# Poet's Corner



## sky dancer

Post your favorite poems and/or any original poems--here is one of my favorite poets:

I Know the Way You Can Get 
_by Hafiz_

I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of Love:

Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world
And throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent
And into one's self.

O I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:

You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.

You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
Trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love's
Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being so Playful
And Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me.
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!


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## chloe

Divorce, Thy Name is Woman !

I am Divorcing daddy - Dybbuk Dybbuk
I have been doing it daily all my life
since his sperm left him
drilling upwards and stuck to an egg.
Fetus, fetus - glows and glows in that home
and bursts out, electric, demanding moths.

For years it was woman to woman,
breast, crib, toilet, dolls, dress-ups.
WOMAN!  WOMAN!  
Daddy of the whiskies, daddy of the rooster breath,
would visit and then dash away
as if I were a disease.

Later,
when blood and eggs and breasts
dropped onto me,
Daddy and his whiskey breath
made a long midnight visist
in a dream that is not a dream
and then called his lawyer quickly.
Daddy divorcing me.

I have been divorcing him ever since,
going into court with Mother as my witness
and both long dead or not
I am still divorcing him,
adding up the crimes
of how he came to me,
how he left me.

I am pacing the bedroom.
Opening and shutting the windows.
making the bed and pulling it apart.

I am tearing the feathers out of pillows,
waiting, waiting for daddy to come home
and stuff me so full of our infected child
that I turn invisible, but married
at last.


Anne Sexton


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## chloe

Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.

Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.

Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.

Anne Sexton


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## chloe

When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away, 
your secretaries taken away, 
your lunches with three double bourbons, 
your pencils, your reams of paper. Would they take your
suits back, too, those dark
carcasses hung in your closet, and the black
noses of your shoes with their large pores? 
She had taught us to take it, to hate you and take it
until we pricked with her for your 
annihilation, Father. Now I
pass the bums in doorways, the white
slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their
suits of compressed silt, the stained
flippers of their hands, the underwater
fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the
lanterns lit, and I wonder who took it and 
took it from them in silence until they had
given it all away and had nothing 
left but this. 

Sharon Olds


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## eots

where is the cure where is the remedy.?. for this viral infection the illuminati..
the bonesmen ..the grovers ..Rothchilds ..Rockefeller and Hurst.. just a hand full a hooligans.. I fit you all in one verse..

you see I find you all so obscene.. as the blood it flows in the streets ..to the detriment of all ..for the benefit of the few and no one to stop it but me....and you ..and I say this is no time for online masturbation.. and this is no time for silent resignation ..this is a time ..a time for revolution.... these is the times..and the time it is now

EOTS 08


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## Shogun

Some People
Charles Bukowski

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.

then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.

some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.


Allen Ginsberg - America
[youtube]ewn14BTNnGg&[/youtube]


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## eots

there is a pose that marks the junkie..like the limp wrist marks the fag..
arm outstretched ..fingers clenched and palms to the sky...

Charles Bukowski


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## chloe

The Wifebeater

There will be mud on the carpet tonight
and blood in the gravy as well.
The wifebeater is out,
the childbeater is out
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup.
He strides bback and forth
in front of my study window
chewing little red pieces of my heart.
His eyes flash like a birthday cake
and he makes bread out of rock.
Yesterday he was walking
like a man in the world.
He was upright and conservative
but somehow evasive, somehow contagious.
Yesterday he built me a country
and laid out a shadow where I could sleep
but today a coffin for the madonna and child,
today two women in baby clothes will be hamburg.
With a tongue like a razor he will kiss,
the mother, the child,
and we three will color the stars black
in memory of his mother
who kept him chained to the food tree
or turned him on and off like a water faucet
and made women through all these hazy years
the enemy with a heart of lies.
Tonight all the red dogs lie down in fear
and the wife and daughter knit into each other
until they are killed.

Anne Sexton


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## chloe

Oh

It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk,
the little white lesions
settle on the street outside.
It is snowing and the ninety
year old woman who was combing
out her long white wraith hair
is gone, embalmed even now,
even tonight her arms are smooth
muskets at her side and nothing
issues from her but her last word - "Oh." Surprised by death.

It is snowing. Paper spots
are falling from the punch.
Hello? Mrs. Death is here!
She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling, "Oh."
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement. Snow!
See the mark, the pock, the pock!

Meanwhile you pour tea
with your handsome gentle hands.
Then you deliberately take your
forefinger and point it at my temple,
saying, "You suicide bitch!
I'd like to take a corkscrew
and screw out all your brains
and you'd never be back ever."
And I close my eyes over the steaming
tea and see God opening His teeth.
"Oh." He says.
I see the child in me writing, "Oh."
Oh, my dear, not why.

Anne Sexton


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## chloe

sky dancer said:


> Post your favorite poems and/or any original poems--here is one of my favorite poets:



cool thread, I posted all my favorite poems....he he, yours was very beautiful, giving...mine seem kinda dark by comparison...but I just love her writing. ...


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## editec

I was fortunate enough to be asked to eproduce a poetry website for another educational foundation.

As I was not its editor, I got to read another editors favorite poems so I got to read a lot of poetry I had never read before.

This is one of those gems I'd never heard.

Since I have had very little choice but to read practically every mother Goose rhyme ever written, I found this satire of Little Miss Muffet an amusing break from that work.



> *The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet*
> 
> by Guy Wetmore Carryl​
> Little Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet,
> (Which never occurred to the rest of us)
> And, as 'twas a June day, and just about noonday,
> She wanted to eat - like the rest of us:
> Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say
> It is wholesome and people grow fat on it.
> The spot being lonely, the lady not only
> Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it.
> A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
> As rivulets always are thought to do,
> And dragon flies sported around and cavorted,
> As poets say dragon flies ought to do;
> When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
> A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
> A hideous spider was sitting beside her,
> And most unavoidably near to her!
> Albeit unsightly, this creature politely Said: "
> Madam, I earnestly vow to you,
> I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat.
> I Should otherwise certainly bow to you."
> Thought anxious to please, he was so ill at ease
> That he lost all his sense of propriety,
> And grew so inept that he clumsily stept
> In her plate - which is barred in Society.
> This curious error completed her terror;
> She shuddered, and growing much paler, not
> Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet
> Which doubled him up in a sailor knot.
> It should be explained that at this he was pained:
> He cried: "I have vexed you, no doubt of it!
> Your fists's like a truncheon." "You're still in my luncheon,"
> Was all that she answered. "Get out of it!"
> And the Moral is this: Be it madam or miss
> To whom you have something to say,
> You are only absurd when you get in the curd
> But you're rude when you get in the whey.


 
Okay, I gotta admit, this is what passes for hilarity in my solopsistic little universe.


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## sky dancer

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me. 

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou


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## sky dancer

Mockingbirds 


This morning
two mockingbirds
in the green field
were spinning and tossing

the white ribbons
of their songs
into the air.
I had nothing

better to do
than listen.
I mean this
seriously.

In Greece,
a long time ago,
an old couple
opened their door

to two strangers
who were,
it soon appeared,
not men at all,

but gods.
It is my favorite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing to give

but their willingness
to be attentive--
but for this alone
the gods loved them

and blessed them--
when they rose
out of their mortal bodies,
like a million particles of water

from a fountain,
the light
swept into all the corners
of the cottage,

and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--
but still they asked for nothing

but the difficult life
which they had already.
And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.

Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--
whatever it was I said

I would be doing--
I was standing
at the edge of the field--
I was hurrying

through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--
I was leaning out;
I was listening.


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## sky dancer

*Please Call Me by My True Names*

I have a poem for you. This poem is about three of us.  
The first is a twelve-year-old girl, one of the boat  
people crossing the Gulf of Siam. She was raped by a  
sea pirate, and after that she threw herself into the  
sea. The second person is the sea pirate, who was born  
in a remote village in Thailand. And the third person  
is me. I was very angry, of course. But I could not take  
sides against the sea pirate. If I could have, it would  
have been easier, but I couldn't. I realized that if I  
had been born in his village and had lived a similar life  
- economic, educational, and so on - it is likely that I  
would now be that sea pirate. So it is not easy to take  
sides. Out of suffering, I wrote this poem. It is called  
*"Please Call Me by My True Names," *because I have many names,  
and when you call me by any of them, I have to say, "Yes."


Don't say that I will depart tomorrow -- 
even today I am still arriving.

Look deeply: every second I am arriving 
to be a bud on a Spring branch, 
to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings, 
learning to sing in my new nest, 
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, 
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, 
to fear and to hope.

The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death 
of all that is alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing 
on the surface of the river. 
And I am the bird 
that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily 
in the clear water of a pond. 
And I am the grass-snake 
that silently feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, 
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks. 
And I am the arms merchant, 
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, 
refugee on a small boat, 
who throws herself into the ocean 
after being raped by a sea pirate. 
And I am the pirate, 
my heart not yet capable 
of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo, 
with plenty of power in my hands. 
And I am the man who has to pay 
his "debt of blood" to my people 
dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.

My joy is like Spring, so warm 
it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth. 
My pain is like a river of tears, 
so vast it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names, 
so I can hear all my cries and my laughter at once, 
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names, 
so I can wake up, 
and so the door of my heart 
can be left open, 
the door of compassion.

~Thich Nhat Hanh


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## sky dancer

*If you lose your lover*
rain hurt you. blackbirds
brood over the sky trees
burn down everywhere brown
rabbits run under
car wheels. should your
body cry? to feel such
blue and empty bed dont
bother. if you lose your
lover comb hair go here
or there get   another

~Judy Grahn~


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## sky dancer

Kidnap Poem

Ever been kidnapped 
by a poet 
if i were a poet 
i'd kidnap you 
put you in my phrases and meter 

You to jones beach 
or maybe coney island 
or maybe just to my house 
lyric you in lilacs 
dash you in the rain 
blend into the beach 
to complement my see 


Play the lyre for you 
ode you with my love song 
anything to win you 
wrap you in the red Black green 
show you off to mama 
yeah if i were a poet i'd kid 
nap you 


Written by Nikki Giovanni


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## sky dancer

Conversation by Ai

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?


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## sky dancer

I'm A Fool To Love You 

by Cornelius Eady

Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don't want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That's how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it's the only leverage
You've got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man's kisses
A healing.


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## sky dancer

Hunger Camp At Jaslo


Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read, 
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes." 


Wislawa Szymborska


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## sky dancer

A Woman Is Talking to Death

by Judy Grahn

...
One
Testimony in trials that never got heard

my lovers teeth are white geese flying above me
my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands

we were driving home slow
my love and I, across the long Bay Bridge,
one February midnight, when midway
over in the far left lane, I saw a strange scene:

one small young man standing by the rail,
and in the lane itself, parked straight across
as if it could stop anything, a large young
man upon a stalled motorcycle, perfectly
relaxed as if he'd stopped at a hamburger stand;
he was wearing a peacoat and levis, and
he had his head back, roaring, you
could almost hear the laugh, it
was so real.

"Look at that fool," I said, "in the
middle of the bridge like that," a very
womanly remark.

Then we heard the meaning of the noise
of metal on a concrete bridge at 50
miles an hour, and the far left lane
filled up with a big car that had a 
motorcycle jammed on its front bumper, like
the whole thing would explode, the friction
sparks shot up bright orange for many feet
into the air, and the racket still sets
my teeth on edge.

When the car stopped we stopped parallel
and Wendy headed for the callbox while I
ducked across those 6 lanes like a mouse
in the bowling alley. "Are you hurt?" I said,
the middle-aged driver had the greyest black face,
"I couldn't stop, I couldn't stop, what happened?"

Then I remembered. "Somebody," I said, "was on
the motorcycle." I ran back,
one block? two blocks? the space for walking
on the bridge is maybe 18 inches, whoever
engineered this arrogance, in the dark
stiff wind it seemed I would
be pushed over the rail, would fall down
screaming onto the hard surface of
the bay, but I did not, I found the tall young man
who thought he owned the bridge, now lying on
his stomach, head cradled in his broken arm.

He had glasses on, but somewhere he had lost
most of his levis, where were they?
and his shoes. Two short cuts on his buttocks,
that was the only mark except his thin white
seminal tubes were all strung out behind; no 
child left in him; and he looked asleep.

I plucked wildly at his wrist, then put it
down; there were two long haired women
holding back the traffic just behind me
with their bare hands, the machines came
down like mad bulls, I was scared, much
more than usual, I felt easily squished
like the earthworms crawling on a busy 
sidewalk after the rain; I wanted to
leave. And met the driver, walking back.

"The guy is dead." I gripped his hand,
the wind was going to blow us off the bridge.

"Oh my God," he said, "haven't I had enough
trouble in my life?" He raised his head,
and for a second was enraged and yelling,
at the top of the bridge&#8212;"I was just driving
home!" His head fell down. "My God, and
now I've killed somebody."

I looked down at my own peacoat and levis,
then over at the dead man's friend, who
was howling and blubbering, what they would
call hysteria in a woman. "It isn't possible"
he wailed, but it was possible, it was
indeed, accomplished and unfeeling, snoring 
in its peacoat, and without its levis on.

He died laughing:........that's a fact.

I had a woman waiting for me,
in her car and in the middle of the bridge,
I'm frightened, I said.
I'm afraid, he said, stay with me, be
my witness&#8212;"No," I said, "I'll be your
witness&#8212;later," and I took his name
and number, "but I can't stay with you,
I'm too frightened of the bridge, besides
I have a woman waiting
and no license&#8212;
and no tail lights&#8212;"
So I left&#8212;
as I have left so many of my lovers.

we drove home
shaking. Wendy's face greyer
than any white person's I have ever seen.
maybe he beat his wife, maybe he once
drove taxi, and raped a lover
of mine&#8212;how to know these things?
we do each other in, that's a fact.

who will be my witness?
death wastes our time with drunkenness
and depression
death, who keeps us from our
lovers.
he had a woman waiting for him,
I found out when I called the number,
days later

"Where is he," she said, "he's disappeared."
"He'll be all right," I said, "we could
have hit the guy as easy as anybody, it
wasn't anybody's fault, they'll know that,"
women so often say dumb things like that,
they teach us to be sweet and reassuring,
and say ignorant things, because we don't invent
the crime, the punishment, the bridges

that same week I looked into the mirror
and nobody was there to testify;
how clear, an unemployed queer woman
makes no witness at all,
nobody at all was there for
those two questions:......what does
she do, and who is she married to?

I am the woman who stopped on the bridge
and this is the man who was there
our lovers teeth are white geese flying
above us, but we ourselves are
easily squished.

keep the woman small and weak
and off the street, and off the
bridges, that's the way, brother
one day I will leave you there,
as I have left you there before,
working for death.

we found out later
what we left him to.
Six big policemen answered the call,
all white, and no child in them.
they put the driver up against his car
and beat the hell out of him.
What did you kill that poor kid for?
you mutherfucking ******.
that's a fact.

Death only uses violence
when there is any kind of resistance,
the rest of the time a slow
weardown will do.

They took him to 4 different hospitals
til they got a drunk test report to fit their
case, and held him five days in jail
without a phone call.
how many lovers have we left.

there are as many contradictions to the game,
as there are players.
a woman is talking to death,
though talk is cheap, and life takes a long time
to make
right. He got a cheesy lawyer
who had him cop a plea, 15 to 20
instead of life.
Did I say life?

the arrogant young man who thought he
owned the bridge, and fell asleep on it
he died laughing:......that's a fact.
the driver sits out his time
off the street somewhere,
does he have the most vacant of
eyes, will he die laughing?
......
......
Two
They don&#8217;t have to lynch the women anymore

death sits on my doorstep 
cleaning his revolver 
death cripples my feet and sends me out 
to wait for the bus alone, 
then comes by driving a taxi.

the woman on our block with 6 young children 
has the most vacant of eyes 
death sits in her bedroom, loading 
his revolver 

they don&#8217;t have to lynch the women 
very often anymore, although
they used to&#8212;the lord and his men
went through the villages at night, beating &
killing every woman caught
outdoors.
the European witch trials took away
the independent people; two different villages
&#8212;after the trials were through that year&#8212;
had left in them, each&#8212;
one living woman:
one

What were those other women up to? had they
run over someone? stopped on the wrong bridge?
did they have teeth like
any kind of geese, or children
in them?
......
......
Three
This woman is a lesbian be careful

In the military hospital where I worked 
as a nurse&#8217;s aide, the walls of the halls 
were lined with howling women 
waiting to deliver 
or to have some parts removed.
One of the big private rooms contained 
the general&#8217;s wife, who needed 
a wart taken off her nose. 
we were instructed to give her special attention 
not because of her wart or her nose 
but because of her husband, the general.

As many women as men die, and that&#8217;s a fact.

At work there was one friendly patient, already 
claimed, a young woman burnt apart with X-ray,
she had long white tubes instead of openings;
rectum, bladder, vagina&#8212;I combed her hair, it
was my job, but she took care of me as if
nobody&#8217;s touch could spoil her.

ho ho death, ho death 
have you seen the twinkle in the dead woman&#8217;s eye?

When you are a nurse&#8217;s aide
someone suddenly notices you
and yells about the patient&#8217;s bed,
and tears the sheets apart so you
can do it over, and over
while the patient waits
doubled over in her pain
for you to make the bed again
and no one ever looks at you,
only at what you do not do

Here, general, hold this soldier&#8217;s bed pan
for a moment, hold it for a year&#8212;
then we&#8217;ll promote you to making his bed.
we believe you wouldn&#8217;t make such messes

if you had to clean up after them.

that&#8217;s a fantasy.
this woman is a lesbian, be careful.

When I was arrested and being thrown out
of the military, the order went out: dont anybody
speak to this woman, and for those three 
long months, almost nobody did;.....the dayroom, when
I entered it, fell silent til I had gone; they
were afraid, they knew the wind would blow
them over the rail, the cops would come,
the water would run into their lungs.
Everything I touched
was spoiled. They were my lovers, those
women, but nobody had taught us how to swim.
I drowned, I took 3 or 4 others down
when I signed the confession of what we
had done..............together.

No one will ever speak to me again.

I read this somewhere; I wasn&#8217;t there:
in WW II the US army had invented some floating
amphibian tanks, and took them over to 
the coast of Europe to unload them,
the landing ships all drawn up in a fleet,
and everybody watching. Each tank had a 
crew of 6 and there were 25 tanks.
The first went down the landing planks 
and sank, the second, the third, the 
fourth, the fifth, the sixth went down 
and sank. They weren&#8217;t supposed 
to sink, the engineers had 
made a mistake.....The crews looked around 
wildly for the order to quit, 
but none came, and in the sight of 
thousands of men, each 6 crewmen 
saluted his officers, battened down 
his hatch in turn, and drove into the 
sea, and drowned, until all 25 tanks 
were gone......did they have vacant 
eyes, die laughing, or what?.....what 
did they talk about, those men,
as the water came in?

was the general their lover?
.....
.....
Four
A Mock Interrogation

Have you ever held hands with a woman?

Yes, many times&#8212;women about to deliver, women about to 
have breasts removed, wombs removed, miscarriages, women 
having epileptic fits, having asthma, cancer, women having 
breast bone marrow sucked out of them by nervous or in-
different interns, women with heart condition, who were 
vomiting, overdosed, depressed, drunk, lonely to the point 
of extinction: women who had been run over, beaten up.
deserted, starved. women who had been bitten by rats; and
women who were happy, who were celebrating, who were
dancing with me in large circles or alone, women who were
climbing mountains or up and down walls, or trucks or roofs
and needed a boost up, or I did; women who simply wanted
to hold my hand because they liked me, some women who
wanted to hold my hand because they liked me better than
anyone.

These were many women?

Yes........many. 

What about kissing? Have you kissed any women?

I have kissed many women.

When was the first woman you kissed with serious feeling?

The first woman ever I kissed was Josie, who I had loved at
such a distance for months. Josie was not only beautiful,
she was tough and handsome too. Josie had black hair and
white teeth and strong brown muscles. Then she dropped
out of school unexplained. When she came she came
back for one day only, to finish the term, and there was a 
child in her. She was all shame, pain, and defiance. Her eyes
were dark as the water under a bridge and no one would
talk to her, they laughed and threw things at her. In the
afternoon I walked across the front of the class and looked
deep into Josie&#8217;s eyes and I picked up her chin with my
hand, because I loved her, because nothing like her trouble
would ever happen to me, because I hated it that she was
pregnant and unhappy, and an outcast. We were thirteen.

You didn&#8217;t kiss her?

How does it feel to be thirteen and having a baby?

You didn&#8217;t actually kiss her?

Not in fact.

You have kissed other women?

Yes, many, some of the finest women I know, I have kissed.
women who were lonely, women I didn&#8217;t know and didn&#8217;t
want to, but kissed because that was a way to say yes we are
still alive and loveable, though separate, women who recog-
nized a loneliness in me, women who were hurt, I confess to
kissing the top a 55 year old woman&#8217;s head in the snow in 
boston, who was hurt more deeply that I have ever been
hurt, and I wanted her as a very few people have wanted
me&#8212;I wanted her and me to own and control and run the
city we lived in, to staff the hospital I know would mistreat
her, to drive the transportation system that had betrayed
her, to patrol the streets controlling the men who would
murder or disfigure or disrupt us, not accidentally with
machines, but on purpose, because we are not allowed out
on the street alone&#8212;

Have you ever committed any indecent acts with women?

