The butterfly
I have watched a butterfly now a full half hour
So self-poised upon a yellow budding flower
And a huge winged butterfly with all rainbow colors indeed
I know not if it sleeps or it feeds
How in pure calm motionless it stands on leaf so thin
Even more still as it visits a stump pale with green
And then what joy waits it when the light breeze
Has found it out among the trees
It carried it up, down and away
A whole world on a spangled ray
This plot of Orchard-ground is ours
My son's trees they are, My family flowers
Stop here whenever you are jaded and worry
And take a rest in our green sanctuary
Visit our rich wreathe glorious foreheads of lofty pines
And breathe ambrosial passion from their veins
By the balmy flowers seek refuge from human eye
And smell their scent being shoot to the sky
Come often to us fear no wrong
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poem by Isaac Ziv
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College heart aches
Morning glooms emerged stormy and waning pale
No light no sun but a wannish glare
In layers upon layers the gray clouds summons converged
And the budded peaks of the wood are dump cold congealed
Caught and cuffed by the cools gale
I had fancied it would be a spring day fair
As I flung myself down a craggy slope
Of bushes and outcrops
Ever muttered and madden and ever waned with despair
To attend a class of no slight interest or share
Whom but her should I meet
I the morning glooms when sunrise like sunset sank
In the blossomed gable-ends
At the head of the college street
Whom but her should I meet
And she touched me with a smile so sweet
That dwelt merely at the corner of her eyes
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poem by Isaac Ziv
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Sacramento's sacraments
Sacramento, Sacramento a city under twilight dusk
From your deserted streets the people one by one will not last
Where are all the lights and the young lads gone?
Where are all the flowers and the nightly gowns?
Solely and slowly the homeless roam in the ghostly streets
Searching morsels and shredded company in dark allies pits
Poverty and desolation scream from every corner wall
An inferno wall of fear cankering the human soul
A shady tattered figure with torn vomits on the side walk stone
His lungs and soul all widely, publically blown
His pal lays his liquids in comfort on a bank of murky creek
while a salty dropp slides down my dusty cheek
Sacramento, Sacramento in your elongated gardens
the black bat night has flown
In his path a wooden bench of lovers lane is unattended alone
And the roses by the hush of the moon lost their pardons
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poem by Isaac Ziv
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When all my youth in years be
When all my youth in years be
Fallen at length
And you see me
Lying trunk and bough naked strength
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
You shall hear then the solid sullen bell
Announcing to the world that I have fled
From this vile world, with the vilest worms of earth to dwell
When on your bed the spangled moonlight falls
You know that in my place of rest
By a running rivulet where a bird keeps her brood and nests
There comes a divine glory to the cemetery walls
My marble tomb bright in dark sheen appears
As slowly steals a silver flame
In a sway of lights and shades game
Along the letters of my name
Inscribing the humble living of my fame
And over the number of my years
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poem by Isaac Ziv (2010)
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An ecstasy of solitude in an estranged city
An ecstasy of solitude in an estranged city
With the company of a winding spider swaying on its pall
At dark, dusty, sticky, silky corner wall
A craving anticipation for the monotonous music of a solitary cricket
At midnight sound and fury of streets wicket
Pondering at the queue of laborious ants
Undisturbed by on going neighbors rant
Indifferently they are pursuing their heavy task
As I wonder how long and how far it may last
Cold damp frigid winter night at the edge of city
In the middle of the garden wood
A folded leaf is wooed from out its root
With wind rising and gusting upon the barren branch
It floats and falls down to the dark dreary air
And now bouncing between barren boughs in a macabre dance
To the sound of the music of the whispering wind there
This black spotted yellow leaf joins his clan
that dances as often as dance it can
A back choir of hissing leaves at the curb
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poem by Isaac Ziv
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