Trees
Trees
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
(Alfred Joyce Kilmer – 1886-1918)
The Emerald City
The Emerald City
The hustle and bustle of the souks in the old medina oozes a wild and crazy atmosphere.
The heat of the morning sun isn’t strong enough to wipe away
the joyful smiles from the faces of the local market holders.
The gleaming green that surrounds the city adds a soothing and serene ambience,
a backdrop against the noisy and fast paced rush I see before me.
As the sun disappears into the night sky,
the humming of the majestic darkness wraps me like a warm blanket
as I stroll down the once bustling streets.
The silence of this calming night contrasting those sounds from only a few hours ago,
transport me to a spiritual realm where only a few have ever known.
The cool night breeze flows through my hair
and caresses my face as I continue to stroll along.
The starry sky envelopes the medina
and shines upon the path before me,
allowing me to tread with ease,
unlike the fiery burning sun that concealed the secrets of this beautiful spiritual place.
As I glance to my right I notice a night crawler cat,
purring as she too strolls’ along the empty labyrinth streets.
Two different species experiencing one environment in their own magical way.
With a great sense of protection and security
we both float along the streets of the beautiful emerald city.
(Poem by Me)
A Million Stories
A Million Stories
A million stories
I know you’ve got one too,
inside your memory, inside your heart.
Don’t let that story fade,
grab a pen, paper and glue,
share your mind, let it free, your world’s a work of art.
And your story’s about to start.
You can change the whole world,
with just one little word,
so write one down, get it ready to send.
What places have you been?
What truth have you heard?
My poem is done, but your adventures never end.
So go and pick up a pen my friend.
(Poem by Dawud Wharnsby)
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