Yes, many. I am guilty of allowing suicidal women to die
before my eyes or in my ears or under my hands because I 
thought I could do nothing, I am guilty of leaving a prosti-
tute who held a knife to my friend&#8217;s throat to keep us from
leaving, because we would not sleep with her, we thought
she was old and fat and ugly; I am guilty of not loving her
who needed me; I regret all the women I have not slept with
or comforted, who pulled themselves away from me for lack
of something I had not the courage to fight for, for us, our
life, our planet, our city, our meat and potatoes, our love.
These are indecent acts, lacking courage, lacking a certain
fire behind the eyes, which is the symbol, the raised fist, the
sharing of resources, the resistance that tells death he will
starve for lack of the fat of us, our extra. Yes I have com-
mitted acts of indecency with women and most of them were
acts of omission. I regret them bitterly.
.
.
Five
Bless this day oh cat our house

&#8220;I was allowed to go
3 places growing up,&#8221; she said&#8212;
&#8220;3 places, no more.
there was a straight line from my house
to school, a straight line from my house
to church, a straight line from my house
to the corner store.&#8221;
her parents thought something might happen to her.
but nothing.....ever.....did.

my lovers teeth are white geese flying above me
my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands
we are the river of life and the fat of the land
death, do you tell me I cannot touch this woman?
if we use each other up 
on each other 
that&#8217;s a little bit less for you 
a little bit less for you, ho 
death, ho ho death.

Bless this day oh cat our house 
help me be not such a mouse 
death tells the woman to stay home 
and then breaks in the window.

I read this somewhere, I wasn&#8217;t there:
In feudal Europe, if a woman committed adultery 
her husband would sometimes tie her 
down, catch a mouse and trap it 
under a cup on her bare belly, until 
it gnawed itself out, now are you 
afraid of mice?
.....
.....
Six
Dressed as I am, a young man once called 
me names in Spanish

a woman who talks to death
is a dirty traitor

inside a hamburger joint and
dressed as I am, a young man once called me
names in Spanish
then he called me queer and slugged me.
first I thought the ceiling had fallen down
but there was the counterman making a ham
sandwich, and there was I spread out on his 
counter.

For God&#8217;s sake, I said when
I could talk, this guy is beating me up
can&#8217;t you call the police or something,
can&#8217;t you stop him? he looked up from
working on his sandwich, which was my
sandwich, I had ordered it. He liked 
the way I looked. &#8220;There&#8217;s a pay phone
right across the street&#8221; he said.

I couldn&#8217;t listen to the Spanish language 
for weeks afterward, without feeling the 
most murderous of rages, the simple 
association of one thing to another, 
so damned simple.

The next day I went to the police station 
to become an outraged citizen
Six big policemen stood in the hall, 
all white and dressed as they do 
they were well pleased with my story, pleased 
at what had gotten beat out of me, so 
I left them laughing, went home fast 
and locked my door.
For several nights I fantasized the scene 
again, this time grabbing a chair 
and smashing it over the bastard&#8217;s head, 
killing him. I called him a ****, and 
killed him. My face healed, his didnt 
no child in me.

now when I remember I think:
maybe he was Josie&#8217;s baby.
all the chickens come home to roost.
all of them.
.
.
Seven
Death and disfiguration

One Christmas eve my lovers and I
we left the bar, driving home slow
there was a woman lying in the snow
by the side of the road. She was wearing
a bathrobe and no shoes, where were
her shoes? she had turned the snow
pink, under her feet, she was an Asian
woman, didnt speak much English, but
she said a taxi driver beat her up
and raped her, throwing her out of his
care.
what on earth was she doing there
on a street she helped to pay for
but doesn&#8217;t own?
doesn&#8217;t she know to stay home?

I am a pervert, therefore I&#8217;ve learned 
to keep my hands to myself in public 
but I was so drunk that night, 
I actually did something loving
I took her in my arms, this woman,
Until she could breathe right, and
my friends who are perverts too
they touched her too
we all touched her.
&#8220;You&#8217;re going to be all right&#8221;
we lied. She started to cry
&#8220;I&#8217;m 55 years old&#8221; she said
and that said everything.

Six big policemen answered the call
no child in them.
they seemed afraid to touch her,
then grabbed her like a corpse and heaved her
on their metal stretcher into the van,
crashing and clumsy.
She was more frightened than before.
they were cold and bored.
&#8216;don&#8217;t leave me&#8217; she said.
&#8216;she&#8217;ll be all right&#8217; they said.
we left, as we have left all of our lovers
as all lovers leave all lovers
much too soon to get the real loving done.
.
.
Eight
a mock interrogation

Why did you get in the cab with him, dressed as you are?

I wanted to go somewhere.

Did you know what the cab driver might do 
if you got into the cab with him?

I just wanted to go somewhere.

How many times did you 
get into the cab with him?

I dont remember.

If you dont remember, how do you know it happened to 
you?
.
.
Nine
Hey you death

ho and ho poor death
our lovers teeth are white geese flying above us
our lovers muscles are rope ladders under our hands
even though no women....yet go down to the sea in ships
except in their dreams.

only the arrogant invent a quick and meaningful end
for themselves, of their own choosing.
everyone else knows how very slow it happens
how the woman&#8217;s existence bleeds out her years,
how the child shoots up at ten and is arrested and old
how the man carries a murderous shell within him
and passes it on.

we are the fat of the land, and
we all have our list of casualties

to my lovers I bequeath
the rest of my life

I want nothing left of me for you, ho death
except some fertilizer
for the next batch of us
who do not hold hands with you
who do not embrace you
who try not to work for you
or sacrifice themselves or trust
or believe you, ho ignorant
death, how do you know
we happened to you?

wherever our meat hangs on our own bones
for our own use
your pot is so empty
death, ho death
you shall be poor


----------



## chloe

On Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, 
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, 
and He bends you with His might 
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, 
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran


----------



## sky dancer

Las Girlfriends 

by Sandra Cisneros

Tip the barmaid in tight jeans.  
She's my friend.  
Been to hell and back again.  
I've been there too.  

Girlfriend, I believe in Gandhi.  
But some nights nothing says it  
quite precise like a lone Star  
cracked on someone's head.  

Last week in this same bar,  
kicked a cowboy in the butt  
who made a grab for Terry's ass.  
How do I explain, it was all  
of Texas I was kicking,  
and all our asses on the line.  

At Tacoland, Cat flamencoing crazy  
circles round the pool  
player with the furry tongue.  
A warpath of sorts for every  
wrong ever wronged us.  

And Terry here has her own history,  
A bar down the street she can't


----------



## sky dancer

You Bring Out the Mexican in Me

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I&#8217;d let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For you.

You bring out the Dolores del Río in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora&#8217;s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City &#8216;85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtacchiuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.

Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch-in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in you light. Oh,

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Aarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.

&#8212;Sandra Cisneros, 1994


----------



## sky dancer

Hard Rock Returns To Prison From The Hospital For The Criminal Insane 

by Etheridge Knight


Hard Rock/ was/ "known not to take no shit 
From nobody," and he had the scars to prove it:
Split purple lips, lumbed ears, welts above
His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut
Across his temple and plowed through a thick 
Canopy of kinky hair. 

The WORD/ was/ that Hard Rock wasn't a mean ******
Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head, 
Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity 
Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back,
Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose,
Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status. 
and we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep,
To see if the WORD was true. 

As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak 
Of his exploits: "Man, the last time, it took eight
Screws to put him in the Hole." "Yeah, remember when he
Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?" "he set
The record for time in the Hole-67 straight days!"
"Ol Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy ******."
And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had once bit
A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit. 

The testing came to see if Hard Rock was really tame. 
A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch 
And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock
>From before shook him down and barked in his face
And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and look silly. 
His empty eyes like knot holes in a fence. 

And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock
Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his name,
we told ourselves that he had just wised up,
Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long. 
And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed. 
He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things
We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do. 
The fears of years like a biting whip,
Had cut deep bloody grooves
Across our backs.


----------



## eots

BLACK POLISHED CHROME (Latino Chrome.)
The music was new black polished chrome And came over the summer like liquid night. The DJ's took pills to stay awake and play for seven days They went to the studio And someone knew him Someone knew the TV showman

He came to our homeroom party and played records And when he left in the hot noon sun and walked to his car We saw the chooks had written F&#8209;U&#8209;C&#8209;K on his windshield He wiped it off with a rag and smiling cooly drove away He's rich. Got a big car.

My gang will get you Scenes of rape in the arroyo Seduction in cars, abandoned buildings Fights at the food stand The dust the shoes Open shirts and raised collars Bright sculptured hair.

Hey man, you want girls, pills, grass? C'mon... I show you good time. This place has everything. C'mon... I show you

Poetry - An American Prayer, The Doors


----------



## sky dancer

The grapes of my body can only become wine 

After the winemaker tramples me. 

I surrender my spirit like grapes to his trampling 

So my inmost heart can blaze and dance with joy. 

Although the grapes go on weeping blood and sobbing 

"I cannot bear any more anguish, any more cruelty" 

The trampler stuffs cotton in his ears: 

"I am not working in ignorance 

You can deny me if you want, you have every excuse, 

But it is I who am the Master of this Work. 

And when through my Passion you reach Perfection, 

You will never be done praising my name." 

Jelaluddin Rumi


----------



## sky dancer

THE INVITATION 


It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. 

I want to know what you ache for 

and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. 



It doesn't interest me how old you are. 

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool 

for love 

for your dream 

for the adventure of being alive. 



It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon... 

I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow 

if you have been opened by life's betrayals 

or have become shrivelled and closed 

from fear of further pain. 



I want to know if you can sit with pain 

mine or your own 

without moving to hide it 

or fade it 

or fix it. 



I want to know if you can be with joy 

mine or your own 

if you can dance with wildness 

and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes 

without cautioning us to 

be careful 

be realistic 

remember the limitations of being human. 



It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me 

is true. 

I want to know if you can 

disappoint another 

to be true to yourself. 

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal 

and not betray your own soul. 

If you can be faithless 

and therefore trustworthy. 



I want to know if you can see Beauty 

even when it is not pretty 

every day. 

And if you can source your own life 

from its presence. 



I want to know if you can live with failure 

yours and mine 

and still stand at the edge of the lake 

and shout to the silver of the full moon, 

"Yes." 



It doesn't interest me 

to know where you live or how much money you have. 

I want to know if you can get up 

after the night of grief and despair 

weary and bruised to the bone 

and do what needs to be done 

to feed the children. 



It doesn't interest me who you know 

or how you came to be here. 

I want to know if you will stand 

in the centre of the fire 

with me 

and not shrink back. 



It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom 

you have studied. 

I want to know what sustains you 

from the inside 

when all else falls away. 



I want to know if you can be alone 

with yourself 

and if you truly like the company you keep 

in the empty moments. 





by 

Oriah Mountain Dreamer 

copyright © 1999 by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.


----------



## eots

LAMENT
Lament for my cock
Sore and crucified
I seek to know you
Acquiring soulful wisdom
You can open walls of mystery
Strip show
How to acquire death in the morning show
TV death which the child absorbs
Deathwell mystery which makes me write
Slow train, the death of my cock gives life
Forgive the poor old people who gave us entry
Taught us god in the child's prayer in the night
Guitar player
Ancient wise satyr
Sing your ode to my cock
Caress it's lament
Stiffen and guide us, we frozen
Lost cells
I sacrifice my cock on the alter of silence


----------



## sky dancer

Balances


in life 
one is always
balancing
like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers
or one teacher 
against another
(only to balance our grade average)
3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth
our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street
and lately I've begun wondering 
if you re trying to tell me something
we used to talk all night
and do things alone together
and i've begun
(as a reaction to a feeling)
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain 
of loving you 

by Nikki Giovanni


----------



## sky dancer

Still I Rise 

by Maya Angelou


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


----------



## eots

A Salior at midnight by Elizabeth Sergeant

He noticed I bled a  Little.."What are you anyway"..He whispered "are you a virgin" ?
"No..a poet"..I Said.."fuck me again"


----------



## sky dancer

The plums tasted
sweet to the unlettered desert-tribe girl-
but what manners! To chew into each! 

She was ungainly, low-caste, ill mannered and dirty, 
but the god took the fruit she'd been sucking. 


Why? She knew how to love. 
She might not distinquish
splendor from filth
but she'd tasted the nectar of passion. 


Might not know any Veda, 
but a chariot swept her away-
now she frolics in heaven, esctatically bound
to her god. 


The Lord of Fallen Fools, says Mira, 
will save anyone who can practice rapture like that-
I myself in a previous birth
was a cowherding girl
at Gokul. 

Mirabai


----------



## sky dancer

The Agony and Ecstasy of Divine Discontent: 

The Moods of Rumi




In the orchard and rose garden

I long to see your face.

In the taste of Sweetness

I long to kiss your lips.

In the shadows of passion

I long for your love.



Oh! Supreme Lover!

Let me leave aside my worries.

The flowers are blooming
with the exultation of your Spirit.



By Allah!

I long to escape the prison of my ego

and lose myself
in the mountains and the desert.



These sad and lonely people tire me.

I long to revel in the drunken frenzy of your love
and feel the strength of Rustam in my hands.



I&#8217;m sick of mortal kings.

I long to see your light.

With lamps in hand
the sheiks and mullahs roam
the dark alleys of these towns
not finding what they seek.



You are the Essence of the Essence,

The intoxication of Love.

I long to sing your praises
but stand mute
with the agony of wishing in my heart.


----------



## editec

*Tribute to Poe*
by editec


A large house on a snowy December
And I remember..

_Fourteen rooms I'm told._
_This house is very old._

Shall I ponder weak and weary?
There's tradition, there's Poe
and I know..

_Deep in the bowel of this place_
_Some bricks are newer than the rest_

The demeaner of the place called out for a face:

_Eyes looking their last look;_
_as brick is mortared into nook;_
_disbelief turns to pleading;_
_pleading turns to screams.._

I...

was reading when then screaming stopped. 

I..

dropped the volume on the floor. 

I..

listened at the wall, but

that was all.
That was all.

It is a snowy night in December, and
I remember..

_Fourteen rooms, I'm told._
_This house is very old._


----------



## chloe

Confused and distraught 


Again I am raging, I am in such a state by your soul that every
bond you bind, I break, by your soul.
I am like heaven, like the moon, like a candle by your glow; I am all
reason, all love, all soul, by your soul.
My joy is of your doing, my hangover of your thorn; whatever 
side you turn your face, I turn mine, by your soul.
I spoke in error; it is not surprising to speak in error in this 
state, for this moment I cannot tell cup from wine, by your soul.
I am that madman in bonds who binds the "divs"; I, the madman,
am a Solomon with the "divs", by your soul.
Whatever form other than love raises up its head from my 
heart, forthwith I drive it out of the court of my heart, by your soul.
Come, you who have departed, for the thing that departs
comes back; neither you are that, by my soul, nor I am that, by your soul.
Disbeliever, do not conceal disbelief in your soul, for I will recite
the secret of your destiny, by your soul.
Out of love of Sham-e Tabrizi, through wakefulness or 
nightrising, like a spinning mote I am distraught, by your soul.

Rumi


----------



## chloe

This World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness

Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. Existence: 
This place made from our love for that emptiness! 

 Yet somehow comes emptiness, 
this existence goes. 

 Praise to that happening, over and over! 
For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness. 

 Then one swoop, one swing of the arm, 
that work is over. 

 Free of who I was, free of presence, free of dangerous fear, hope, 
free of mountainous wanting. 

 The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece of straw 
blown off into emptiness. 

 These words I'm saying so much begin to lose meaning: 
Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw: 

 Words and what they try to say swept 
out the window, down the slant of the roof. 


Rumi


----------



## chloe

"Daddy" Warbucks

In Memoriam

What's missing is the eyeballs
in each of us, but it doesn't matter
because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
You let me touch them, fondle the green faces
lick at their numbers and it lets you be
my "Daddy!" "Daddy!" and though I fought all alone
with molesters and crooks, I knew your money
would save me, your courage, your "I've had
considerable experience as a soldier...
fighting to win millions for myself, it's true.
But I did win," and me praying for "our men out there"
just made it okay to be an orphan whose blood was no one's,
whose curls were hung up on a wire machine and electrified,
while you built and unbuilt intrigues called nations,
and did in the bad ones, always, always,
and always came at my perils, the black Christs of childhood,
always came when my heart stood naked in the street
and they threw apples at it or twelve-day-old-dead-fish.

"Daddy!" "Daddy," we all won that war,
when you sang me the money songs
Annie, Annie you sang
and I knew you drove a pure gold car
and put diamonds in your coke
for the crunchy sound, the adorable sound
and the moon too was in your portfolio,
as well as the ocean with its sleepy dead.
And I was always brave, wasn't I?
I never bled?
I never saw a man expose himself.
No. No.
I never saw a drunkard in his blubber.
I never let lightning go in one car and out the other.
And all the men out there were never to come.
Never, like a deluge, to swim over my breasts
and lay their lamps in my insides.
No. No.
Just me and my "Daddy"
and his tempestuous bucks
rolling in them like corn flakes
and only the bad ones died.

But I died yesterday,
"Daddy," I died,
swallowing the Nazi-Jap animal
and it won't get out
it keeps knocking at my eyes,
my big orphan eyes,
kicking! Until eyeballs pop out
and even my dog puts up his four feet
and lets go
of his military secret
with his big red tongue
flying up and down
like yours should have

as we board our velvet train.


Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

The Black Art

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

With Mercy For The Greedy

for my friend Ruth, who urges me to make an
appointment for the Sacrament of Confesson

Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose --

I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter ... deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.

True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can't. Need is not quite belief.

All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child's heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.

My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue's wrangle,
the world's pottage, the rat's star.


Anne Sexton


----------



## sky dancer

If You Forget Me


I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

By Pablo Neruda


----------



## sky dancer

I slept and dreamt that life was joy.

 I awoke and saw that life was service.

 I acted and behold, 

service was

 joy.



~



He who wants to do good knocks at the gate;

 he who loves finds the gate open.



~



I have spent my days stringing 

and unstringing my instrument 

while the song I came to sing 

remains unsung.





Rabindrath Tagore


----------



## sky dancer

The Journey of the Magi

"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly. 

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.



- T.S. Eliot


----------



## sky dancer

Account

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all: alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.





By: Czeslaw Milosz


----------



## sky dancer

Casualty



He would drink by himself 

And raise a weathered thumb 

Towards the high shelf, 

Calling another rum 

And blackcurrant, without 

Having to raise his voice, 

Or order a quick stout 

By a lifting of the eyes 

And a discreet dumb-show 

Of pulling off the top; 

At closing time would go 

In waders and peaked cap 

Into the showery dark, 

A dole-kept breadwinner 

But a natural for work. 

I loved his whole manner, 

Sure-footed but too sly, 

His deadpan sidling tact, 

His fisherman's quick eye 

And turned observant back. 

Incomprehensible 

To him, my other life. 

Sometimes on the high stool, 

Too busy with his knife 

At a tobacco plug 

And not meeting my eye, 

In the pause after a slug 

He mentioned poetry. 

We would be on our own 

And, always politic 

And shy of condescension, 

I would manage by some trick 

To switch the talk to eels 

Or lore of the horse and cart 

Or the Provisionals. 

But my tentative art 

His turned back watches too: 

He was blown to bits 

Out drinking in a curfew 

Others obeyed, three nights 

After they shot dead 

The thirteen men in Derry. 

PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said, 

BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday 

Everyone held 

His breath and trembled. 







II 

It was a day of cold 

Raw silence, wind-blown 

Surplice and soutane: 

Rained-on, flower-laden 

Coffin after coffin 

Seemed to float from the door 

Of the packed cathedral 

Like blossoms on slow water. 

The common funeral 

Unrolled its swaddling band, 

Lapping, tightening 

Till we were braced and bound 

Like brothers in a ring. 

But he would not be held 

At home by his own crowd 

Whatever threats were phoned, 

Whatever black flags waved. 

I see him as he turned 

In that bombed offending place, 

Remorse fused with terror 

In his still knowable face, 

His cornered outfaced stare 

Blinding in the flash. 

He had gone miles away 

For he drank like a fish 

Nightly, naturally 

Swimming towards the lure 

Of warm lit-up places, 

The blurred mesh and murmur 

Drifting among glasses 

In the gregarious smoke. 

How culpable was he 

That last night when he broke 

Our tribe's complicity? 

'Now, you're supposed to be 

An educated man,' 

I hear him say. 'Puzzle me 

The right answer to that one.' 







III 

I missed his funeral, 

Those quiet walkers 

And sideways talkers 

Shoaling out of his lane 

To the respectable 

Purring of the hearse... 

They move in equal pace 

With the habitual 

Slow consolation 

Of a dawdling engine, 

The line lifted, hand 

Over fist, cold sunshine 

On the water, the land 

Banked under fog: that morning 

I was taken in his boat, 

The screw purling, turning 

Indolent fathoms white, 

I tasted freedom with him. 

To get out early, haul 

Steadily off the bottom, 

Dispraise the catch, and smile 

As you find a rhythm 

Working you, slow mile by mile, 

Into your proper haunt 

Somewhere, well out, beyond... 

Dawn-sniffing revenant, 

Plodder through midnight rain, 

Question me again.





