Quotes about palm, page 11
eye of the beholder (part II)
you grinned and broke into a smile
watching as you turned this way and that
taking inventory of your robust frame
proud of the BIG man that stands before you
watching as you turned this way and that
caressing your scars and stretch marks
proud of the BIG man that stands before you
holding innocence in the palm of your hand
caressing your scars and stretch marks
spying to see how each line connects
holding innocence in the palm of your hand
longing for love to touch you this way again
spying to see how each line connects
appreciation for your body to long denied
longing for love to touch you this way again
looking to see desire reflected in your eyes
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poem by Christopher Cofield
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Palm Sunday
The palm branches in churches,
The light of candles resembles
Jesus glorious entry to Jerusalem.
Psalms the Christians sing, glorious hymn.
He was healing the sick,
He was raising the dead.
It looked as a magic
When He turned a stone into bread.
A Prince of Peace!
He wished to increase Love.
He has come to set up
A kingdom of freedom,
A kingdom of wisdom and love,
A bloodshed war to end up.
It’s a Palm Sunday today.
Without any delay
We should remember His path and His message.
Safe the Earth and don’t do any damage!
Jesus laid down His life for the sins of the world,
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poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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A Sufi life
Pen in hand, and pensive…
sitting by the open window,
the curtains moving gently in the breeze,
listening to the spontaneous liveliness
of the fountain whose joyful drops
the sunlight plays with as they fall;
catching the scent of a rose
which comes and goes to the nostrils
as if it has its own intentions;
watching the sunlight moving round
the courtyard garden;
remembering with an inward stirring,
it’s the earth which moves…
words passing through the mind;
in this golden stillness, all things
are a metaphor for all else;
it’s beyond the tender tying
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Pantheist
Lolling on a bank of thyme
Drunk with Spring I made this rhyme. . . .
Though peoples perish in defeat,
And races suffer to survive,
The sunshine never was so sweet,
So vast he joy to be alive;
The laughing leaves, the glowing grass
Proclaim how good it is to be;
The pines are lyric as I pass,
The hills hosannas sing to me.
Pink roses ring yon placid palm,
Soft shines the blossom of the peach;
The sapphire sea is satin calm,
With bell-like tinkle on the beach;
A lizard lazes in the sun,
A bee is bumbling to my hand;
Shy breezes whisper: "You are one
With us because you understand."
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Highways
The road that these tyres run,
Ends nowhere, straight and long,
The drizzle at the windscreen,
The wipers move fast to clean.
The teak trees on the north south highway,
Grown thicker year by year, bougainvillea,
At the divider dwarfed to bloom as required,
Genetically modified plants, shrubs and flowers.
Push that button to open the window,
The fragrant wind enters and rejuvenates,
The sun hides behind the mountain range,
Sprinkles the free gold dust everywhere.
Looking through the sunshade and sunglass,
The fire ball glows as the thirsty lass,
To tie her beautiful fringe and fire logs,
Curved seven colors of ribbon plot.
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Secret of the Sun
Raised by the bare bones of nature’s grace,
my home held hands with the feral forest,
where nature hid her gold.
I have heard palm trees whisper their stories
I have listened to the silent full moon quietly teach
lessons of those who had lived.
I know of the green secrets of the earth
Soft voices of searching roots that sprout forth, cluster
around my hut to tell.
I am from the bowels of Africa,
I understand the tongue of the wild.
I have swayed to the blue songs of humming birds that fill the
tree branches with their nests.
I have had breakfast plucked ripe off the tree
and lunch caught right from the river.
I have aimed a stick in the forest and secured supper.
I am from the bowels of Africa,
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poem by Konye Ori
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Roses In Madrid
Roses, Senors, roses!
Love is subtly hid
In the fragrant roses,
Blown in gay Madrid.
Roses, Senors, roses!
Look, look, look, and see
Love hanging in the roses,
Like a golden bee!
Ha! ha! shake the roses--
Hold a palm below;
Shake him from the roses,
Catch the vagrant so!
High I toss the roses
From my brown palm up;
Like the wine that bubbles
From a golden cup.
Catch the roses, Senors,
Light on finger tips;
He who buys red roses,
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poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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The Palm Branch Of Palestine
Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me,
In that far distant home-land fair,
Wast rooted in the mountain gravel
Or sprung from some vale garden rare?
Once o'er the Jordan's silver billows
Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun?
Have the grim gales 'neath starry heavens
Swept over thee from Lebanon?
And was a trembling prayer soft whispered,
A father's song sung over thee--
When from the parent stem dis-severed
By some poor aborigine?
And is the palm tree ever standing,
Amid the fierce glare beating down,
The pilgrim in the desert luring
To shelter 'neath her shadow crown?
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poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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O' Dear Pebble
the elephants cannot walk over you
the birds and the worth of words over you
but in case they do, careful they ought to be
for yours is the flower that blossom
that which no man can see that either
can them that otherwise not known to you
for you is the strength of mine hands
and so it goes the pebble on my palm
that my eyes caught by the pebbles
and caught by the words
you uttered o' dear pebble
the words you made me walk in thought
the answers some i did not
have until on my hand i picked you
the dances on my palm caught me
dancing to the music
i barely could hear
not that i could not
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poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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Palm Sunday
Palm Sunday (Easter Sunday)
End of time splashes through yellow plastic tubes to meet eternity that ends
in a sand box. Shriek! Let us do it again. And we awoke as bible words and
slogans rained from an amused sky. I saw the four horse men on mules,
ride slowly through an abject cityscape to where air was clear and grass for
the animals. The weather is always good when not punctuated by TV weather
forecast entertainment. We have fortressed our home to avoid receiving or
hear other voices. But strange men in black, came and showed me a house in
lane, where Barbara Streisand lived in a tent at the back, did her exercises
seven o’clock sharp, every day. Twenty eight people circled my house, two
of them came said they were termite inspectors, but they were more
interested in the kennel where my poodle Hamas lived. Next day the twenty
eight had disappeared and my dog lies dead on the steps of the shed I use,
when sending secret messages to people who believe in everything just to
be on the safe side. Barbara Streisand joined us, dressed in a Salvation Army
uniform, urged me to buy the house, she promised me a new dog, I declined,
jumped on a passing bus. The driver wore a laundry starched, burnoose and
past us flew twinkling, vibrant bushes; green tutus looking for Margot Fonteyn.
It was Palm Sunday and not a good day to talk about defensive Jihad.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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