Poetry

Ok, I'll get this discussion started up with a poem I got published long ago. Funny how with everything "green" now it makes a little more sense than it did in '93.

Do the Trees Cry?

Do the trees cry
Out to the human race,
To stop our madness
To stop out waste

For dew gathers
Upon a lone leaf
To fall to the ground
There in grief

A tear has been shed
A tree has bled
And there on the ground
Another is dead.

Do the trees cry
As the blade penetrates their skin
Do they let out the pain
Or retain it within

Do they look up
Into their killers eyes
To give them forgiveness
With one last breath; before it dies.

These gentle giants
Have shown us nothing but love
Withstanding the heat
To give us shade from above

Yet, we take their lives
Like mindless mindless theives
Chop them down
And burn their leaves

Do the trees cry
Do the trees cry
And if they do
I ask you why
Why do we let them cry.

--Cheyenne--

Replies to This Discussion

Permalink Reply by spook on September 21, 2008 at 8:01am

Caretaker
From the day we’re born to the day we die
Nothing is ours it’s all a lie

The illusion is real and that’s why we try
Nothing is yours it’s all a lie

We spend our life on a scavenger ride
Nothing is mine it’s all a lie

Our worldly possessions we try to buy
Nothing is real it’s all a lie

The love that we cherish and show with pride
Nothing is forever it’s all a lie

Our family and friends for who we cry
Nothing they are it’s all a lie

Our life is short so don’t ask why
Nothing I am it’s all a lie

Permalink Reply by spook on September 21, 2008 at 8:05am

Soft the zephyr springing from the winter hinterland
Soft the sweet caresses of a silken ghostly hand.
And giddy with emotion she surrenders to the wind
For it’s like a sexual interlude, almost as if she’s sinned.

Tantalising, teasing, the breeze builds to a storm
But strange the breath on satin flesh serves to keep her warm.
And in her mind a lover is lifting her to heights
That only came at dreamtime on those lonely empty nights.

Those haunting nights of terror, when the tempest screamed and tore
At the physical surroundings, but still she yearned for more.
For only then her body, came alive at mortal feel
Only with the wind alive could sensuality be real

So as the howling, cyclonic wind threatens to undress,
She stands as if an offering to a demonic strange caress,
And trembling with orgasm she knows she hasn’t sinned
For only she can understand the emotions of the wind.

Permalink Reply by spook on September 21, 2008 at 8:05am

THE BEAST.

THE PICADORS AND TOREADORS, SADISTIC MEN OF FAME,
ENSURE THE BEAST IS INJURED AS THEY CRUELLY STAB AND MAIM.
AND THE MATADOR SUPREMO DELUDES THE ZEALOUS FANS,
AS WORLDS OF PAIN ENRAGE THE BULL, BUT NO-ONE GIVES A DAMN.

AND SO BEGINS THE TRAVESTY WHERE MAN MUST CONQUER BEAST,
TO PROVE HIS COURAGE BEFORE THE CROWD, AND COMPASSION COUNTS THE LEAST.
AND RAGE AND PAIN AWAKENS WITHIN, A BLOODY LUST TO KILL.
SO MAN AND BEAST PREPARE TO GIVE THE MINDLESS MOB THEIR THRILL.

HE CHARGES CONSTANT TOWARD THE CAPE, HIS MUSCLES SLASHED AND WEAK.
HIS TORTURED BODY REELS AND TURNS, AS REVENGS HE TRIES TO WREAK.
OH! BUT MAN IS MUCH TOO CLEVER AS HE LEADS HIM ‘ROUND THE RING,
AND THE SCENE IMPRINTED IN MY MIND IS A MACABRE, GROTESQUE THING.

FINALLY BEAST CAN MOVE NO MORE AND STANDS AWAITING DEATH
BLOOD STREAMS FROM HIS NOSTRILS, AS HE LABOURS HARD FOR BREATH.
THE MATADOR LINES UP THE KILL, AS SILENCE REIGNS SUPREME,
THEN SWIFTLY SLAYS THE VALIANT BULL, AND I HEAR THE BASTARDS SCREAM.

AN INGLORIOUS END TO A GLORIOUS BEAST AND PROTESTS ARE IN VAIN,
BUT I WONDER WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THE MEN, INSTEAD, WERE SLAIN.
IN LIFE I OFTEN PONDER THE DREADFUL STIGMA OF OUR LAND,’
AND WHAT HAS LEAST INTELLIGENCE? ANIMAL? OR MAN?