Seamus Heaney


----------



## PoliticalChic

Hap


  IF but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"

Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
--Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan....
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain. 

Thomas Hardy


----------



## Andrew2382

Old mother hubbard
went to the cupboard
to give her old dog a bone
when she bent over
Rover took over
she got a bone of her own


----------



## sky dancer

Preacher, Don't Send Me

Preacher, Don't Send me 
when I die 
to some big ghetto 
in the sky 
where rats eat cats 
of the leopard type 
and Sunday brunch 
is grits and tripe. 

I've known those rats 
I've seen them kill 
and grits I've had 
would make a hill, 
or maybe a mountain, 
so what I need 
from you on Sunday 
is a different creed. 


Preacher, please don't 
promise me 
streets of gold 
and milk for free. 
I stopped all milk 
at four years old 
and once I'm dead 
I won't need gold. 


I'd call a place 
pure paradise 
where families are loyal 
and strangers are nice, 
where the music is jazz 
and the season is fall. 
Promise me that 
or nothing at all. 

Written by Maya Angelou


----------



## sky dancer

Use love as a Weapon

Use love, 
not hate, 
please, 
hate is easy to grasp, 
but love is the real contest, 
hold it in your hands, 

mind and soul, 
a weapon of love, 
use it on your fellow man, 
make him understand, 
your war. 
Get violent with it, 
throw your love around, 
cause hate, 
is so easy to grasp 
Know love brings power, 
a power to overcome, 
a success of passion, 
that the world lacks of, 
so use your weapon, 
spread it about, 
cause the way to win a war, 
is love no doubt. 

Written by Kizze' Harris


----------



## sky dancer

Elephant Poem

by Judy Grahn


Suppose you have an elephant
with 56 millimeter trunk
and say he's
	tearing up the jungle
(say you think he's drunk
or crazy)
How're you going to bring that elephant down?
lion can't
bear could but don't want to
and the panther's too small for that job.

Then suppose you have an elephant
with million millimeter trunk
and his jungle is the whole green world?
(and drunk
and crazy)
you see the problem.
		one more word
about elephants
No matter how hard they try
elephants cannot pick their noses
any more than bankers can hand out money
or police put away their pistols
or politicians get right with God.

a sty
in the elephant's eye
aint nothing
but a fly in his nose
is a serious if not fatal condition

when the fly
gets into that nostril
it begins to swell
and stay closed
he can't smell can't drink can't think
can't get one up
on anybody
he begins to regret
all that flabby ammunition
hanging on him
he begins to wish
he'd been a little more bare-faced
like an ape or a fish
all those passageways
he needs to feed himself
tied up

ELEPHANT TURNED UPSIDE DOWN
by a fly
a million flies
outweigh a trunk
a tank
a bank
a million flies
outthink a pile of IBM
junk

we must be wise
to the elephant's lies
you may think we should try
to sober him up
but the trouble isn't that he's drunk
the trouble is
that he's an elephant
with multi-millimeter trunk
who believes the world is his jungle
and until he dies
he grows and grows

we must be flies
in the elephant's nose
ready to carry on
in every town
you know there are butterflies
there are horse flies and house flies
blue flies, shoo flies and it's-not-
true flies
then there are may flies and wood flies
but I'm talking about
can flies & do flies
bottle flies, rock flies and sock flies
dragonflies and fireflies
in the elephant's nose
ready to carry on
til he goes down


----------



## eots

Sensitive Artist
by John S Hall
1987

I am a sensitive artist...

I am a sensitive artist.
Nobody understands me because I am so deep.
In my work I make allusions to books that nobody else has read,
Music that nobody else has heard,
And art that nobody else has seen.
I can't help it
Because I am so much more intelligent
And well-rounded
Than everyone who surrounds me.

I stopped watching tv when I was six months old
Because it was so boring and stupid
And started reading books
And going to recitals
And art galleries.
I don't go to recitals anymore
Because my hearing is too sensitive
And I don't go to art galleries anymore
Because there are people there
And I can't deal with people
Because they don't understand me.

I stay home
Reading books that are beneath me,
And working on my work,
Which no one understands

I am sensitive...
I am a sensitive artist


----------



## sky dancer

Is That So?


There was a Zen Master who was very pure, very illumined. Near the place where he lived there happened to be a food store. The owner of the food store had a beautiful unmarried daughter. One day she was found with child. Her parents flew into a rage. They wanted to know the father, but she would not give them the name. After repeated scolding and harassment, she gave up and told them it was the Zen Master. The parents believed her. When the child was born they ran to the Zen Master, scolding him with foul tongue, and they left the infant with him. The Zen Master said, "Is that so." This was his only comment.

He accepted the child. He started nourishing and taking care of the child. By this time his reputation had come to an end, and he was an object of mockery. Days ran into weeks, weeks into months and months into years. But there is something called conscience in our human life, and the young girl was tortured by her conscience. One day she finally disclosed to her parents the name of the child's real father, a man who worked in a fish market. The parents again flew into a rage. At the same time, sorrow and humiliation tortured the household. They came running to the spiritual Master, begged his pardon, narrated the whole story and then took the child back. His only comment: "Is that so."


----------



## sky dancer

The Poet's Obligation 


by Pablo Neruda 



To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell:
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying, "How can I reach the sea?"
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.


----------



## sky dancer

Dances with Sophia 

by Eric Ashford 


I want to talk of you.
Gather you up in myself
and deliver you out like a dark flower.
A radiance
lightly attired in a negligee of form.
You breathe for me
and sweeten the sinews of this life.
You speak for me
so that my words reflect your eyes.
I touch you in the delicate darkness
where your body turns over in my flesh.
I wet my fingers in your presence.
You move over my tongue
as shadow-dances of desire.
You wear me as a glove of your being
but you are also the hand that opens me
and feeds me.
I want to talk of you
but I have no images as bright or as dark
as your light
so I talk of what you are
in-between the spaces of all these words.
The golden and ebony taste
of your caress.
The subtle intoxications
and intimate pleasures
as we lay down in this room of you.
The smell of your communion
alluring my every sense.
Those moments
when I am your quickened pulse
in your singing blood,
and where I am both the singer and the song,
the dance and the dancer
of this sensual tango
of our awareness in each other.
Yet you are the colour that cannot be painted,
the word too great to utter,
the figure that cannot be drawn
but only felt as a movement of a love
so deeply involved and spun
that the loom itself is woven into the thread.
To speak of Sophia
is to surrender to her.
I can only show you the depth
from the reflected surface.
The curl and wave of her hair
in this passing phenomena of myself.


----------



## sky dancer

Geronimo 



You might hear the beautiful shout of "Geronimo"
from a lover who has just dove from a
cliff and is heading full speed
into the Ocean -- into the
Beloved.

And of course there will always be lots of gab
along the shore From those who are
drawn to God

but have yet to really get bare assed
and go in.

"Geronimo" may be the last word we hear
from that brave gal falling 625 MPH
from a cliff,

for once beneath the sea,
once within the
Water,

only fish open their mouths, still bargaining
for something.

The soul becomes quiet in ecstasy, so quiet.
Love speaks in absence of God,
not in the heights
of passion.

~Hafiz~


----------



## chloe

Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women

Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.

Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.

Anne Sexton


----------



## eots

Scapegoat" 


It's the caffeine, the nicotine, the miligrams of tar
It's my habitat, it needs to be cleaned, it's my car
It's the fast talk they use to abuse and feed my brain
It's the cat box it needs to be changed, it's the pain
It's women, it's the plight for power it's government
It's the way you're giving knowledge 
slow with thought control and subtle hints
It's rubbing it, It's itching it, It's applying cream
It's the foreigners sight seeing with high beams, It's in my dreams
It's the monsters that I conjure, It's the marijuana
It's embarrassment, displacement, it's where I wander
It's my genre, It's Madonna's videos
It's game shows, cheap liquor, blunts, 
and bumper stickers with rainbows
It's angels, demons, gods, it's the white devils
It's the monitors, the soundman, it's the f**king mic levels
It's gas fumes, fast food, Tommy Hil' and mommy's pill
Columbia House music club, designer drugs and rhyming thugs
It's bloods, crips, fives, six
It's stick up kids, 
It's christian conservative terrorists, it's porno flicks
It's the east coast, no it's the west coast 
It's public schools, it's asbestos
It's mentholated, It's techno
It's sleep, life, and death
It's speed, coke, and meth
It's hay fever, pain relievers, oral sex, and smokers breath
It stretches for as far as the eye can see
It's reality, f**k it , it's everything but me


It's in the water, it's in the air, it's in the meat
It's indirect, indiscrete, inconsistent, incomplete
It's in the streets, every city and everywhere you go
In every man it's the insanity, the fantasy, the casualties
It's the health care system, it's welfare victims
It's assault weapons, it's television religion, and it's false lessons
It's cops, police, pigs with badges guns and sticks
It's harassment and a complex you carry when you're running shit
It's wondering if you get to eat, it's the heat
It's the winter , the weather
It's herpes, and it's forever
It's the virus that takes the lives of the weak and the strong
It's the drama that keeps on between me and my seed's mom
It's that need to speak long, it's that hunger for attention
It's the wack , who attack songs of redemption
It's prevention, It's the first solution
It's loose, it's out for retribution, 
it's mental pollution...and public execution
It's the nails that keep my hands and feet to these boards
It's the part time job that governs what you can afford
It's the fear, It's the fake 
It's clear it can make time stop 
and leave you stranded in the year of the snake
It's the dollar, yen, pound, it's all denomination
It's hourly wages for your professional observations
It's on your face and it's in your eyes
It's everything you be
Cause it ain't me, motherf**ker,... cause it ain't me


ATMOSPHERE - SCAPEGOAT LYRICS


----------



## sky dancer

Flames 

by Billy Collins


Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it.


----------



## sky dancer

Shoveling Snow With Buddha

 by Billy Collins


In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.


----------



## tigerbob

Dulce et Decorum est

by Wilfred Owen


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!   An ecstasy of fumbling,  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,  
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .  
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.  
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  
Pro patria mori.


----------



## eots

Gunga Din a poem by Rudyard Kipling  



You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it 
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


----------



## sky dancer

Child Development 

by Billy Collins


As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.

Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.

They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.

The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.


----------



## Chris

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon a nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of angelic light. 

William Wordsworth


----------



## disciple2184

i never knew why
i never wanted to cry
all i ever wanted was to fly

no one can tell me why
now it all seems like a lie
and I wait to die


----------



## sky dancer

still the body 


still the body
still the mind
still the voice inside

in silence
feel the stillness move

friends
this feeling
cannot be imagined

~Kabir~


----------



## sky dancer

I Have Learned So Much



I 

Have 

Learned 

So much from God 

That I can no longer 

Call 

Myself 



A Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, 

a Buddhist, a Jew. 



The Truth has shared so much of Itself 

With me 



That I can no longer call myself 

A man, a woman, an angel, 

Or even a pure 

Soul. 



Love has 

Befriended Hafiz so completely

It has turned to ash 

And freed 

Me 



Of every concept and image 

my mind has ever known.



~Hafiz~


----------



## sky dancer

Tired of Speaking Sweetly



Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,

Break all our teacup talk of God.



If you had the courage and

Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,

He would just drag you around the room

By your hair,

Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world

That bring you no joy.



Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly

And wants to rip to shreds

All your erroneous notions of truth



That make you fight within yourself, dear one,

And with others,



Causing the world to weep

On too many fine days.



God wants to manhandle us,

Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself

And practice His dropkick.



The Beloved sometimes wants

To do us a great favor:



Hold us upside down

And shake all the nonsense out.



But when we hear

He is in such a "playful drunken mood"

Most everyone I know

Quickly packs their bags and hightails it

Out of town.



~Hafiz~


----------



## sky dancer

Light 


Light
devoured darkness.

I was alone
inside.

Shedding
the visible dark

I
was Your target

O Lord of Caves. 



~Allama Prabhu~


----------



## sky dancer

Speaking Through the Opening: Allowing Your Life to Be Your Poem

by Eric Ashford 


You know you are ready to speak.
When the words are not there
but only a space
where the words are to be born,
then the bud
is a secret only the sky has knowledge of.

Love is always hidden.
Poetry comes
but you do not see it
until you are its appearance.
Until then it is just a scratch in the sand
and a whisper over your skin.

Once a man went out with his dog
and got so lost
he had to ask the path to find his way home.
So far nothing has been heard of him
but his dog shows up every day
for walks.

Poems walk out of you
and lead you around.
Then they leave you
to be the home from where the words came.

You can do nothing about this travelling
so you stay in the journey like a path.
Breathe for a while and
wait to hear what became of you.


----------



## sky dancer

Tap Dance

By

Dorothy Knowles


Strangely satisfying

To swing these legs

And tap these feet in place.

Feet that walk without going, 

Anywhere

Everywhere

Nowhere.

Such sweet relief

To touch cold, hard linoleum

After suffering warm plush carpet

All day.


----------



## editec

> Sure I own a hypodermic needle.
> 
> I use it to baste my tiny turkey


 
Jim Carrol -- the Basketball Diaries


----------



## Isolde

My first time at a limerick.....



> There once was a bloke named dilloduck
> tried to tame a fair maiden who ran amok
> Exhausted and spent
> she came and she went
> honestly, who gives a fiddler's fuck?



Thank you, thank you very much.


----------



## dilloduck

Isolde said:


> My first time at a limerick.....
> 
> 
> 
> Thank you, thank you very much.



now wait a second here !!!!!   RAPE !!!!


----------



## chloe

Friendship



And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship." 

Your friend is your needs answered. 

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. 

And he is your board and your fireside. 

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. 

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay." 

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; 

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed. 

When you part from your friend, you grieve not; 

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. 

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. 

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught. 

And let your best be for your friend. 

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. 

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? 

Seek him always with hours to live. 

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. 

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. 

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. 


Khalil Gibron


----------



## sky dancer

Before there was a hint of civilization
I carried a memory of your loose strand of hair,
Oblivious, I carried inside me your pointed tip of hair.

In its invisible realm,
Your face of sun yearned for epiphany,
Until each distinct thing was thrown into sight.

From the first instant time took a breath,
Your love lay in the soul,
A treasure in the secret chest in the heart.

Before the first seed shot up out of the rose bed of the possible,
The soul's lark took wing high above your meadow,
Flying home to you.

I thank you one hundred times! In the altar
Of Hayati's eyes, your face shines
Forever present and beautiful


~Bibi Hayati~


----------



## sky dancer

Still I Rise


  You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. 

Maya Angelou


----------



## JimH52

Here I sit in this stinking vapor.
Some SOB stole the toilet paper.
Well, I have to go now as I cannot linger.
Look out A hole, here comes my finger.


----------



## sky dancer

Mothers, fathers, clasp the children

 Mothers, fathers, clasp the children, tie them to your breast
and beam like flashlights, hold the children praise them with buckets
of raspberries, shiny as jelly, give them you.
Show them they are green-worthy as grass in rain, lofty as kite-flying by the Bay, 
sharp as sunrise after an ice-storm. Grasp them, study their eyes, talk to them
like kittens.
Tell them they have the sturdy grace of deer, communal peace of stones, generosity 
of the sea, able, able, capable and ready. Tell them they can learn to be happy
no matter what else is true.
Mothers fathers grip the children with bearpaws of glee, press them to your hearts,
sing high into their precious ears, drip strawberry down through their lives,
tell the sons they are ships and shores, tell the daughters they are mountains
and towns that will thrive a hundred years, say the world is sending them a ticket,
they just need to find the train that&#8217;s theirs.
 Oh winds of change, gather the wounded 
boys and girls of all rages
into your giant arms, blow brotherly breath 
between their fierce sad eyes, unclench their wish
for motherly porridge, pour fatherly tears
of crooning through their bliss-hungry lips
and tell them this one truth:
When we find or make that motherplace
our vessels heal, contain no leaks
and all around us love pours in, red cells pulse
burning away bleakness,
red cells flash as curious pretty fishes
spelling the words
&#8220;this is my darling life, and this is enough&#8221;


~Judy Grahn~


----------



## sky dancer

Balances


  in life
one is always
balancing

like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers

or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average) 

3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street

and lately i've begun wondering
if you're trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night
and do things alone together

and i've begun

(as a reaction to a feeling) 
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you 

Nikki Giovanni


----------



## sky dancer

Morning Poem 

Every morning
the world
is created. 
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies. 
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere. 
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly, 
every morning, 

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy, 
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray. 


~ Mary Oliver ~


----------



## eots

[Sir Mix-a-Lot]
"Baby Got Back"


I like big butts and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung, wanna pull out your tough
'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed
Deep in the jeans she's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I wanna get with you
And take your picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But that butt you got makes me so horny
Ooh, Rump-o'-smooth-skin
You say you wanna get in my Benz?
Well, use me, use me
'Cause you ain't that average groupie
I've seen them dancin'
To hell with romancin'
She's sweat, wet,
Got it goin' like a turbo 'Vette
I'm tired of magazines
Sayin' flat butts are the thing
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back
So, fellas! (Yeah!) Fellas! (Yeah!)
Has your girlfriend got the butt? (Hell yeah!)
Tell 'em to shake it! (Shake it!) Shake it! (Shake it!)
Shake that healthy butt!
Baby got back!

(LA face with Oakland booty)
Baby got back!

[Sir Mix-a-Lot]
I like 'em round, and big
And when I'm throwin' a gig
I just can't help myself, I'm actin' like an animal
Now here's my scandal
I wanna get you home
And ugh, double-up, ugh, ugh
I ain't talkin' bout Playboy
'Cause silicone parts are made for toys
I want 'em real thick and juicy
So find that juicy double
Mix-a-Lot's in trouble
Beggin' for a piece of that bubble
So I'm lookin' at rock videos
Knock-kneeded bimbos walkin' like hoes
You can have them bimbos
I'll keep my women like Flo Jo
A word to the thick soul sisters, I wanna get with ya
I won't cuss or hit ya
But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna *fuck*
Till the break of dawn
Baby got it goin' on
A lot of simps won't like this song
'Cause them punks like to hit it and quit it
And I'd rather stay and play
'Cause I'm long, and I'm strong
And I'm down to get the friction on
So, ladies! {Yeah!} Ladies! {Yeah}
If you wanna roll in my Mercedes {Yeah!}
Then turn around! Stick it out!
Even white boys got to shout
Baby got back!

Baby got back!
Yeah, baby ... when it comes to females, Cosmo ain't got nothin'
to do with my selection. 36-24-36? Ha ha, only if she's 5'3".

[Sir Mix-a-Lot]
So your girlfriend rolls a Honda, playin' workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none
Unless you've got buns, hun
You can do side bends or sit-ups,
But please don't lose that butt
Some brothers wanna play that "hard" role
And tell you that the butt ain't gold
So they toss it and leave it
And I pull up quick to retrieve it
So Cosmo says you're fat
Well I ain't down with that!
'Cause your waist is small and your curves are kickin'
And I'm thinkin' bout stickin'
To the beanpole dames in the magazines:
You ain't it, Miss Thing!
Give me a sister, I can't resist her
Red beans and rice didn't miss her
Some knucklehead tried to dis
'Cause his girls are on my list
He had game but he chose to hit 'em
And I pull up quick to get wit 'em
So ladies, if the butt is round,
And you want a triple X throw down,
Dial 1-900-MIXALOT
And kick them nasty thoughts
Baby got back!

(Little in the middle but she got much back) [4x]


----------



## sky dancer

Telling Our Stories

The fox came every evening 
to my door asking for nothing. 
my fear trapped me inside, 
hoping to dismiss her but 
she sat till morning, waiting. 

At dawn we would, each of us, 
rise from our haunches, 
look through the glass 
then walk away. 


Did she gather her village around 
her and sing of the hairless moon face, 
the trembling snout, 
the ignorant eyes? 


Child, i tell you now it was not 
the animal blood i was hiding from, 
it was the poet in her, 
the poet and the terrible stories 
she could tell. 


Written by Lucille Clifton


----------



## sky dancer

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.

A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,
not on the page,
not on the ecstatic body.

Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping--
not sponge of rising yeast-bread,
not rotor pin's smoothness,
not ink.

The maple's green hands do not cup
the proliferant rain.
What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question.

Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs. 

by Jane Hirshfield


----------



## sky dancer

A Heart Lost and Discovered 


If there is no full moon in the sky,
How is it possible to see the reflection in the pond?
If the tiger has sharp claws,
How is it possible not to use them?
How could we bake our bread
If there were no fire?
At the death of the Karmapa we become softened and devotional.
It is true.
Those who have never cried in their lives, cry this time,
And shed tears that will water the earth
So we can produce further flowers and greenery.


Chogyam Trungpa


----------



## sky dancer

Cold Poem 

by Mary Oliver


Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.


----------



## sky dancer

You Fit Into Me


  You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye 

Margaret Atwood


----------



## sky dancer

_"Unruly beings are as unlimited as space
They cannot possibly all be overcome,
But if I overcome thoughts of anger alone
This will be equivalent to vanquishing all foes.

Where would I possibly find enough leather
With which to cover the surface of the earth?
But (wearing) leather just on the soles of my shoes
Is equivalent to covering the earth with it.

Likewise it is not possible for me
To restrain the external course of things;
But should I restrain this mind of mine
What would be the need to restrain all else?"


