For Nature's sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart how vain
Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy newly blown.

But thou art ever there to bring
The hovering visions back and breathe
New glories o'er the blighted spring
And call a lovelier life from death,
And whisper with a voice divine
Of real worlds as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
Yet still in evening's quiet hour
With never-failing thankfulness I
welcome thee, benignant power,
Sure solacer of human cares
And brighter hope when hope despairs.


High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending (December 13, 1836) (Emily Bronte)
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dongeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
All down the mountain sides, wild forest lending
One mighty voice to the life-giving wind;
Rivers their banks in the jubilee rending,
Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
Wider and deeper their waters extending,
Leaving a desolate desert behind.

Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,
Changing for ever from midnight to noon;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,
Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,
Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.



The Visionary (October 9, 1845)
(Emily Bronte)
Silent is the House-all are laid asleep;
One, alone, looks out o'er the snow wreaths deep;
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the 'wildering drifts and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far;
I trim it well to be the Wanderer's guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame;
Set your slaves to spy, threaten me with shame:
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall know
What angel nightly tracks that waste of winter snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
Who loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.

I love the line "What I love shall come like visitant of air." I think it pertains to her unerring faith in something spiritual. She never really names a god - just a "strange power". I feel the same. I don't know what it is - but I know it's there and I "trust its might."
I do relate to her poetry. I think I see a lot of what she describes in nature - probably because I'm living in a place (near moors- which I love, as she seemed to love them) where the physical scenery is similar. Because a lot of the time the land on the moors is so barren - just windswept straggly trees and rocks and gorse- the sky becomes the main feature visually. And so you do tend to focus on the stars and the moon and the sun and the clouds and especially that line where the earth meets the sky. And on the wind of course, which is ever present.

What or who is Ayesha? I don't recognize the title. Is it a novel? Who wrote it?

Ayesha, the Return of She by H. Rider Haggard.

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He went
to sleep as she
hung new curtains. He watched
from clean sheets as she covered the
sky.

His dreams
felt enclosed, as
if swaddled in cotton.
And in the dark night he remembered
why.

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Crescent Moon (haiku(s)

Like a dropped pendant
in an ocean of darkness
the moon knows to be.

Small silver crescent
Fraction of a former self
Floats free among trees.