Shantideva_


----------



## sky dancer

My Mouth Hovers Across Your Breasts


  My mouth hovers across your breasts
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## midcan5

I am a loner
try as I might
I really enjoy
the rambling
around in my head
of solitary thoughts
of open spaces
stretched forward 
into which 
I go alone.

mc5


----------



## sky dancer

Drink Your Tea
~

Drink your tea slowly and reverently,
as if it is the axis 
on which the world earth revolves 
- slowly, evenly, without 
rushing toward the future;
Live the actual moment.
Only this moment is life.

- Thich Nhat Hahn


----------



## Valerie

sky dancer said:


> Drink Your Tea
> ~
> 
> Drink your tea slowly and reverently,
> as if it is the axis
> on which the world earth revolves
> - slowly, evenly, without
> rushing toward the future;
> Live the actual moment.
> Only this moment is life.
> 
> - Thich Nhat Hahn




  Funny thing is, I just spilled my tea!  

Have a good night, my friend.  I enjoy your poetry.


----------



## sky dancer

Valerie said:


> Funny thing is, I just spilled my tea!
> 
> Have a good night, my friend.  I enjoy your poetry.



That made me smile.


----------



## chloe

Frenzy

I am not lazy.
I am on the amphetamine of the soul.
I am, each day,
typing out the God
my typewriter believes in.
Very quick. Very intense,
like a wolf at a live heart.
Not lazy.
When a lazy man, they say,
looks toward heaven,
the angels close the windows.

Oh angels,
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

The Fury of Sunsets

Something
cold is in the air, 
an aura of ice 
and phlegm. 
All day Ive built 
a lifetime and now 
the sun sinks 
to undo it. 
The horizon bleeds 
and sucks its thumb. 
The little red thumb 
goes out of sight. 
And I wonder about 
this lifetime with myself, 
this dream Im living. 
I could eat the sky 
like an apple 
but Id rather 
ask the first star: 
why am I here? 
why do I live in this house? 
whos responsible? 
eh? 


anne sexton


----------



## sky dancer

Anne Sexton is starting to grow on me.


----------



## chloe

cool ! She was a little crazy but I still love her writing.


----------



## midcan5

*Happiness*

"So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it."


Raymond Carver


----------



## sky dancer

Raymond Carver is one of my favorites.


----------



## midcan5

"Happiness
Is a clean bill of health from the doctor,
And the kids shouldn't move back home for
more than a year,
And not being audited, overdrawn, in Wilkes-Barre,
in a lawsuit or in traction.

Happiness
Is falling asleep without Valium,
And having two breasts to put in my brassiere,
And not (yet) needing to get my blood pressure lowered,
my eyelids raised or a second opinion.

And on Saturday nights
When my husband and I have rented
Something with Fred Astaire for the VCR,
And we're sitting around in our robes discussing,
The state of the world, back exercises, our Keoghs,
And whether to fix the transmission or buy a new car,
And we're eating a pint of rum-raisin ice cream
on the grounds that
Tomorrow we're starting a diet of fish, fruit and grain,
And my dad's in Miami dating a very nice widow,
And no one we love is in serious trouble or pain,
And our bringing-up-baby days are far behind us,
But our senior-citizen days have not begun,
It's not what I called happiness
When I was twenty-one,
But it's turning out to be
What happiness is."

Judith Viorst


----------



## tigerbob

midcan5 said:


> "Happiness
> 
> Judith Viorst



That is quite delightful.    

I'm cutting, pasting, and emailing to my wife.


----------



## tigerbob

While I'm here, and seeing how it is my signature after all...

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too.

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same.

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much.

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


----------



## sky dancer

Beauty




Beauty is truth's smile 

when she beholds her own face in 

a perfect mirror.



~ 



 Beauty is truth's smile 
when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror.



~



Beauty is in the ideal of perfect harmony 
which is in the universal being; 
truth the perfect comprehension of the universal mind. 









- R. Tagore


----------



## midcan5

"you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance"

ee cummings


----------



## editec

sky dancer said:


> Anne Sexton is starting to grow on me.


 

Yeah, she's a great poet, I agree.


----------



## sky dancer

The Chance to Love Everything

By Mary Oliver  

All summer I made friends 

with the creatures nearby ---

they flowed through the fields

and under the tent walls,

or padded through the door, 

grinning through their many teeth,  

looking for seeds,

suet, sugar; muttering and humming, 

opening the breadbox, happiest when

there was milk and music. But once

in the night I heard a sound 

outside the door, the canvas 

bulged slightly ---something

was pressing inward at eye level.

I watched, trembling, sure I had heard

the click of claws, the smack of lips

outside my gauzy house ---

I imagined the red eyes, 

the broad tongue, the enormous lap. 

Would it be friendly too?

Fear defeated me. And yet,

not in faith and not in madness 

but with the courage I thought

my dream deserved,

I stepped outside. It was gone.

Then I whirled at the sound of some

shambling tonnage.

Did I see a black haunch slipping

back through the trees? Did I see

the moonlight shining on it?

Did I actually reach out my arms

toward it, toward paradise falling, like

the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---

the dark heart of the story that is all

the reason for its telling?


----------



## tigerbob

tigerbob said:


> That is quite delightful.
> 
> I'm cutting, pasting, and emailing to my wife.



My wife teared up when she read it.


----------



## tigerbob

Since it's snowing here in Maine...


All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
And WINTER slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring !
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away !
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll :
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ?
WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,
And HOPE without an object cannot live.

Work Without Hope
Samuel Taylor Coleridge


This may be the first sonnet on the poetry thread (I stand to be corrected).


----------



## midcan5

Desiderata

"Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy."

Max Ehrmann


----------



## sky dancer

Now No Trace Remains

by Niyazi Misri


I thought that in this whole world
      no beloved for me remained.

Then I left myself.
      Now no stranger in the world remains.

I used to see in every object a thorn
      but never a rose&#8211;

the universe became a rose garden.
      Not a single thorn remains.

Day and night my heart
      was moaning &#8220;Ahhh!&#8221;

I don&#8217;t know how it happened&#8211;
      now no &#8220;Ahhh&#8221; remains.

Duality went, Unity came.
      I met with the Friend in private;

The multitude left, the One came.
      Only the One remains.

Religion, piety, custom, reputation&#8211;
      these used to matter greatly to me.

O Niyazi &#8212; what has happened to you?
      No trace of religion now remains.


----------



## sky dancer

Song for Nobody

by Thomas Merton

A yellow flower
(Light and spirit)
Sings by itself
For nobody.

A golden spirit
(Light and emptiness)
Sings without a word
By itself.

Let no one touch this gentle sun
In whose dark eye
Someone is awake.

(No light, no gold, no name, no color
And no thought:
O, wide awake!)

A golden heaven
Sings by itself
A song to nobody.


----------



## sky dancer

This Only

by Czeslaw Milosz

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.
Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,
When snow first fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

(English version by Robert Hass)


----------



## midcan5

tigerbob said:


> My wife teared up when she read it.



This may make her laugh. Music is poetry. 

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5axlwCBXC8]YouTube - John Prine and Iris DeMent - In Spite of Ourselves[/ame]


----------



## tigerbob

midcan5 said:


> This may make her laugh. Music is poetry.
> 
> YouTube - John Prine and Iris DeMent - In Spite of Ourselves



That's a very cool song.


----------



## sky dancer

A Visitor

My father, for example, 
who was young once
and blue-eyed, 
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door, 
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face, 
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness. 
And so, for a long time, 
I did not answer, 
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping. 
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall. 
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved 
and could bear him, 
pathetic and hollow, 
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him, 
and the meanness gone. 
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house, 
and lit the lamp, 
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love, 
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

from Dream Work (1986). © Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

My Burning Heart


My heart is burning with love

All can see this flame

My heart is pulsing with passion

like waves on an ocean



my friends have become strangers

and I&#8217;m surrounded by enemies

But I&#8217;m free as the wind

no longer hurt by those who reproach me



I&#8217;m at home wherever I am

And in the room of lovers

I can see with closed eyes

the beauty that dances



Behind the veils

intoxicated with love

I too dance the rhythm

of this moving world



I have lost my senses

in my world of lovers

Rumi


----------



## sky dancer

The Privileged Lovers


The moon has become a dancer
at this festival of love.
This dance of light,

This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
beckons us
to a world beyond
only lovers can see
with their eyes of fiery passion. 

They are the chosen ones
who have surrendered.
Once they were particles of light
now they are the radiant sun.

They have left behind
the world of deceitful games.
They are the privileged lovers
who create a new world
with their eyes of fiery passion. 

Rumi


----------



## sky dancer

View from Vanilla Pudding Bowl


by sky dancer



Just milky, thick

Off-white

Muted sweetness

Nothing to get too excited about.

All smooth, no hard edges

Anywhere.


Just sitting here

Waiting for you to taste me/

Why run?

When you can walk.

Why walk?

When you can stand.

Why stand?

When you can sit.

Why sit?

When you can

Be.


----------



## Sidestreamer

They gather poems from near and far,
Their scars, shown in zeroes and ones
The sum of their thoughts, in a tongue
But theirs, muted in convenience.

_Vermin_


----------



## sky dancer

Death by Poetry

by sky dancer


Let's read yet another turn of phrase

Beautiful sounding words,

Don't make them mean what they say.

Has to be hidden.

Requires a map.

A compass.

A pompous ass.

A fictionary.

An encyclopedia of myth and illogistry.

A thesaurus.

A brontosaurus of vague, ambiguous

Soliloquy.

Synonyms/Antonyms

Make it work for me, baby.

Analyze me

Paralyze me

Synthesize me

Kill me with hidden meaning

Scrabble my rabble

Burn out my brain.


----------



## chloe

The Women On My Journey 


To the women on my journey
Who showed me the ways to go and ways not to go,
Whose strength and compassion held up a torch of light
and beckoned me to follow,
Whose weakness and ignorance darkened the path and encouraged me
to turn another way.

To the women on my journey
Who showed me how to love and how not to live,
Whose grace, success and gratitude lifted me into the fullness
of surrender to God,
Whose bitterness, envy and wasted gifts warned me away
from the emptiness of self-will

To the women on my journey
Who showed me what I am and what I am not,
Whose love, encouragement and confidence held me tenderly
and nudged me gently,
Whose judgement, disappointment and lack of faith called me
to deeper levels of commitment and resolve.

To the women on my journey who taught me love
by means of both darkness and light.

To these women I say bless you and thank you from the
depths of my heart,
for I have been healed and set free
through your joy and through your sacrifice.


 Rev. Melissa M. Bowers


----------



## Sidestreamer

I sense in one, a triggered gun
From which I run
But the sum of her words are like a fucking drill to the back of my brain it won't stop no it won't stop it will never stop OH MY GOD FUCKING KILL THE SUN MAKE IT GO AWAY SHE WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP PLEASE STOP THE FUCKING TORTURE JUST FUCKING STOP IT!

...

Tuesday morning, I'm just yawning
See an awning,
Then she wakes and she just won't stop bitching and FUCK SHE JUST HAS TO KEEP TELLING ME OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN LIKE I GIVE A FUCK JUST FUCKING LET ME GO!

Drunk at the bar, I went too far
Reveal the scar
of her... but she's far from me,
I'm in a sea, my mind just bleeds
(Or planting seeds? Am I just free?)



Another horrible spur-of-the-moment prose by Vermin


----------



## sky dancer

Dacoits

When the teacher said:
I'll get you married off
if you don't recite the lesson
I was afraid.

When my brother said:
My 'husband' is my boss
who never grants me leave
even when I need it most
I grew suspicious.

When the neighbours said:
But, he's a man, a 'maharaja'
so what could he be missing?
I understood.

That marriage is a huge punishment,
that a husband gobbles up your freedom,
and that half the population
that we nourished at the breast
divides 
and rules.

By Saavitri


----------



## sky dancer

God I Hate Christmas



God I hate Christmas
with all it's good cheer
I hearing people laughin'
but I shed a tear

Folks they just love ya'
one day of the year
The rest of the time
they wouldn't come near ya'

They send you a card
full of love and best wishes
Then in the New Year
they run off with ya' misses

They're stuffin' their gobs
as fast as they can
Bugger them starving,
in Afghanistan

Then Santa Clause comes
with a full sack
A new doll for Betty
a bike for our Jack

'Eat, drink and be merry
tomorrow we die'
Forget about Jesus
'let sleeping dogs lie'

You think I'm a cynic
a miserable bastard
Come Christmas day 
I just wanta get plastered. 




Copyright; Elaine Hamlet


----------



## sky dancer

The Perfect Gift



'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck.
How to live in a world so politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "elves" -
"vertically challenged" they now called themselves.

And labour conditions up at the North pole
Were alleged by the Union to stifle the soul.
Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,
Freed to the wilds by the humane society

And equal employment had made it quite clear
That Santa had better not use just reindeer
So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid
Were replaced by four pigs, of all the things stupid!

The runners had been removed from his sleigh:
The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A
And people had started to call for the cops
Upon hearing sleds run across their rooftops.

Second hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened;
His fur-trimmed suit was dubbed "unenlightened".
Then to prove the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,
Rudolph was suing for unauthorised use of his nose...

And had gone on TV in front of the nation
Demanding six mill, overdue compensation.
So half the reindeer were gone, and his wife,
Who suddenly decided she's had enough of this life,

Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz
Demanding from now on her title was Ms.
And as for the gifts, why he'd ne'er had a notion
That making a choice could cause such commotion!

Nothing of leather, nothing of fur
Which meant nothing for him, and nothing for her.
Nothing that might be construed to pollute,
Nothing to aim, nothing to shoot,

Nothing that clamoured and made lots of noise,
Nothing for girls and nothing for boys,
Nothing that claimed to be gender specific,
Nothing warlike or non-pacific.

No candy or sweets, they are bad for the tooth.
Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.
And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden
Were like Ken and Barbie, (better off hidden)

For they raised the hackles of those psychological
Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.
No basketball, no football, someone could get hurt -
Besides, playing sport exposed childrent to dirt.

Dolls were said to be sexist and oh so passé,
and Nintendo would rot their brains away.
So Santa just stood there, dishevelled, perplexed;
He couldn't figure out what he should do next.

He tried to be merry, he tried to be gay
(Though you must be so careful with that word today).
His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground -
Nothing acceptable to be found.

Something special was needed, a gift that he might
Give to all without angering left or right.
A gift that would satisfy with no indecision
Each group of people from every religion.

Every ethnicity, every hue,
Everyone, everywhere, even you.
So here is that gift, its price beyond worth:
"May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth." 




Author Unknown


----------



## sky dancer

An Eighties Christmas Flashback 




'Twas the night before Friday
and all through the town,
no cops were cruising,
no narks were around.

As we all rolled our joints 
to be put in our sacks,
we knew that soon 
we'd be stoned to the max.

We drank Jack Daniel's 
And smoked Panama Red, 
a hit of tea 
and man I felt dead.

We were all up that midnight
all of the day, when
there was a knock at the door
that gave us away.

There stood a man 
wearing a smile, 
so we invited him in 
to party a while.

What to our red, 
glassy eyes should appear,
two pounds of Columbia 
and a case of beer.

So we sat down 
and he started to roll, 
filled up a glass 
and lit up a bowl.

We ask the man 
what was his name, 
he said Saint Nichol 
and drugs is my fame.

So as the man 
strutted out of sight, 
he said mari-ju-ana to all 
and to all a good night.




Copyright; Flower Child


----------



## Valerie

sky dancer said:


>



My poetry contribution in honor of my friend Skydancer!  


*I'm Nobody!  Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell!  they'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog --
To tell one's name -- the livelong June --
To an admiring Bog!*

~ Emily Dickinson ~


----------



## sky dancer

Thanks Valerie!

I love it.


----------



## Sidestreamer

And a verdict
And the sentence
and the one left making repentance
You just predict
You had spent it
You forget you just can't renege it.
Never spoken
Never needed
Never thought your mind would just bleed it.
Knew you're broken
Knew to feed it
Knew it left you right here, defeated.

Another horrible spur-of-the-moment prose by Vermin.


----------



## sky dancer

A Funeral: Plainsong From a Younger Woman to an Older Woman 
by Judy Grahn 

i will be your mouth now, to do your singing 
breath belongs to those who do the breathing. 
warm life, as it passes through your fingers 
flares up in the very hands you will be leaving 

you have left, what is left 
for the bond between women is a circle 
we are together within it. 

i am your best, i am your kind 
kind of my kind, i am your wish 
wish of my wish, i am your breast 
breast of my breast, i am your mind 
mind of my mind, i am your flesh 
i am your kind, i am your wish 
kind of my kind, i am your best 

now you have left you can be 
wherever the fire is when it blows itself out. 
now you are a voice in any wind 
      i am a single wind 
now you are any source of a fire 
      i am a single fire 

wherever you go to, i will arrive 
whatever i have been, you will come back to 
wherever you leave off, i will inherit 
whatever i resurrect, you shall have it 

you have right, what is right 
for the bond between women is returning 
we are endlessly within it 
and endlessly apart within it. 
it is not finished 
it will not be finished 

i will be your heart now, to do your loving 
love belongs to those who do the feeling. 

life, as it stands so still along your fingers 
beats in my hands, the hands i will, believing 
that you have become she, who is not, any longer 
somewhere in paticular 

we are together in your stillness 
you have wished us a bonded life 
love of my love, i am your breast 
arm of my arm, i am your strength 
breath of my breath, i am your foot 
thigh of my thigh, back of my back 
eye of my eye, beat of my beat 
kind of my kind, i am your best 

when you were dead i said you had gone to the mountain 

the trees do not yet speak of you 

a mountain when it is no longer 
a mountain, goes to the sea 
when the sea dies it goes to the rain 
when the rain dies it goes to the grain 
when the grain dies it goes to the flesh 
when the flesh dies it goes to the mountain 

now you have left, you can wander 
will you tell whoever could listen 
tell all the voices who speak to younger women 
tell all the voices who speak to us when we need it 
that the love between women is a circle 
and is not finished 

wherever i go to, you will arrive 
whatever you have been, i will come back to 
wherever i leave off, you will inherit 
whatever we resurrect, we shall have it 
we shall have it, we have right 

and you have left, what is left 

i will take your part now, to do your daring 
lots belong to those who do the sharing. 
i will be your fight now, to do your winning 
as the bond between women is beginning 
in the middle at the end 
my first beloved, present friend 
if i could die like the next rain 
i'd call you by your mountain name 
and rain on you 
want of my want, i am your lust 
wave of my wave, i am your crest 
earth of my earth, i am your crust 
may of my may, i am your must 
kind of my kind, i am your best 

tallest mountain least mouse 
least mountain tallest mouse 

you have put your very breath upon mine 
i shall wrap my entire fist around you 
i can touch any woman's lip to remember 

we are together in my motion 
you have wished us a bonded life


----------



## sky dancer

I'm not a girl
   I'm a hatchet
I'm not a hole
   I'm a whole mountain
I'm not a fool
   I'm a survivor
I'm not a pearl
   I'm the Atlantic Ocean
I'm not a good lay
   I'm a straight razor
look at me as if you had never seen a woman before
I have red, red hands and much bitterness.

~Judy Grahn~


----------



## sky dancer

wishes for sons


  i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later i wish them hot flashes 
and clots like you 
wouldn't believe. let the 
flashes come when they 
meet someone special. 
let the clots come 
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted 
arrogance in the universe, 
then bring them to gynecologists 
not unlike themselves. 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## sky dancer

Homage to My Hips


  these hips are big hips.
they need space to 
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go 
they do what they want to do. 
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and 
spin him like a top 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## midcan5

Among Children 

"I walk among the rows of bowed heads--
the children are sleeping through fourth grade
so as to be ready for what is ahead,
the monumental boredom of junior high
and the rush forward tearing their wings
loose and turning their eyes forever inward.
These are the children of Flint, their fathers
work at the spark plug factory or truck
bottled water in 5 gallon sea-blue jugs
to the widows of the suburbs. You can see
already how their backs have thickened,
how their small hands, soiled by pig iron,
leap and stutter even in dreams. I would like
to sit down among them and read slowly
from The Book of Job until the windows
pale and the teacher rises out of a milky sea
of industrial scum, her gowns streaming
with light, her foolish words transformed
into song, I would like to arm each one
with a quiver of arrows so that they might
rush like wind there where no battle rages
shouting among the trumpets, Hal Ha!
How dear the gift of laughter in the face
of the 8 hour day, the cold winter mornings
without coffee and oranges, the long lines
of mothers in old coats waiting silently
where the gates have closed. Ten years ago
I went among these same children, just born,
in the bright ward of the Sacred Heart and leaned
down to hear their breaths delivered that day,
burning with joy. There was such wonder
in their sleep, such purpose in their eyes
dosed against autumn, in their damp heads
blurred with the hair of ponds, and not one
turned against me or the light, not one
said, I am sick, I am tired, I will go home,
not one complained or drifted alone,
unloved, on the hardest day of their lives.
Eleven years from now they will become
the men and women of Flint or Paradise,
the majors of a minor town, and I
will be gone into smoke or memory,
so I bow to them here and whisper
all I know, all I will never know."

by Philip Levine


----------



## sky dancer

Looking for Each Other 


I have been looking for you, World Honored One,
since I was a little child.
With my first breath, I heard your call,
and began to look for you, Blessed One.
I've walked so many perilous paths,
confronted so many dangers,
endured despair, fear, hopes, and memories.
I've trekked to the farthest regions, immense and wild,
sailed the vast oceans,
traversed the highest summits, lost among the clouds.
I've lain dead, utterly alone,
on the sands of ancient deserts.
I've held in my heart so many tears of stone.

Blessed One, I've dreamed of drinking dewdrops
that sparkle with the light of far-off galaxies.
I've left footprints on celestial mountains
and screamed from the depths of Avici Hell, exhausted, crazed with despair
because I was so hungry, so thirsty.
For millions of lifetimes,
I've longed to see you,
but didn't know where to look.
Yet, I've always felt your presence with a mysterious certainty.

I know that for thousands of lifetimes,
you and I have been one,
and the distance between us is only a flash of thought.
Just yesterday while walking alone,
I saw the old path strewn with Autumn leaves,
and the brilliant moon, hanging over the gate,
suddenly appeared like the image of an old friend.
And all the stars confirmed that you were there!
All night, the rain of compassion continued to fall,
while lightning flashed through my window
and a great storm arose,
as if Earth and Sky were in battle.
Finally in me the rain stopped, the clouds parted.
The moon returned,
shining peacefully, calming Earth and Sky.
Looking into the mirror of the moon, suddenly
I saw myself,
and I saw you smiling, Blessed One.
How strange!

The moon of freedom has returned to me,
everything I thought I had lost.
From that moment on,
and in each moment that followed,
I saw that nothing had gone.
There is nothing that should be restored.
Every flower, every stone, and every leaf recognize me.
Wherever I turn, I see you smiling
the smile of no-birth and no-death.
The smile I received while looking at the mirror of the moon.
I see you sitting there, solid as Mount Meru,
calm as my own breath,
sitting as though no raging fire storm ever occurred,
sitting in complete peace and freedom.
At last I have found you, Blessed One,
and I have found myself.
There I sit.

The deep blue sky,
the snow-capped mountains painted against the horizon,
and the shining red sun sing with joy.
You, Blessed One, are my first love.
The love that is always present, always pure, and freshly new.
And I shall never need a love that will be called &#8220;last.&#8221;
You are the source of well-being flowing through numberless troubled lives,
the water from your spiritual stream always pure, as it was in the beginning.
You are the source of peace,
solidity, and inner freedom.
You are the Buddha, the Tathagata.
With my one-pointed mind
I vow to nourish your solidity and freedom in myself
so I can offer solidity and freedom to countless others,
now and forever.

Thich Nhat Hanh


----------



## chloe

The Passionate Freudian to his Love

Only name the day, and we'll fly away
In the face of old traditions,
To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot,
Where we'll park our inhibitions.
Come and gaze in eyes where the  love-light lies
As it psychoanalyses,
And when once you glean what your fantasies mean
Life will hold no more surprises.
When you've told your love what you're thinking of 
Things will be much more informal;
Through a sunlit land we'll go hand-in-hand,
Drifting gently back to normal.

While the pale moon gleams, we will dream sweet dreams,
And I'll win your admiration,
For it's only fair to admit I'm there
With a mean interpretation.
In the sunrise glow we will whisper low
Of the scenes our dreams have painted,
And when you're advised what they symbolized
We'll begin to feel acquainted.
So we'll gaily float in a slumber boat
Where subconscious waves dash wildly;
In the stars' soft light, we will say good night
And good-night!' will put it mildly.

Our desires shall be from repressions free--
As it's only right to treat them.
To your ego's whims I will sing sweet hymns,
And ad libido repeat them.
With your hand in mine, idly we'll recline
Amid bowers of neuroses,
While the sun seeks rest in the great red west
We will sit and match psychoses.
So come dwell a while on that distant isle
In the brilliant tropic weather;
Where a Freud in need is a Freud indeed,
We'll be always Jung together.

Dorothy Parker


----------



## sky dancer

the photograph: a lynching


  is it the cut glass 
of their eyes
looking up toward
the new gnarled branch 
of the black man
hanging from a tree?

is it the white milk pleated
collar of the woman
smiling toward the camera,
her fingers loose around
a christian cross drooping 
against her breast?

is it all of us 
captured by history into an
accurate album? will we be 
required to view it together
under a gathering sky? 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## sky dancer

There is a girl inside


  There is a girl inside. 
She is randy as a wolf. 
She will not walk away and leave these bones 
to an old woman.

She is a green tree in a forest of kindling. 
She is a green girl in a used poet.

She has waited patient as a nun 
for the second coming, 
when she can break through gray hairs 
into blossom

and her lovers will harvest 
honey and thyme 
and the woods will be wild 
with the damn wonder of it. 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## chloe

sky dancer said:


> There is a girl inside
> 
> 
> There is a girl inside.
> She is randy as a wolf.
> She will not walk away and leave these bones
> to an old woman.
> 
> She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
> She is a green girl in a used poet.
> 
> She has waited patient as a nun
> for the second coming,
> when she can break through gray hairs
> into blossom
> 
> and her lovers will harvest
> honey and thyme
> and the woods will be wild
> with the damn wonder of it.
> 
> Lucille Clifton



I like this one


----------



## sky dancer

chloe said:


> I like this one




Lucille Clifton is gifted.  I just discovered her recently.


----------



## chloe

sky dancer said:


> Lucille Clifton is gifted.  I just discovered her recently.



never heard of her I will have to check some of her books out from the library.


----------



## sky dancer

To A Dark Moses


  you are the one
i am lit for.
Come with your rod
that twists
and is a serpent.
i am the bush.
i am burning
i am not consumed. 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## sky dancer

won't you celebrate with me


  won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my one hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed. 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## chloe

Ballade of a Complete Flop

Sad the matter of which I speak,
Deep the trouble of which I sigh.
To the heavens my woes I shriek--
I'd just love to sit down and cry.
Though I hate to admit it, my
Batting av'rage is less then fair.
Generous gentlemen pass me by--
all that they give me is the air.

Rich man, beggar-man, merchant, sheik,
Actor, congressman, human fly.
Argentinean, Czech, and Greek
Give and give, till the well runs dry,
Gifts of elderly Scotch and rye.
Gifts of jewels and orchids rare
To a more competent Lorelei--
All that they give me is the air.

What's the matter with my technique?
I can't fathom, or even try.
I'm  intelligent, fond, and weak--
Why don't I get a regular guy?
Just for others, the goose hangs high;
All love's tokens that form my share
May be placed in a pig's left eye--
All that they give me is the air.

Dorothy Parker


----------



## sky dancer

Nothing like a poem to bring a smile to your face.


----------



## sky dancer

Laughing At the Word Two



Only 



That Illumined 

One 



Who keeps 

Seducing the formless into form 



Had the charm to win my 

Heart. 



Only a Perfect One 



Who is always 

Laughing at the word 

Two 



Can make you know 



Of 



Love. 



~Hafiz~


----------



## sky dancer

I Know The Way You Can Get

by Hafiz


I know the way you can get

When you have not had a drink of Love:



Your face hardens,

Your sweet muscles cramp.

Children become concerned

About a strange look that appears in your eyes

Which even begins to worry your own mirror

And nose.



Squirrels and birds sense your sadness

And call an important conference in a tall tree.

They decide which secret code to chant

To help your mind and soul.



Even angels fear that brand of madness

That arrays itself against the world

And throws sharp stones and spears into

The innocent

And into one's self.



O I know the way you can get

If you have not been drinking Love:



You might rip apart

Every sentence your friends and teachers say,

Looking for hidden clauses.



You might weigh every word on a scale

Like a dead fish.



You might pull out a ruler to measure

From every angle in your darkness

The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once

Trusted.



I know the way you can get

If you have not had a drink from Love's

Hands.



That is why all the Great Ones speak of

The vital need

To keep remembering God,

So you will come to know and see Him

As being so Playful

And Wanting,

Just Wanting to help.



That is why Hafiz says:

Bring your cup near me.

For all I care about

Is quenching your thirst for freedom!



All a Sane man can ever care about

Is giving Love!


----------



## sky dancer

The Hope of Loving



What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?

I think it is the hope of loving,
or being loved.



I heard a fable once about the sun going on a journey
to find its source, and how the moon wept
without her lover&#8217;s
warm gaze.



We weep when light does not reach our hearts. We wither
like fields if someone close
does not rain their
kindness
upon 
us.

~Meister Eckhart~


----------



## sky dancer

The madness of love
Is a rich fief;
Anyone who recognized this
Would not ask Love for anything else:
It can unite Opposites
And reverse the paradox.
I am declaring the truth about this:
The madness of love makes bitter what was sweet,
It makes the stranger a kinsman,
And it makes the smallest the most proud.

To souls who have not reached such love,
I give this good counsel:
If they cannot do more,
Let them beg Love for amnesty,
And serve with faith,
According to the counsel of noble Love,
And think: 'It can happen,
Love's power is so great!'
Only after his death
Is a man beyond cure. 



~Hadewijch of Antwerp~


----------



## chloe

Admonitions To A Special Person

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

ANGEL OF FLIGHT AND SLEIGH BELLS

Angel of flight and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis,
that ether house where your arms and legs are cement?
You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss.
The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident.
I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke.
A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke.

In this fashion I have become a tree.
I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will,
inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My body
passively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the kill.
Angels of flight, you soarer, you flapper, you floater,
you gull that grows out of my back in the drreams I prefer,

stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eye
where I stand in stone shoes as the world's bicycle goes by.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

Killing The Love

I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you vomit them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.

Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.

Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won't even
drive a car again and all of that.

When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?

I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
weraing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

The Fury Of God's Good-bye

One day He
tipped His top hat
and walked
out of the room,
ending the arguement.
He stomped off
saying:
I don't give guarentees.
I was left
quite alone
using up the darkenss.
I rolled up
my sweater,
up into a ball,
and took it 
to bed with me,
a kind of stand-in
for God,
what washerwoman 
who walks out
when you're clean
but not ironed.
When I woke up
the sweater
had turned to
bricks of gold.
I'd won the world
but like a
forsaken explorer,
I'd lost
my map.

Anne Sexton


----------



## PoliticalChic

*Soft Paws*

3/10/2008

Soft paws creep up the stairs
Nudging against all the chairs
It cuddles up on winter nights
Without making such a fright
Its eyes like diamonds, its nose the same
But nobody knows what is its name
It looks upon us like giants on a large mountain
Thinking it&#8217;s a water fountain
Soft paws creep up the stairs
Nudging against all the chairs.

My daughter wrote this when she was 8.  Was a winner of a poetry competition run by the Humane Society of NY -- Paws for Poetry


----------



## sky dancer

kidnap poem 

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i'd kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i'd kid
nap you


~Nikki Giovanni~


----------



## sky dancer

CHOICES 

if i can't do
what i want to do
then my job is to not
do what i don't want
to do 

it's not the same thing
but it's the best i can
do 

if i can't have
what i want . . . then
my job is to want
what i've got
and be satisfied
that at least there
is something more to want 

since i can't go
where i need
to go . . . then i must . . . go
where the signs point
through always understanding
parallel movement
isn't lateral 

when i can't express
what i really feel
i practice feeling
what i can express
and none of it is equal
i know
but that's why mankind
alone among the animals
learns to cry 




~Nikki Giovanni~


----------



## midcan5

from Knots

"There must be something the matter with him
because he would not be acting as he does
unless there was
therefore he is acting as he is
because there is something the matter with him

He does not think there is anything the matter with him
because
one of the things that is
the matter with him
is that he does not think that there is anything
the matter with him
therefore
we have to help him realize that,
the fact that he does not think there is anything
the matter with him
is one of the things that is
the matter with him
there is something the matter with him
because he thinks
    there must be something the matter with us
for trying to help him to see
that there must be something the matter with him
to think that there is something the matter with us
for trying to help him to see that
    we are helping him
to see that
    we are not persecuting him
    by helping him
    to see we are not persecuting him
    by helping him
    to see that
    he is refusing to see
    that there is something the matter with
    him
    for not seeing there is something the matter
    with him
    for not being grateful to us
    for at least trying to help him
    to see that there is something the matter with
    him
for not seeing that must be something the
    matter with him
for not seeing that there must be something the
    matter with him
for not seeing that there is something the
    matter with him
for not seeing that there is something the
    matter with him

for not being grateful

    that we never tried to make him
    feel grateful"

 R.D. Laing


----------



## midcan5

Mom and Dad

"Gentle readers, feel your naked belly button where
you were tied to your mother. Kneel and thank
her for your jubilant but woebegone life. Dont
for a moment think of the mood of your parents
when you were conceived which so vitally affects
your destiny. You have no control over that and
its unprofitable to wonder if they were pissed
off or drunk, bored, watching television news,
listening to country music, or hopefully out in
the orchard grass feeling the crunch of wind-
fall apples under their frantic bodies."

Jim Harrison


----------



## eots

Everywhere is freaks and hairies 
Dykes and fairies, tell me where is sanity
Tax the rich, feed the poor 
Till there are no rich no more 

I'd love to change the world
But I don't know what to do
So I'll leave it up to you


Population keeps on breeding
Nation bleeding, still more feeding economy
Life is funny, skies are sunny
Bees make honey, who needs money, No more for me

I'd love to change the world
But I don't know what to do
So I'll leave it up to you

o yah 

World pollution, there's no solution
Institution, electrocution
Just black and white, rich or poor
Senators stop the war


I'd love to change the world
But I don't know what to do
So I'll leave it up to you

TEN YEARS AFTER - I'D LOVE TO CHANGE THE WORLD LYRICS


----------



## midcan5

When I woke this morning
I realized my parents weren't rich
my wife and I were growing old
and I was gaining weight
so I lay in bed 
staring at the ceiling
get up 
I couldn't
life is short
but I will never win the Nobel prize
nor a Pulitzer
I can't get up
the radio clicked on 
and a voice
she was someplace 
where bombs sounded
a toll of figures
and numbers of dead 
voices and screams
I looked back at the ceiling
I turned over 
I got up.

mc5


----------



## sky dancer

Light


I look behind and after
And find that all is right,
In my deepest sorrows
There is a soul of light.



- Swami Vivekananda


----------



## sky dancer

Rain 

by Tu Fu

 Roads not yet glistening, rain slight,
Broken clouds darken after thinning away.
Where they drift, purple cliffs blacken.
And beyond -- white birds blaze in flight.

Sounds of cold-river rain grown familiar,
Autumn sun casts moist shadows. Below
Our brushwood gate, out to dry at the village
Mill: hulled rice, half-wet and fragrant


----------



## sky dancer

Alone in her Beauty

Who is lovelier than she? 
Yet she lives alone in an empty valley. 
She tells me she came from a good family 
Which is humbled now into the dust. 


...When trouble arose in the Kuan district, 
Her brothers and close kin were killed. 
What use were their high offices, 
Not even shielding their own lives? -- 


The world has but scorn for adversity; 
Hope goes out, like the light of a candle. 
Her husband, with a vagrant heart, 
Seeks a new face like a new piece of jade; 


And when morning-glories furl at night 
And mandarin-ducks lie side by side, 
All he can see is the smile of the new love, 
While the old love weeps unheard. 


The brook was pure in its mountain source, 
But away from the mountain its waters darken. 
...Waiting for her maid to come from selling pearls 
For straw to cover the roof again, 


She picks a few flowers, no longer for her hair, 
And lets pine-needles fall through her fingers, 
And, forgetting her thin silk sleeve and the cold, 
She leans in the sunset by a tall bamboo. 





Tu Fu


----------



## sky dancer

To my retired friend Wei


It is almost as hard for friends to meet 
As for the morning and evening stars. 
Tonight then is a rare event, 
Joining, in the candlelight, 
Two men who were young not long ago 
But now are turning grey at the temples. 


...To find that half our friends are dead 
Shocks us, burns our hearts with grief. 
We little guessed it would be twenty years 
Before I could visit you again. 
When I went away, you were still unmarried; 
But now these boys and girls in a row 
Are very kind to their father's old friend. 


They ask me where I have been on my journey; 
And then, when we have talked awhile, 
They bring and show me wines and dishes, 
Spring chives cut in the night-rain 
And brown rice cooked freshly a special way. 



...My host proclaims it a festival, 

He urges me to drink ten cups -- 
But what ten cups could make me as drunk 
As I always am with your love in my heart? 
...Tomorrow the mountains will separate us; 
After tomorrow-who can say? 



Tu Fu


----------



## chloe

Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs, 
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.

Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next 
if you were going to spend it

striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds, 
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?


Billy Collins


----------



## chloe

The Song of Despair     


The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilots dread, fury of a blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only the tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one 

Pablo Neruda


----------



## chloe

For God While Sleeping

Sleeping in fever, I am unfit
to know just who you are:
hung up like a pig on exhibit,
the delicate wrists,
the beard drooling blood and vinegar;
hooked to your own weight,
jolting toward death under your nameplate.

Everyone in this crowd needs a bath.
I am dressed in rags.
The mother wears blue.
You grind your teeth
and with each new breath
your jaws gape and your diaper sags.
I am not to blame
for all this. I do not know your name.

Skinny man, you are somebody's fault.
You ride on dark poles --
a wooden bird that a trader built
for some fool who felt
that he could make the flight. Now you roll
in your sleep, seasick
on your own breathing, poor old convict.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

The Death King

I hired a carpenter
to build my coffin
and last night I lay in it,
braced by a pillow,
sniffing the wood,
letting the old king
breathe on me,
thinking of my poor murdered body,
murdered by time,
waiting to turn stiff as a field marshal,
letting the silence dishonor me,
remembering that I'll never cough again.

Death will be the end of fear
and the fear of dying,
fear like a dog stuffed in my mouth,
feal like dung stuffed up my nose,
fear where water turns into steel,
fear as my breast flies into the Disposall,
fear as flies tremble in my ear,
fear as the sun ignites in my lap,
fear as night can't be shut off,
and the dawn, my habitual dawn,
is locked up forever.

Fear and a coffin to lie in
like a dead potato.
Even then I will dance in my dire clothes,
a crematory flight,
blinding my hair and my fingers,
wounding God with his blue face,
his tyranny, his absolute kingdom,
with my aphrodisiac.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

The Philosopher

And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

Edna St. Vincent Millay


----------



## sky dancer

Woman Work


  I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own. 

Maya Angelou


----------



## sky dancer

Million Man March Poem


  The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.

Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn't even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You've worn a badge of shame.

I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.

But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.

The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.

The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.

I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let's leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.

The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.

And still we rise. 

Maya Angelou


----------



## sky dancer

Momma Welfare Roll


  Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips
Where bones idle under years of fatback
And lima beans.
Her jowls shiver in accusation
Of crimes clichéd by
Repetition. Her children, strangers
To childhood's toys, play
Best the games of darkened doorways,
Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of
Other people's property.

Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Into a den of bereaucrats for
Her portion.
'They don't give me welfare.
I take it.' 

Maya Angelou


----------



## chloe

Wanting to Die 


Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. 
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. 
Then the almost unnameable lust returns. 


Even then I have nothing against life. 
I know well the grass blades you mention, 
the furniture you have placed under the sun. 


But suicides have a special language. 
Like carpenters they want to know which tools. 
They never ask why build. 


Twice I have so simply declared myself, 
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, 
have taken on his craft, his magic. 


In this way, heavy and thoughtful, 
warmer than oil or water, 
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. 


I did not think of my body at needle point. 
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. 
Suicides have already betrayed the body. 


Still-born, they dont always die, 
but dazzled, they cant forget a drug so sweet 
that even children would look on and smile. 


To thrust all that life under your tongue! 
that, all by itself, becomes a passion. 
Deaths a sad bone; bruised, youd say, 


and yet she waits for me, year after year, 
to so delicately undo an old wound, 
to empty my breath from its bad prison. 


Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, 
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon, 
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, 


leaving the page of the book carelessly open, 
something unsaid, the phone off the hook 
and the love whatever it was, an infection.

Anne Sexton


----------



## chloe

The Witch's Life

When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.

I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.

Anne Sexton


----------



## sky dancer

Since Hannah Moved Away

by Judith Viorst

The tires on my bike are flat.
The sky is grouchy gray.
At least it sure feels like that since Hannah moved away.

Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes.
Decembers' come to stay.
They've taken back the Mays and Junes
Since Hanna moved away.

Flowers smell like halibut.
Velvet feels like hay.
Every handsome dog's a mutt.
Since Hanna moved away.

Nothing's fun to laugh about.
Nothing's fun to play.
They call me, but I won't come out
Since Hanna moved away.


----------



## sky dancer

The Fight

Helen H. Moore

I have a friend.
We had a fight.
I cried myself
to sleep last night.

And when I see
my friend today,
I'll say, "I'm sorry.
Want to play?"

I hope she'll say
she's sorry too-
I'm sure she will-
that's what friends do.


----------



## sky dancer

A friend is someone who will bail you out of jail, but your best friend is the one sitting next to you saying "that was fucking awesome!"

J-Dub


----------



## chloe

The Wifebeater

There will be mud on the carpet tonight
and blood in the gravy as well.
The wifebeater is out,
the childbeater is out
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup.
He strides bback and forth
in front of my study window
chewing little red pieces of my heart.
His eyes flash like a birthday cake
and he makes bread out of rock.
Yesterday he was walking
like a man in the world.
He was upright and conservative
but somehow evasive, somehow contagious.
Yesterday he built me a country
and laid out a shadow where I could sleep
but today a coffin for the madonna and child,
today two women in baby clothes will be hamburg.
With a tongue like a razor he will kiss,
the mother, the child,
and we three will color the stars black
in memory of his mother
who kept him chained to the food tree
or turned him on and off like a water faucet
and made women through all these hazy years
the enemy with a heart of lies.
Tonight all the red dogs lie down in fear
and the wife and daughter knit into each other
until they are killed.

Anne Sexton


----------



## Dis

chloe said:


> The Wifebeater
> 
> There will be mud on the carpet tonight
> and blood in the gravy as well.
> The wifebeater is out,
> the childbeater is out
> eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup.
> He strides bback and forth
> in front of my study window
> chewing little red pieces of my heart.



I think you already posted that one? 

Man, you need some happier poems.


----------



## chloe

Dis said:


> I think you already posted that one?
> 
> Man, you need some happier poems.



ha ha ....yeah I suppose I do...do you have any poets you like>?


----------



## chloe

The Sickness Unto Death

God went out of me
as if the sea dried up like sandpaper,
as if the sun became a latrine
God went out of my fingers
They became stone
My body became a side of mutton
and despair roamed the slaughterhouse

Someone brought me oranges in my despair
but I could not eat a one
for God was in that orange
I could not touch what did not belong to me

The Priest came,
he said God was even in Hitler
I did not believe him
for if God were in Hitler 
then God would be in me
I did not hear the bird sounds
They had left

I did not see the speechless clouds,
I saw only the little white dish of my faith
breaking in the crater

I kept saying:
I've got to have something to hold on to
People gave me Bibles, crucifixes,
a yellow daisy,
but I could not touch them

I who was a house full of bowel movement
I who was a defaced altar
I who wanted to crawl toward God
could not move nor eat bread

So I ate myself
bite by bite
and the tears washed me 
wave after cowardly wave
swallowing canker after canker

and Jesus stood over me looking down
and he laughed to find me gone
and put His mouth to mine 
and gave me His air

My kindred, my brother, I said
and gave the yellow daisy
to the crazy woman in the next bed

Anne Sexton


----------



## Dis

chloe said:


> ha ha ....yeah I suppose I do...do you have any poets you like>?



Actually, no. 

I just think you need happier poems.  Tho, the one and only poem I ever liked was rather sad.  Just not dark.


----------



## chloe

Dis said:


> Actually, no.
> 
> I just think you need happier poems.  Tho, the one and only poem I ever liked was rather sad.  Just not dark.



please post it


----------



## Dis

Final Goodbye

Watching the stars
fade from the sky,
the leaves falling down,
the robin's last cry,
the grass turning brown,
A quietly uttered sigh.
The hardest part
of watching something die,
is whispering softly
the final "goodbye".


----------



## chloe

Dis said:


> Final Goodbye
> 
> Watching the stars
> fade from the sky,
> the leaves falling down,
> the robin's last cry,
> the grass turning brown,
> A quietly uttered sigh.
> The hardest part
> of watching something die,
> is whispering softly
> the final "goodbye".



...I like it


----------



## sky dancer

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

© Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

by Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look 
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything -- 
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green 
        stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker -- 
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk. 

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing -- 
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves, 

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet -- 
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum. 

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear? 

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.


----------



## sky dancer

Cold Poem

by Mary Oliver

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.


----------



## sky dancer

A Meeting

She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.

The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.

She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion

and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.

So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.

In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers

I meet them.
I can only stare.

She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.

Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me

like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,

to be utterly
wild.


Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common 
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

Dear Dharma Friends.

Are you really ready to be burnt alive--to be stripped of every concept of your self-identity, sense of ownership, and state of mind?

Come sit in the charnel ground of awareness.  Go ahead, meditate, and watch your selfish ego rot.

How could you stay inside your beloved little hut of ordinary mind and hope to see the vastness of reality?

Lama Drimed, from his book of poems, RAINDROPS FOR THE LOVE OF IT


----------



## sky dancer

Stars 

Here in my head, language
Keeps making its tiny noises.

How can I hope to be friends
with the hard white stars

whose flaring and hissing are not speech
but a pure radiance?

How can I hope to be friends
with the yawning spaces between them

where nothing, ever, is spoken?
Tonight, at the edge of the field,

I stood very still, and looked up,
and tried to be empty of words.

What joy was it, that almost found me?
What amiable peace?

Then it was over, the wind
roused up in the oak trees behind me

and I fell back, easily.
Earth has a hundred thousand pure contraltos--

even the distant night bird
as it talks threat, as it talks love

over the cold, black fields.
Once, deep in the woods,

I found the white skull of a bear
and it was utterly silent--

and once a river otter, in a steel trap,
and it too was utterly silent.

What can we do
but keep on breathing in and out,

modest and willing, and in our places?
Listen, listen, I'm forever saying,

Listen to the river, to the hawk, to the hoof
to the mockingbird, to the jack-in-the-pulpit--

then I come up with a few words, like a gift.
Even as now.

Even as the darkness has remained the pure, deep darkness.
Even as the stars have twirled a little, while I stood here,

looking up,
one hot sentence after another.

Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, 
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town, 
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, 
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death, 
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees, 
But let it go. Homesick for moderation, 
Half the world&#8217;s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement, 
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

Mary Oliver wrote this poem and 43 others after the death of her long term partner, Molly Malone Cook who was her lover, connection to the outside world and literary agent to this reclusive lesbian poet:

A Pretty Song

From the complications of loving you
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, no coming out of it.

Which is the only way to love, isn't it?
This isn't a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.

Therefore I have given precedence
to all my sudden, sullen dark moods
that hold you in the center of my world.

And I say to my body: grow thinner still.
And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.
And I say to my heart: rave on. 

Mary Oliver


----------



## sky dancer

The Most Beautiful Woman In Town

 by Charles Bukowski

Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the most beautiful girl
in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a snake-like and fiery body with eyes
to go with it. Cass was fluid moving fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that
would not hold her. Her hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her
body. Her spirit was either very high or very low. There was no in between for Cass. Some
said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never understand Cass. To
the men she was simply a sex machine and they didn't care whether she was crazy or not.
And Cass danced and flirted, kissed the men, but except for an instance or two, when it
came time to make it with Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men. 
Her sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind enough, but Cass
had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she made things of clay, and when
people were hurt either in the spirit or the flesh, Cass felt a deep grieving for them.
Her mind was simply different; her mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous
of her because she attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt she didn't
make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called
handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They are riding on
their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all surface and no
insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she had a temper that some
call insanity. Her father had died of alcohol and her mother had run off leaving the
girls alone. The girls went to a relative who placed them in a convent. The convent had
been an unhappy place, more for Cass than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and
Cass fought most of them. She had razor marks all along her left arm from defending
herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left cheek but the scar
rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I met her at the West End
Bar several nights after her release from the convent. Being youngest, she was the last of
the sisters to be released. She simply came in and sat next to me. I was probably the
ugliest man in town and this might have had something to do with it. 
"Drink?" I asked. 
"Sure, why not?" 
I don't suppose there was anything unusual in our conversation that night, it was
simply in the feeling Cass gave. She had chosen me and it was as simple as that. No
pressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number of them. She didn't seem quite of
age but they served he anyhow. Perhaps she had forged i.d., I don't know. Anyhow, each
time she came back from the restroom and sat down next to me, I did feel some pride. She
was not only the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once. 
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked. 
"Yes, of course, but there's something else... there's more than your
looks..." 
"People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I'm
pretty?" 
"Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."
Cass reached into her handbag. I thought she was reaching for her handkerchief. She
came out with a long hatpin. Before I could stop her she had run this long hatpin through
her nose, sideways, just above the nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me
and laughed, "Now do you think me pretty? What do you think now, man?" I pulled
the hatpin out and held my handkerchief over the bleeding. Several people, including the
bartender, had seen the act. The bartender came down: 
"Look," he said to Cass, "you act up again and you're out. We don't need
your dramatics here." 
"Oh, fuck you, man!" she said. 
"Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me. 
"She'll be all right," I said. 
"It's my nose, I can do what I want with my nose."
"No," I said, "it hurts me."
"You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?" 
"Yes, it does, I mean it." 
"All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up." 
She kissed me, rather grinning through the kiss and holding the handkerchief to her
nose. We left for my place at closing time. I had some beer and we sat there talking. It
was then that I got the perception of her as a person full of kindness and caring. She
gave herself away without knowing it. At the same time she would leap back into areas of
wildness and incoherence. Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps some man,
something, would ruin her forever. I hoped that it wouldn't be me. We went to bed and
after I turned out the lights Cass asked me, 
"When do you want it? Now or in the morning?" 
"In the morning," I said and turned my back. 
In the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one in bed. She
laughed. 
"You're the first man who has turned it down at night." 
"It's o.k.," I said, "we needn't do it at all." 
"No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit." 
Cass went into the bathroom. She came out shortly, looking quite wonderful, her long
black hair glistening, her eyes and lips glistening, her glistening... She displayed her
body calmly, as a good thing. She got under the sheet. 
"Come on, lover man." 
I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands run over her body,
through her hair. I mounted. It was hot, and tight. I began to stroke slowly, wanting to
make it last. Her eyes looked directly into mine. 
"What's your name?" I asked. 
"What the hell difference does it make?" she asked. 
I laughed and went on ahead. Afterwards she dressed and I drove her back to the bar but
she was difficult to forget. I wasn't working and I slept until 2 p.m. then got up and
read the paper. I was in the bathtub when she came in with a large leaf- an elephant ear. 
"I knew you'd be in the bathtub," she said, "so I brought you something
to cover that thing with, nature boy." 
She threw the elephant leaf down on me in the bathtub. 
"How did you know I'd be in the tub?" 
"I knew." 
Almost every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The times were different but she
seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf. And then we'd make love. One or two nights
she phoned and I had to bail her out of jail for drunkenness and fighting. 
"These sons of bitches," she said, "just because they buy you a few
drinks they think they can get into your pants." 
"Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
"I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
"I'm interested in you and your body. I doubt, though, that most men can see
beyond your body." 
I left town for 6 months, bummed around, came back. I had never forgotten Cass, but
we'd had some type of argument and I felt like moving anyhow, and when I got back i
figured she'd be gone, but I had been sitting in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when
she walked in and sat down next to me.
"Well, bastard, I see you've come back." 
I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked dress. I had
never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven in, were 2 pins with glass
heads. All you could see were the heads of the pins, but the pins were driven down into
her face. 
"God damn you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?" 
"No, it's the fad, you fool." 
"You're crazy." 
"I've missed you," she said. 
"Is there anybody else?"
"No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten bucks. But
you get it free."
"Pull those pins out." 
"No, it's the fad." 
"It's making me very unhappy." 
"Are you sure?" 
"Hell yes, I'm sure." 
Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse. 
"Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with
it?" 
"Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't stay. You
don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like you you know it's for
something else." 
"O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky." 
"I don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have a fascinating
face." 
"Thanks." 
We had another drink. 
"What are you doing?" she asked. 
"Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest." 
"Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle." 
"I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's
wearing." 
"You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing." 
We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a beautiful
woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to my place and I opened a bottle of
wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came easy. She talked a while and I would
listen and then i would talk. Our conversation simply went along without strain. We seemed
to discover secrets together. When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh that laugh-
only the way she could. It was like joy out of fire. Through the talking we kissed and
moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided to go to bed. It was then that
Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it- the ugly jagged scar across her throat.
It was large and thick. 
"God damn you, woman," I said from the bed, "god damn you, what have you
done?
"I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more? Am I still
beautiful?" 
I pulled her down on the bed and kissed her. She pushed away and laughed, "Some
men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it. I keep the ten. It's very
funny." 
"Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, bitch, I love you...stop
destroying yourself; you're the most alive woman I've ever met." 
We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears. The long black
hair lay beside me like a flag of death. We enjoined and made slow and somber and
wonderful love. In the morning Cass was up making breakfast. She seemed quite calm and
happy. She was singing. I stayed in bed and enjoyed her happiness. Finally she came over
and shook me, 
"Up, bastard! Throw some cold water on your face and pecker and come enjoy the
feast!" 
I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer so things were
splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the lawns above the sand. Others sat on
stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls whirled about, mindless yet distracted. Old
ladies in their 70's and 80's sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left
behind by husbands long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all,
there was peace in the air and we walked about and stretched on the lawns and didn't say
much. It simply felt good being together. I bought a couple of sandwiches, some chips and
drinks and we sat on the sand eating. Then I held Cass and we slept together about an
hour. It was somehow better than lovemaking. There was flowing together without tension.
When we awakened we drove back to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested
to Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she slowly
said, "No." I drove her back to the bar, bought her a drink and walked out. I
found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest of the week went to
working. I was too tired to get about much but that Friday night I did get to the West End
Bar. I sat and waited for Cass. Hours went by . After I was fairly drunk the bartender
said to me, "I'm sorry about your girlfriend."
"What is it?" I asked. 
"I'm sorry, didn't you know?" 
"No." 
"Suicide. She was buried yesterday." 
"Buried?" I asked. It seemed as though she would walk through the doorway at
any moment. How could she be gone? 
"Her sisters buried her." 
"A suicide? Mind telling me how?" 
"She cut her throat." 
"I see. Give me another drink." 
I drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters, the most
beautiful in town. I managed to drive to my place and I kept thinking, I should have
insisted she stay with me instead of accepting that "no." Everything about her
had indicated that she had cared. I simply had been too offhand about it, lazy, too
unconcerned. I deserved my death and hers. I was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up
and found a bottle of wine and drank from it heavily. Cass the most beautiful girl in town
was dead at 20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were very loud and
persistent. I sat the bottle down and screamed out: "GOD DAMN YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH
,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming and there was nothing I could do.


----------



## sky dancer

Wanting to Die
 by Anne Sexton

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.


----------



## sky dancer

That Sweet Flute John Clare 

by Mary Oliver

That sweet flute John Clare;
that broken branch Eddy Whitman;
Christopher Smart, in the press of blazing electricity;
My uncle the suicide;
Woolf, on her way to the river;
Wolf, of the sorrowful songs;
Swift, impenetrable mask of Dublin;
Schumann, climbing the bridge, leaping into the Rhine;
Ruskin, Cowper;
Poe, rambling in the gloom-bins of Baltimore and Richmond--

light of the world, hold me


----------



## sky dancer

Success Comes To Cow Creek

 by James Tate

I sit on the tracks,
a hundred feet from
earth, fifty from the
water. Gerald is
inching toward me
as grim, slow, and
determined as a
season, because he
has no trade and wants
none. It's been nine months
since I last listened
to his fate, but I
know what he will say:
he's the fire hydrant
of the underdog.

When he reaches my
point above the creek,
he sits down without
salutation, and
spits profoundly out
past the edge, and peeks
for meaning in the
ripple it brings. He
scowls. He speaks: when you
walk down any street
you see nothing but
coagulations
of shit and vomit,
and I'm sick of it.
I suggest suicide;
he prefers murder,
and spits again for
the sake of all the
great devout losers.

A conductor's horn
concerto breaks the
air, and we, two doomed
pennies on the track,
shove off and somersault
like anesthetized
fleas, ruffling the
ideal locomotive
poised on the water
with our light, dry bodies.
Gerald shouts
terrifically as
he sails downstream like
a young man with a
destination. I
swim toward shore as
fast as my boots will
allow; as always,
neglecting to drown.


----------



## sky dancer

Days of 1986 

by Carolyn Kizer

He was believed by his peers to be an important poet,
But his erotic obsession, condemned and strictly forbidden,
Compromised his standing, and led to his ruin. 

Over sixty, and a father many times over,
The objects of his attention grew younger and younger:
He tried to corrupt the sons of his dearest friends;
He pressed on them drinks and drugs,
And of course he was caught and publicly shamed.
Was his death a suicide? No one is sure. 

But that&#8217;s not the whole story; it&#8217;s too sordid to tell.
Besides, the memory of his poems deserves better.
Though we were unable to look at them for a time
His poems survive his death.
There he appears as his finest self:
Attractive, scholarly, dedicated to love.

At last we can read him again, putting aside
The brute facts of his outer life,
And rejoice at the inner voice, so lofty and pure.


----------



## sky dancer

The Cross-Roads

by Amy Lowell

A bullet through his heart at dawn. On 
the table a letter signed
with a woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the 
house,
and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through 
the windows,
cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,
creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.
A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind 
howling
through bent branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling, 
wailing.
The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are 
frozen open
and the eyes glitter.

The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding 
and crunching.
Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;
tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging 
branches apart,
drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A 
waning,
lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream 
of pebbles and earth
and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed 
again
into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men 
and horses.
Squeaking of wheels.
"Whoa! Ready, Jim?"
"All ready."
Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides 
have no coffin.
"Give us the stake, Jim. Now."
Pound! Pound!
"He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground."
An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the 
roots will hold him.
He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead 
the branches sway,
and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with 
a bullet
in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground.

Six months he lay still. Six months. And the 
water welled up in his body,
and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the 
ash stick
held him in place. Six months! Then her face 
came out of a mist of green.
Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley
at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under 
the young
green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of 
the chaise
scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing,
under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming 
within
his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What 
has dimmed the sun?
The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes 
a moan.
The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over,
tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves,
and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees.
The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking -- rocking, 
and all the branches
are knocking -- knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, 
red plate,
the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, 
for the green foliage
is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees 
nothing.
The stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms.
The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well
in the deep, black ground. It holds the body in the still, 
black ground.

Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It 
is worn away;
it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish 
dust, the stake
is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly 
jewelled
with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises.
Down the road to Tilbury, silence -- and the slow flapping of large 
leaves.
Down the road to Sutton, silence -- and the darkness of heavy-foliaged 
trees.
Down the road to Wayfleet, silence -- and the whirring scrape of 
insects
in the branches. Down the road to Edgarstown, silence 
-- and stars like
stepping-stones in a pathway overhead. It is very quiet 
at the cross-roads,
and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, endlessly 
points
the way where nobody wishes to go.
A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking 
the wide,
still leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with 
his iron shoes;
silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth 
over Tilbury way;
riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One 
o'clock from
Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And 
a breeze
all of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up 
and down.
Dr. Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and 
curves away
from the sign-post. An oath -- spurs -- a blurring of 
grey mist.
A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing
down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him.
The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, 
the body, flesh from flesh,
has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, 
and clamping them down
in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and 
spine.
The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them 
still
in line. The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine, 
for the stake
holds the fleshless bones in line.

Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body 
has powdered itself away;
it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown 
earth. Only flaky
bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone 
is knit
to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, but 
upright still,
and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line.
Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow 
stillness is on the trees.
The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four 
yellow ways,
saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl 
of dust
blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to 
do more;
it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl 
of wind
comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and 
feet.
The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post.
Wind again, wheels and feet louder. Wind again -- again 
-- again.
A drop of rain, flat into the dust. Drop! -- Drop! Thick 
heavy raindrops,
and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their 
leaves.
Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, 
up Tilbury road,
comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for 
the graveyard
at Wayfleet. Feet and wheels -- feet and wheels. And 
among them
one who is carried.
The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There 
is a quiver
through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together
in a little puffing of dust.
Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down 
behind the procession,
now well along the Wayfleet road.
He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His 
fingers blow out like smoke,
his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in 
the pouring rain,
he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down
the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It 
flickers
among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, 
under,
blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following 
smoke.
There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear,
and after it laughter -- laughter -- laughter, skirling up to the 
black sky.
Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap 
of thunder.
Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels.


----------



## sky dancer

A Ballad Of Suicide 

by G. K. Chesterton

The gallows in my garden, people say,

Is new and neat and adequately tall; 
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours&#8212;on the wall&#8212; 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all 
I think I will not hang myself to-day. 
To-morrow is the time I get my pay&#8212;

My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall&#8212; 
I see a little cloud all pink and grey&#8212;

Perhaps the rector's mother will not call&#8212; I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall 
That mushrooms could be cooked another way&#8212;

I never read the works of Juvenal&#8212; 
I think I will not hang myself to-day. 
The world will have another washing-day;

The decadents decay; the pedants pall; 
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,

And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational&#8212; 
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray

So secret that the very sky seems small&#8212; 
I think I will not hang myself to-day. 

ENVOI 
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, 
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;

Even to-day your royal head may fall, 
I think I will not hang myself to-day


----------



## sky dancer

Death & Fame 

by Allen Ginsberg

When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in 
Manhattan
First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 
96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-
in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters 
their grandchildren,
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan--
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, 
there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting 
America, Satchitananda Swami 
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, 
Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau 
Roshis, Lama Tarchen --
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each 
other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand
day retreat --"
"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he 
loved me"
"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"
"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly 
arms round each other"
"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my 
skivvies would be on the floor"
"Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master"
"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then 
sleep in his captain's bed."
"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"
"I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my 
stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- "
"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth 
& fingers along my waist"
"He gave great head"
So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin-
gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!"
"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."
"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender 
and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick, 
tickled with his tongue my behind"
"I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged 
chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a 
pillow --"
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
"I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his 
walk-up flat,
seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him 
again never wanted to... "
"He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made 
sure I came first"
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor--
Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock 
star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con-
ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum-
peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger 
fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto-
harp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, 
Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massa-
chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty 
sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American 
provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio-
philes, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex
"I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved 
him anyway, true artist"
"Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me 
from suicide hospitals"
"Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my 
studio guest a week in Budapest"
Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois"
"I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- "
"He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas 
City"
"Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City"
"Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982"
"I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized 
others like me out there"
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo-
graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural 
historians come to witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-
hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive

February 22, 1997


----------



## sky dancer

Call It a Good Marriage 

by Robert Graves

Call it a good marriage - 
For no one ever questioned 
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation 
At her h's and her s's, 
His p's and w's.

Though few would still subscribe
To the monogamic axiom
That strife below the hip-bones
Need not estrange the heart,
Call it a good marriage:
More drew those two together,
Despite a lack of children,
Than pulled them apart.

Call it a good marriage:
They never fought in public,
They acted circumspectly
And faced the world with pride;
Thus the hazards of their love-bed
Were none of our damned business - 
Till as jurymen we sat on 
Two deaths by suicide.


----------



## sky dancer

Exeat 

by Stevie Smith

I remember the Roman Emperor, one of the cruellest of them,
Who used to visit for pleasure his poor prisoners cramped in dungeons,
So then they would beg him for death, and then he would say:
Oh no, oh no, we are not yet friends enough.
He meant they were not yet friends enough for him to give them death.
So I fancy my Muse says, when I wish to die:
Oh no, Oh no, we are not yet friends enough,

And Virtue also says:
We are not yet friends enough.

How can a poet commit suicide
When he is still not listening properly to his Muse,
Or a lover of Virtue when
He is always putting her off until tomorrow?

Yet a time may come when a poet or any person
Having a long life behind him, pleasure and sorrow,
But feeble now and expensive to his country
And on the point of no longer being able to make a decision
May fancy Life comes to him with love and says:
We are friends enough now for me to give you death;
Then he may commit suicide, then


----------



## eots

ozzy suicide soution lyrics



Wine is fine but whiskeys quicker
Suicide is slow with liquor
Take a bottle and drown your sorrows
Then it floods away tomorrows

Evil thoughts and evil doings
Cold, alone you hang in ruins
Thought that youd escape the reaper
You cant escape the master keeper

cause you feel like youre living a lie
Such a shame whos to blame and youre wondering why
Then you ask from your cask us there life after birth
What you sow can mean hell on this earth

Now you live inside a bottle
The reapers traveling at full throttle
Its catching you but you dont see
The reaper is you and the reaper is me

Breaking laws, knocking doors
But theres no one at home
Made your bed, rest your head
But you lie there and moan
Where to hide, suicide is the only way out
Dont you know what its really about


Ozzy Osbourne | Suicide Solution lyrics


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## eots

hey skydancer don't be killing yourself..jesuis still loves you....


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## midcan5

35/10

"Brushing out our daughters brown
silken hair before the mirror
I see the grey gleaming on my head,
the silver-haired servant behind her. Why is it
just as we begin to go
they begin to arrive, the fold in my neck
clarifying as the fine bones of her
hips sharpen? As my skin shows
its dry pitting, she opens like a moist
precise flower on the tip of a cactus;
as my last chances to bear a child
are falling through my body, the duds among them,
her full purse of eggs, round and
firm as hard-boiled yolks, is about
to snap its clasp. I brush her tangled
fragrant hair at bedtime. Its an old
storythe oldest we have on our planet
the story of replacement."

Sharon Olds


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## sky dancer

Venus in the arc of the young moon 

is a boat the arms of a bay, 

the sky clear to infinity 

but for the trailing gossamer 

of a transatlantic plane. 

The old year and the old era dead, 

pushed burning out to sea 

bearing the bones of heroes, tyrants, 

ideologues, thieves and deceivers 

in a smoke of burning money. 


The dream is over. Glaciers will melt. 

Seas will rise to swallow golden islands. 

Somewhere a volcano may whelm a city, 

earth shake its skin like an old horse, 

a hurricane topple a town to rubble. 

Yet tonight, under the cold beauty 

of the moon and Venus, something like hope begins, 

as if times can turn, the world change course, 

as if truth can speak, good men come to power, 

and words have meaning again. 

Maybe black-hearted boys in love with death 

won't blow themselves and us to smithereens. 

Maybe guns will fall silent, the powerful 

cease slaughtering the weak, the rich 

will not gorge as the poor starve. 


Hope spoke the word 'Yes', the word 'we', the word 'can', 

and a thousand British teenagers at Poetry Live 

rose to their feet in a single yell of joy - 

black, white, Christian, Muslim, Jew, 

faithful and faithless. We are all in this together. 

Ie. gallwn ni. (Yes, we can) 

BBC NEWS | UK | Wales | Poem sent for Obama inauguration


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## sky dancer

Launch

A boat is sliding into the water today

to test the water and the boat

which glides down a grassy bank

the prow touching the wavelets

then another push

and the length of it up and buoyant

the tapered length of it floating

toward the middle on its own

as we watch from the shore

pointing to the heavy clouds coming in

from every side

but now above us only the sun's golden rafters

and the boat afloat

out there on the bright surface of the water.

--By Billy Collins.


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## sky dancer

Poem for Obama

We want a hero, an uncommon one,

The common wisdom being that integrity

In an age of irony is as unlikely as fun

On jury duty and equally as vital to the city,

The state, and the nation. Put the likelihood

Of rejection and the inevitability

Of injustice on one side; the ability

Of free people to choose their livelihood

On the other; and though hope is genteel

And faith obsolete, yet breathes there

A man or woman who cannot feel

The charge of the change in the air?

May God, in this winter hour,

Shine on your countenance

And teach you to balance

The heart's poetry and the mind's power.

-- By David Lehman.


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## sky dancer

&#8220;Smile.&#8221;

By Elizabeth Alexander


When I see a black man smiling

like that, nodding and smiling

with both hands visible, mouthing

&#8220;Yes, Officer,&#8221; across the street,

I think of my father, who taught us

the words &#8220;cooperate,&#8221; &#8220;officer,&#8221;

to memorize badge numbers,

who has seen black men shot at

from behind in the warm months

north.

And a last burst of verse 

They never write doggerel

for the inaugural &#8212;-

only classy verse.

Each poet reads a poem

by the Capitol dome &#8212;-

and is never terse

Probably every poet

is afraid he&#8217;ll blow it &#8212;- 

oh, such drama!

May this year&#8217;s recitation 

exceed expectation &#8212;-

and please Obama.


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## sky dancer

Blues


  I am lazy, the laziest
girl in the world. I sleep during
the day when I want to, 'til
my face is creased and swollen,
'til my lips are dry and hot. I 
eat as I please: cookies and milk
after lunch, butter and sour cream
on my baked potato, foods that
slothful people eat, that turn
yellow and opaque beneath the skin.
Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday
I am still in my nightgown, the one
with the lace trim listing because
I have not mended it. Many days
I do not exercise, only
consider it, then rub my curdy
belly and lie down. Even
my poems are lazy. I use
syllabics instead of iambs,
prefer slant to the gong of full rhyme,
write briefly while others go
for pages. And yesterday,
for example, I did not work at all!
I got in my car and I drove 
to factory outlet stores, purchased
stockings and panties and socks
with my father's money.

To think, in childhood I missed only
one day of school per year. I went
to ballet class four days a week
at four-forty-five and on
Saturdays, beginning always
with plie, ending with curtsy.
To think, I knew only industry,
the industry of my race
and of immigrants, the radio
tuned always to the station
that said, Line up your summer
job months in advance. Work hard
and do not shame your family,
who worked hard to give you what you have.
There is no sin but sloth. Burn
to a wick and keep moving.

I avoided sleep for years,
up at night replaying 
evening news stories about
nearby jailbreaks, fat people
who ate fried chicken and woke up
dead. In sleep I am looking
for poems in the shape of open
V's of birds flying in formation,
or open arms saying, I forgive you, all. 

Elizabeth Alexander


----------



## sky dancer

Haircut


  I get off the IRT in front of the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture after riding an early 
Amtrak from Philly to get a hair cut at what used to be the Harlem "Y" barbershop. It gets me in at ten to 
ten. Waiting, I eat fish cakes at the Pam Pam and listen to the ladies call out orders: bacon-biscuit twice, 
scrambled scrambled fried, over easy, grits, country sausage on the side. Hugh is late. He shampoos me, 
says "I can't remember, Girlfriend, are you tender-headed?" From the chair I notice the mural behind me 
in the mirror. I know those overlapped sepia shadows, a Renaissance rainforest, Aaron Douglas! Hugh tells 
me he didn't use primer and the chlorine eats the colors every day. He clips and combs and I tell him how 
my favorite Douglas is called "Building More Stately Mansions," and he tells me how fly I'd look in a Salt 'n' 
Pepa 'do, how he trained in Japan.
Clip clip, clip clip. I imagine a whoosh each time my hair lands on the floor and the noises of small brown 
mammals. I remember, my father! He used to get his hair cut here, learned to swim in the caustic water, 
played pool and basketball. He cuts his own hair now. My grandfather worked seventy-five years in 
Harlem building more stately mansions. I was born two blocks away and then we moved.
None of that seems to relate to today. This is not my turf, despite the other grandfather and great-aunt who 
sewed hearts back into black chests after Saturday night stabbings on this exact corner, the great-uncle who 
made a mosaic down the street, both grandmothers. What am I always listening for in Harlem? A voice 
that says, "This is your place, too," as faintly as the shadows in the mural? The accents are unfamiliar; all 
my New York kin are dead. I never knew Fats Waller but what do I do with knowing he used to play with a 
ham and a bottle of gin atop his piano; never went to Olivia's House of Beauty but I know Olivia, who lives 
in St. Thomas, now, and who exactly am I, anyway, finding myself in these ghostly, Douglas shadows while 
real ghosts walk around me, talk about my stuff in the subway, yell at me not to butt the line, beg me, beg 
me, for my money?
What is black culture? I read the writing on the wall on the side of the "Y" as I always have: "Harlem Plays 
the Best Ball in the World." I look in the mirror and see my face in the mural with a new haircut. I am a 
New York girl; I am a New York woman; I am a flygirl with a new hair cut in New York City in a mural 
that is dying every day. 

Elizabeth Alexander


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## sky dancer

&#8220;The female seer will burn upon this pyre&#8221; 

by Elizabeth Alexander 


Sylvia Plath is setting my hair 
on rollers made from orange-juice cans. 
The hairdo is shaped like a pyre. 


My locks are improbably long. 
A pyramid of lemons somehow 
balances on the rickety table    


where we sit, in the rented kitchen 
which smells of singed naps and bergamot. 
Sylvia Plath is surprisingly adept 


at rolling my unruly hair. 
She knows to pull it tight. 
                                              Few words. 
Her flat, American belly, 


her breasts in a twin sweater set, 
stack of typed poems on her desk, 
envelopes stamped to go by the door, 


a freshly baked poppyseed cake, 
kitchen safety matches, black-eyed Susans 
in a cobalt jelly jar. She speaks a word, 


&#8220;immolate,&#8221; then a single sentence 
of prophecy. The hairdo done, 
the nursery tidy, the floor swept clean 


of burnt hair and bumblebee husks.


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## sky dancer

Crash 
by Elizabeth Alexander 


I am the last woman off of the plane 
that has crashed in a cornfield near Philly, 


picking through hot metal 
for my rucksack and diaper bag. 


No black box, no fuselage, 
just sistergirl pilot wiping soot from her eyes, 


happy to be alive. Her dreadlocks 
will hold the smoke for weeks. 


All the white passengers bailed out 
before impact, so certain a sister 


couldn&#8217;t navigate the crash. O gender. 
O race. O ye of little faith. 


Here we are in the cornfield, bruised and dirty but alive. 
I invite sistergirl pilot home for dinner 


at my parents&#8217;, for my mother&#8217;s roast chicken 
with gravy and rice, to celebrate.


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## sky dancer

Narrative: Ali 
by Elizabeth Alexander 

    a poem in twelve rounds


1. 


My head so big 
they had to pry 
me out. I&#8217;m sorry 
Bird (is what I call 
my mother). Cassius 
Marcellus Clay, 
Muhammad Ali; 
you can say 
my name in any 
language, any 
continent: Ali. 



2. 


Two photographs 
of Emmett Till, 
born my year, 
on my birthday. 
One, he&#8217;s smiling, 
happy, and the other one 
is after. His mother 
did the bold thing, 
kept the casket open, 
made the thousands look upon 
his bulging eyes, 
his twisted neck, 
her lynched black boy. 
I couldn&#8217;t sleep 
for thinking, 
Emmett Till. 


One day I went 
Down to the train tracks, 
found some iron 
shoe-shine rests 
and planted them 
between the ties 
and waited 
for a train to come, 
and watched the train 
derail, and ran, 
and after that 
I slept at night. 



3. 


I need to train 
around people, 
hear them talk, 
talk back. I need 
to hear the traffic, 
see people in 
the barbershop, 
people getting 
shoe shines, talking, 
hear them talk, 
talk back. 



4. 


Bottom line: Olympic gold 
can&#8217;t buy a black man 
a Louisville hamburger 
in nineteen-sixty. 


Wasn&#8217;t even real gold. 
I watched the river 
drag the ribbon down, 
red, white, and blue.    



5. 


Laying on the bed, 
praying for a wife, 
in walk Sonji Roi. 


Pretty little shape. 
Do you like 
chop suey? 


Can I wash your hair 
underneath 
that wig? 


Lay on the bed, 
Girl. Lie 
with me. 


Shake to the east, 
to the north, 
south, west&#8212; 


but remember, 
remember, I need 
a Muslim wife. So 


Quit using lipstick. 
Quit your boogaloo. 
Cover up your knees 


like a Muslim 
wife, religion, 
religion, a Muslim 


wife. Eleven 
months with Sonji, 
first woman I loved. 



6. 


There&#8217;s not 
too many days 
that pass that I 
don&#8217;t think 
of how it started, 
but I know 
no Great White Hope 
can beat 
a true black champ. 
Jerry Quarry 
could have been 
a movie star, 
a millionaire, 
a senator, 
a president&#8212; 
he only had 
to do one thing, 
is whip me, 
but he can&#8217;t. 



7. Dressing-Room Visitor 


He opened 
up his shirt: 
&#8220;KKK&#8221; cut 
in his chest. 
He dropped 
his trousers: 
latticed scars 
where testicles 
should be, His face 
bewildered, frozen 
in the Alabama woods 
that night in 1966 
when they left him 
for dead, his testicles 
in a Dixie cup. 
You a warning, 
they told him, 
to smart-mouth, 
sassy-acting *******, 
meaning ******* 
still alive, 
meaning any ******, 
meaning ******* 
like me. 



8. Training 


Unsweetened grapefruit juice 
will melt my stomach down. 
Don&#8217;t drive if you can walk, 
don&#8217;t walk if you can run. 
I add a mile each day 
and run in eight-pound boots. 


My knuckles sometimes burst 
the glove. I let dead skin 
build up, and then I peel it, 
let it scar, so I don&#8217;t bleed 
as much. My bones 
absorb the shock. 


I train in three-minute 
spurts, like rounds: three 
rounds big bag, three speed 
bag, three jump rope, one- 
minute breaks, 
no more, no less. 


Am I too old? Eat only 
kosher meat. Eat cabbage, 
carrots, beets, and watch 
the weight come down: 
two-thirty, two-twenty, 
two-ten, two-oh-nine. 



9. 


Will I go 
like Kid Paret, 
a fractured 
skull, a ten-day 
sleep, dreaming 
alligators, pork 
chops, saxophones, 
slow grinds, funk, 
fishbowls, lightbulbs, 
bats, typewriters, 
tuning forks, funk 
clocks, red rubber 
ball, what you see 
in that lifetime 
knockout minute 
on the cusp? 
You could be 
let go, 
you could be 
snatched back. 



10. Rumble in the Jungle 


Ali boma ye, 
Ali boma ye, 
means kill him, Ali, 
which is different 
from a whupping 
which is what I give, 
but I lead them chanting 
anyway, Ali 
boma ye, because 
here in Africa 
black people fly 
planes and run countries. 


I&#8217;m still making up 
for the foolishness 
I said when I was 
Clay from Louisville, 
where I learned Africans 
live naked in straw 
huts eating tiger meat, 
grunting and grinning, 
swinging from vines, 
pounding their chests&#8212; 


I pound my chest but of my own accord. 



11. 


I said to Joe Frazier, 
first thing, get a good house 
in case you get crippled 
so you and your family 
can sleep somewhere. Always 
keep one good Cadillac. 
And watch how you dress 
with that cowboy hat, 
pink suits, white shoes&#8212; 
that&#8217;s how pimps dress, 
or kids, and you a champ, 
or wish you were, &#8216;cause 
I can whip you in the ring 
or whip you in the street. 
Now back to clothes, 
wear dark clothes, suits, 
black suits, like you the best 
at what you do, like you 
President of the World. 
Dress like that. 
Put them yellow pants away. 
We dinosaurs gotta 
look good, gotta sound 
good, gotta be good, 
the greatest, that&#8217;s what 
I told Joe Frazier, 
and he said to me, 
we both bad *******. 
We don&#8217;t do no crawlin&#8217;. 



12. 


They called me &#8220;the fistic pariah.&#8221; 


They said I didn&#8217;t love my country, 
called me a race-hater, called me out 
of my name, waited for me 
to come out on a stretcher, shot at me, 
hexed me, cursed me, wished me 
all manner of ill will, 
told me I was finished. 


Here I am, 
like the song says, 
come and take me, 


&#8220;The People&#8217;s Champ,&#8221; 


myself, 
Muhammad.


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## sky dancer

Where the Sidewalk Ends


  There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends. 

Shel Silverstein


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## sky dancer

Sex Without Love*


A pleasure we do out of love for the other person 
We our sharing the sexual experiment with 
When the innocent become the sexual 

It&#8217;s when that passion of love turns into a hobby 
Then into an obsession and then that turns into a have to have 
You can&#8217;t stop thinking about your next fix 
You look for it everywhere in everyone 
You start having withdraws from it 
You wonder how you got this way 
So dependent on it to get you through the day 
You think it&#8217;s the only thing that your good at 
The guys keep coming and going like fire 
At times when it hurts so bad you cant do anything 
You tell yourself no more not another time 
But as soon as soon as your better 
Your right back at it 
You ask yourself 
Why you do this every time 
You just don&#8217;t understand 
It&#8217;s as if your being sexualy 
Taken advantage by your own body 

You wanna tear your hair our if your not doing it 
The people just keep getting older while your still the same age 
Started 2-3 years now it doesn&#8217;t really matter how old as long as you get the fix
You have to do it 
It is your drug 
Your Acid 

People have been telling you for months that you need help 
The people that know you the real you 
This isn&#8217;t the real you and you know it 
You can feel it
The lying 
The addiction 
The lack of pride you have for your body and self
It&#8217;s not you
It&#8217;s like he said right before he left 
How does it feel to be trash now that you are trash, 
And now you are truly trash. 
You are not trash this is not you

You know how this started a young women lost within her broken hearted emotions 
You just know you don&#8217;t know how to stop it
You now need help 
Lots of help 
Cause sitting here 
Your itching to do it again 
And pleading someone help
HELP! ! ! PLEASE! ! ! HELP! ! ! 
You don&#8217;t wanna be like this forever 

Crystal Midnight


----------



## sky dancer

One Inch Tall


  If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.
The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.
A crumb of cake would be a feast
And last you seven days at least,
A flea would be a frightening beast
If you were one inch tall.

If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,
And it would take about a month to get down to the store.
A bit of fluff would be your bed,
You'd swing upon a spider's thread,
And wear a thimble on your head
If you were one inch tall.

You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.
You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.
You'd run from people's feet in fright,
To move a pen would take all night,
(This poem took fourteen years to write--
'Cause I'm just one inch tall). 

Shel Silverstein


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## sky dancer

On the Ning Nang Nong


  On the Ning Nang Nong 
Where the Cows go Bong! 
and the monkeys all say BOO! 
There's a Nong Nang Ning 
Where the trees go Ping! 
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo. 
On the Nong Ning Nang 
All the mice go Clang 
And you just can't catch 'em when they do! 
So its Ning Nang Nong 
Cows go Bong! 
Nong Nang Ning 
Trees go ping 
Nong Ning Nang 
The mice go Clang 
What a noisy place to belong 
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!! 

Spike Milligan


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## sky dancer

Lovesong


  He loved her and she loved him. 
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to 
He had no other appetite 
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked 
She wanted him complete inside her 
Safe and sure forever and ever 
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains 

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away 
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows 
He gripped her hard so that life 
Should not drag her from that moment 
He wanted all future to cease 
He wanted to topple with his arms round her 
Off that moment's brink and into nothing 
Or everlasting or whatever there was 

Her embrace was an immense press 
To print him into her bones 
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace 
Where the real world would never come 
Her smiles were spider bites 
So he would lie still till she felt hungry 
His words were occupying armies 
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts 
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge 
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets 
His whispers were whips and jackboots 
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing 
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway 
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks 
And their deep cries crawled over the floors 
Like an animal dragging a great trap 
His promises were the surgeon's gag 
Her promises took the top off his skull 
She would get a brooch made of it 
His vows pulled out all her sinews 
He showed her how to make a love-knot 
Her vows put his eyes in formalin 
At the back of her secret drawer 
Their screams stuck in the wall 

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves 
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop 

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs 
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage 

In the morning they wore each other's face 

Ted Hughes


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## sky dancer

The Lesson


  Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
as bravely the teacher walked in
the nooligans ignored him
hid voice was lost in the din

"The theme for today is violence
and homework will be set
I'm going to teach you a lesson
one that you'll never forget"

He picked on a boy who was shouting
and throttled him then and there
then garrotted the girl behind him
(the one with grotty hair)

Then sword in hand he hacked his way
between the chattering rows
"First come, first severed" he declared
"fingers, feet or toes"

He threw the sword at a latecomer
it struck with deadly aim
then pulling out a shotgun
he continued with his game

The first blast cleared the backrow
(where those who skive hang out)
they collapsed like rubber dinghies
when the plug's pulled out

"Please may I leave the room sir?"
a trembling vandal enquired
"Of course you may" said teacher
put the gun to his temple and fired

The Head popped a head round the doorway
to see why a din was being made
nodded understandingly
then tossed in a grenade

And when the ammo was well spent
with blood on every chair
Silence shuffled forward
with its hands up in the air

The teacher surveyed the carnage
the dying and the dead
He waggled a finger severely
"Now let that be a lesson" he said 

Roger McGough


----------



## sky dancer

Warning


  When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. 

Jenny Joseph


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## sky dancer

LAST THOUGHTS ON WOODY GUTHRIE 

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb 
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb 
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace 
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race 
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up 
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup 
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on 
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone 
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it 
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it 
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long 
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong 
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day 
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away 
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin' 
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin' 
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys 
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys 
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin' 
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin' 
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin' 
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin' 
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm 
And to yourself you sometimes say 
"I never knew it was gonna be this way 
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born" 

And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat 
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet 
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air 
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare 
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying 
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin' 
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet 
And you need it badly but it lays on the street 
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat 
And you think yer ears might a been hurt 
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt 
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush 
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush 
And all the time you were holdin' three queens 
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean 
Like in the middle of Life magazine 
Bouncin' around a pinball machine 

And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying 
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin' 
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head 
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed 
And no matter how you try you just can't say it 
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it 
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head 
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead 
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth 
And his jaws start closin with you underneath 
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind 
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign 

And you say to yourself just what am I doin' 
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin' 
On this curve I'm hanging 
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm talking 
In this air I'm inhaling 
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard 
Why am I walking, where am I running 
What am I saying, what am I knowing 
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin' 
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin' 
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin' 
In the words that I'm thinkin' 
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin' 
Who am I helping, what am I breaking 
What am I giving, what am I taking 

But you try with your whole soul best 
Never to think these thoughts and never to let 
Them kind of thoughts gain ground 
Or make yer heart pound 
But then again you know why they're around 
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down 
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping 
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping 
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin' 
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking 
If that was you in the dream that was screaming 

And you know that it's something special you're needin' 
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin' 
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding 
And you need something special 
Yeah, you need something special all right 
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track 
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back 
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler 
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever 
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over 

You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race 
That won't laugh at yer looks 
Your voice or your face 
And by any number of bets in the book 
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze 
You need something to open up a new door 
To show you something you seen before 
But overlooked a hundred times or more 
You need something to open your eyes 
You need something to make it known 
That it's you and no one else that owns 
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting 
That the world ain't got you beat 
That it ain't got you licked 
It can't get you crazy no matter how many 
Times you might get kicked 

You need something special all right 
You need something special to give you hope 
But hope's just a word 
That maybe you said or maybe you heard 
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve 
But that's what you need man, and you need it bad 
And yer trouble is you know it too good 
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills 
"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill 
And it ain't on Macy's window sill 
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map 
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house 
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ 
And it ain't on that dimlit stage 
With that half-wit comedian on it 
Ranting and raving and taking yer money 
And you thinks it's funny 
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club 
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club 
And sure as hell you're bound to tell 
That no matter how hard you rub 
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub 
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you 
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you 
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house 
Or down any movie star's blouse 
And you can't find it on the golf course 
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus 
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes 
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons 
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices 
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin' 
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin 
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow 
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry 
When you can't even sense if they got any insides 
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows 

No you'll not now or no other day 
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache 
And inside it the people made of molasses 
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses 
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies 
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny 
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack 
And before you can count from one to ten 
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back 
My friend 
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl 
And play games with each other in their sand-box world 
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools 
That run around gallant 
And make all rules for the ones that got talent 
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do 
And think they're foolin' you 
The ones who jump on the wagon 
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style 
To get their kicks, get out of it quick 
And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks 

And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat 
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that 
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at 
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel 
Good God Almighty 
THAT STUFF AINT REAL" 

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race 
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face 
You gotta look some other place 
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin' 
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin' 
Where do you look for this oil well gushin' 
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin' 
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there 
And out there somewhere 

And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads 
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows 
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways 
You can touch and twist 
And turn two kinds of doorknobs 
You can either go to the church of your choice 
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital 
And though it's only my opinion 
I may be right or wrong 
You'll find them both 
In the Grand Canyon 
At sundown 


Bob Dylan


----------



## sky dancer

miss rosie


  when I watch you 
wrapped up like garbage 
sitting, surrounded by the smell 
of too old potato peels 
or
when I watch you 
in your old man's shoes 
with the little toe cut out 
sitting, waiting for your mind 
like next week's grocery 
I say
when I watch you
you wet brown bag of a woman 
who used to be the best looking gal in Georgia
used to be called the Georgia Rose
I stand up
through your destruction
I stand up 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## sky dancer

good times


  my daddy has paid the rent
and the insurance man is gone
and the lights is back on
and my uncle brud has hit
for one dollar straight
and they is good times
good times
good times

my mama has made bread
and grampaw has come
and everybody is drunk
and dancing in the kitchen
and singing in the kitchen
of these is good times
good times
good times

oh children think about the
good times 

Lucille Clifton


----------



## midcan5

Praise song for the day.

"Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.  All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, I need to see whats on the other side; I know theres something better down the road.

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by Love thy neighbor as thy self.

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In todays sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp  praise song for walking forward in that light."

Elizabeth Alexander, Inaugural Poet, January 20, 2009


----------



## sky dancer

Thank you.


----------



## eots

Faces on the walls
Invisible faces on the walls
Faces of criminals
Faces of animals
Telling me to cut up your corpse
Telling me to paint in your blood
Telling me to slice up your face
Faces all over the wall
Telling me to paint in your blood
But I don't listen to them
No, I don't listen to them

Because I love you........


----------



## midcan5

What Happened to Sky Dancer? 

Just discovered another poet.

The Best American Poetry: "The Work is All" - Roland Flint: An Appreciation (by Laura Orem)

"...Roland on the page is even more wonderful. Many of his poems deal with the tragic death of his six-year-old son, Ethan, killed in the street by an automobile in front of his father and twin sister. What is remarkable about them, beyond their artistry, is their determination to find affirmation in the life left behind, their insistence that, despite staggering grief, the living must go on:

"A Poem Called George, Sometimes"

    Before he died, my son made up this poem:
        There once was a boy
        Who went to the market
        And bought some hot chocolate
       And put it in his red pocket.
    I said, it's fine, Ethan, especially that red
pocket - what do you call it? He said, what do you
mean? Most poems have names, I said. And he
said, ah...George.
    And when he heard me repeating the story of his
poem and of its naming, he said, sometimes I call
it Jack.
    That wasn't his best poem. Like me he didn't
intend his best poem: we were walking beside the
tidal basin just past dawn, the cherry trees in
bloom, the sun bright and the blossoms reflected
in the still water. He pointed down and said,
    Look, water in the trees   
    I thought I would steal the title, my lost boy,
to be with you in your poem, but it's made me see
I'm going to have to write that poem I do not want
to write, named Ethan."


----------



## Sky Dancer

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU]YouTube - Taylor Mali on what teachers make[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

Jalu said:


> Taylor Mali on what teachers make



WOW - I know that person, I married her.


----------



## midcan5

In a bookstore going out of business (sad), I discovered another poet worth looking into through the 2007, "The Best American Poetry," Heather McHugh. 

What He Thought - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More


----------



## Arthur

Ka 'Ba 
by Imamu Amiri Baraka

A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and black people
call across or scream or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will

Our world is full of sound
Our world is more lovely than anyone's
tho we suffer, and kill each other
and sometimes fail to walk the air

We are beautiful people
with african imaginations
full of masks and dances and swelling chants

with african eyes, and noses, and arms, 
though we sprawl in grey chains in a place
full of winters, when what we want is sun.

We have been captured, 
brothers. And we labor
to make our getaway, into
the ancient image, into a new

correspondence with ourselves
and our black family. We read magic
now we need the spells, to rise up
return, destroy, and create. What will be

the sacred words?


----------



## midcan5

Poem   	  

"You called, you're on the train, on Sunday,
I have just taken a shower and await
you. Clouds are slipping in off the ocean,
but the room is gently lit by the green
shirt you gave me. I have been practicing
a new way to say hello and it is fantastic.
You were so sad: goodbye. I was so sad.
All the shops were closed but the sky 
was high and blue. I tried to walk it off
but I must have walked in the wrong direction."

Matthew Rohrer


----------



## Sky Dancer

"This precious moment with you, like snow on water."

Lama Drimed


----------



## Sky Dancer

Landscape

Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience?  Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around 
the pond, thinking: if the door of my heart
ever closed, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I'm alive.  And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky___as though

all night they had thought of what they would like 
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

Mary Oliver


----------



## Sky Dancer

Acid

In Jakarta.
among the venders
of flowers and soft drinks,
I saw a child with a hideous mouth,
begging,
and I knew the wound was made
for a way to stay alive.
What I gave him
wouldn't keep a dog alive.
What he gave me
from the brown coin
of his sweating face
was a look of cunning.
I carry it
like a bead of acid
to remember how,
once and awhile,
you can creep out of your own life
and become someone else--
an explosion
in that nest of wires
we call the imagination.
I will never see him
again, I suppose.
But what of this rag,
this shadow
flung like a boy's body
into the walls
of my mind, bleeding
their sour taste--
insult and anger,
the great movers?

Mary Oliver


----------



## Sky Dancer

Sunrise

You can
die for it---
an idea,
or the world.  People

have done so,
brilliantly,
letting
their small bodies be bound

to the stake,
creating
an unforgettable
fury of light.  But

this morning,
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought

of China,
and India,
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun

blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises

under the lashes of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?

What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us?  Call it

whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.

Mary Oliver


----------



## Sky Dancer

We've come a long way
said the Cigarette Scientist
as he destroyed a live rabbit
to show the students how it worked.

He took its heart out
plugged it into an electric pump
that kept it beating for nearly two hours.

I know rabbits who can keep their hearts
beating for nearly seven years.

And look at the electricity they save.

Spike Milligan


----------



## Sky Dancer

Love is the cure


"Love is the cure,
for your pain will keep giving birth to more pain
until your eyes constantly exhale love
as effortlessly as your body yields its scent.&#8221;

Rumi


----------



## Sky Dancer

Happy Valentine's Day!


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; 

 Coral is far more red than her lips' red; 

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 

 If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 


I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, 

 But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 

And in some perfumes is there more delight 

 Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

 That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 

I grant I never saw a goddess go; 

 My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. 

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 

 As any she belied with false compare. 

- William Shakespeare


----------



## Sky Dancer

WALKING MEDITATION 

Take my hand.
We will walk.
We will only walk.
We will enjoy our walk
without thinking of arriving anywhere.
Walk peacefully.
Walk happily.
Our walk is a peace walk.
Our walk is a happiness walk.

Then we learn
that there is no peace walk;
that peace is the walk;
that there is no happiness walk;
that happiness is the walk.
We walk for ourselves.
We walk for everyone
always hand in hand.

Walk and touch peace every moment.
Walk and touch happiness every moment.
Each step brings a fresh breeze.
Each step makes a flower bloom under our feet.
Kiss the Earth with your feet.
Print on Earth your love and happiness.

Earth will be safe
when we feel in us enough safety.


Thich Nhat Hanh,




- Thich Nhat Hanh


----------



## Sky Dancer

Interrelationship

You are me, and I am you. 
Isn't it obvious that we "inter-are"? 
You cultivate the flower in yourself, 
so that I will be beautiful.
I transform the garbage in myself, 
so that you will not have to suffer.

I support you;
you support me.
I am in this world to offer you peace;
you are in this world to bring me joy

~Thich Nhat Hanh~


----------



## Inferno

Long be the miles that I have walked in revolution.
Soft are the steps that I have taken in the name of peace.
Sturdy are the bridges that these hands have built in the name of freedom.
Lost are the causes that we have tossed aside.

Long  are the miles that I have run in the dark.
Soft are the footfalls on the path toward right.
Sturdy are the walls that will not fall down.
Lost are the causes that have never been run.

Meacham


----------



## Sky Dancer

Excellent poem, Inferno.  Thanks so much.  I buried one of mine in here many pages back.


----------



## midcan5

'Interstate Highway'   	  

for our daughter, Lisa

"As on a crowded Interstate the drivers in boredom 
      or irritation speed ahead or lag (taken with sudden
enthusiasms for seventy-five), surging ahead a little by 
                  weaving between lanes but still

staying	pretty much even, so too the seeker in language 
      ranges ahead and behind--exiting and rejoining
a rushing multitude so closely linked that,
                  if seen from above, from the height

of the jet now descending, we present one 
      stasis of lights: feeling our freedom though
when seen from above, in the deepening twilight, 
                  the pattern we bead is constant.

So we have traveled in time, lying down and waking 
      together, moved illusions, each cubicle with
tables and chairs, beds where our cries arose 
                  lost in the surging engines.

Yet the	roomlight where we made our love 
      still cubes us in amber. Out of the averaging
likeness, Pavlovian salivation at the bell
                  of a nipple, our lives extract their

time-thread, our gospel-truth. While Holiday 
      Inn and Exxon populate the stretch
between Washington and Richmond with lights, 
                  I rewrite our pasts in this present:

recalling your waking, dear wife, to find
      a nipple rosier, we not yet thinking a child
though impossibly guessing her features
                  the feathery, minutely combed lashes

the tiny perfect nails, though not yet
      the many later trees at Christmas. Now
I know only backwardly, inscribing these sign-
                  ings that fade as the ink dries.

Remembering the graphlike beading of darkness,
      I recall the ways that time once gave us-- 
distracted by signs for meals and clothing,
                  travelers, heavy with ourselves

defining the gift that bodies carry,
      lighting the one, inner room, womb for
our daughter. Seeing from above, I read
                  this love our child embodies."

by James Applewhite


----------



## Sky Dancer

My name is Judith, meaning
She Who Is Praised
I do not want to be called praised
I want to be called The Power of Love.

if Love means protect then whenever I do not
defend you
I cannot call my name Love.
if Love means rebirth then when I see us
dead on our feet
I cannot call my name Love.
if Love means provide & I cannot
provide for you
why would you call my name Love?

do not mistake my breasts
for mounds of potatoes
or my belly for a great roast duck.
do not take my lips for a streak of luck
nor my neck for an appletree,
do not believe my eyes are a warm swarm of bees;
do not get Love mixed up with me.

Don't misunderstand my hands
for a church with a steeple,
open the fingers & out come the people;
nor take my feet to be acres of solid brown earth,
or anything else of infinite worth
to you, my brawny turtledove;
do not get me mixed up with Love.

not until we have ground we call our own
to stand on
& weapons of our own in hand
& some kind of friends around us
will anyone ever call our name Love,
& then when we do we will all call ourselves
grand, muscley names:
the Protection of Love,
the Provision of Love & the
Power of Love.
until then, my sweethearts,
let us speak simply of
romance, which is so much
easier and so much less
than any of us deserve.

~Judy Grahn~


----------



## Sky Dancer

May everyone wake up 
into the natural state.
May everyone wash themselves
of disturbing emotions, karma,
wrong views, and compulsive habits.
May everyone wear the 
bodhisattva's attire,
the transcendent disciplines.
May everyone sweep their house clean
of all doubts and distractions.
May eveyone have nourishing food
and delight in the taste of samadhi.
May eveyone have the leisure to sit
and rest imperturbably.
May everyone walk on the 
traceless path of natural freedom.
May everyone be able to see
with the vision of the way 
things abide.
May everyone always hear
the sounds of suchness.
May everyone understand
the magic of their thoughts.
May everyone act skillfully
with loving kindness.
May everyone speak skillfully
with loving kindnesss.

Lama Drimed, from the book of poems, RAINDROPS FOR THE LOVE OF IT


----------



## Sky Dancer

Cartographies of Silence


  1.

A conversation begins
with a lie. and each 

speaker of the so-called common language feels
the ice-floe split, the drift apart 

as if powerless, as if up against
a force of nature 

A poem can begin
with a lie. And be torn up. 

A conversation has other laws
recharges itself with its own 

false energy, Cannot be torn
up. Infiltrates our blood. Repeats itself. 

Inscribes with its unreturning stylus
the isolation it denies. 


2.

The classical music station
playing hour upon hour in the apartment 

the picking up and picking up
and again picking up the telephone 

The syllables uttering
the old script over and over 

The loneliness of the liar
living in the formal network of the lie 

twisting the dials to drown the terror
beneath the unsaid word 


3.

The technology of silence
The rituals, etiquette 

the blurring of terms
silence not absence 

of words or music or even
raw sounds 

Silence can be a plan
rigorously executed 

the blueprint of a life 

It is a presence
it has a history a form 

Do not confuse it
with any kind of absence 


4.

How calm, how inoffensive these words
begin to seem to me 

though begun in grief and anger
Can I break through this film of the abstract 

without wounding myself or you
there is enough pain here 

This is why the classical of the jazz music station plays?
to give a ground of meaning to our pain? 


5.

The silence strips bare:
In Dreyer's Passion of Joan 

Falconetti's face, hair shorn, a great geography
mutely surveyed by the camera 

If there were a poetry where this could happen
not as blank space or as words 

stretched like skin over meaningsof a night through which two people
have talked till dawn. 


6.

The scream
of an illegitimate voice 

It has ceased to hear itself, therefore
it asks itself 

How do I exist? 

This was the silence I wanted to break in you
I had questions but you would not answer 

I had answers but you could not use them
The is useless to you and perhaps to others 


7.

It was an old theme even for me:
Language cannot do everything- 

chalk it on the walls where the dead poets
lie in their mausoleums 

If at the will of the poet the poem
could turn into a thing 

a granite flank laid bare, a lifted head
alight with dew 

If it could simply look you in the face
with naked eyeballs, not letting you turn 

till you, and I who long to make this thing,
were finally clarified together in its stare 


8.

No. Let me have this dust,
these pale clouds dourly lingering, these words 

moving with ferocious accuracy
like the blind child's fingers 

or the newborn infant's mouth
violent with hunger 

No one can give me, I have long ago
taken this method 

whether of bran pouring from the loose-woven sack
or of the bunsen-flame turned low and blue 

If from time to time I envy
the pure annunciation to the eye 

the visio beatifica
if from time to time I long to turn 

like the Eleusinian hierophant
holding up a single ear of grain 

for the return to the concrete and everlasting world
what in fact I keep choosing 

are these words, these whispers, conversations
from which time after time the truth breaks moist and green. 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## Sky Dancer

Living in Sin


  She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs. 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## Sky Dancer

Burning Oneself Out


  We can look into the stove tonight
as into a mirror, yes, 

the serrated log, the yellow-blue gaseous core 

the crimson-flittered grey ash, yes.
I know inside my eyelids
and underneath my skin 

Time takes hold of us like a draft
upward, drawing at the heats
in the belly, in the brain 

You told me of setting your hand
into the print of a long-dead Indian
and for a moment, I knew that hand, 

that print, that rock,
the sun producing powerful dreams
A word can do this 

or, as tonight, the mirror of the fire
of my mind, burning as if it could go on
burning itself, burning down 

feeding on everything
till there is nothing in life
that has not fed that fire 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## midcan5

'A Story About the Body'

"The young composer, working that summer at an artist's colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused and considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, "I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you that I have had a double mastectomy," and when he didn't understand, "I've lost both my breasts." The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity -- like music -- withered very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, "I'm sorry. I don't think I could." He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl -- she must have swept them from the corners of her studio -- was full of dead bees."

Robert Haas


----------



## Sky Dancer

She, she who? she WHO? she, WHO SHE? . . . 
She SHE who, She, she SHE
she SHE, she SHE who
SHEEE WHOOOOOO

She Who increases
what can be done

I shall grow another breast
in the middle of my chest . . . 
slippery as a school of fish 
sounder than stone. Call it 
She &#8211; Who &#8211; educates &#8211; my -- chest.

 am the wall at the lip of the water 
I am the rock that refused to be battered 
I am the dyke in the matter, the other 
I am the wall with the womanly swagger
And I have been many a wicked grandmother
and I shall be many a wicked daughter.

~Judy Grahn~


----------



## midcan5

thanks

I buy the paper thanks
a bagel and a thanks
some coffee thanks
a held door thanks
a right of way thanks
elevator arm thanks
a reply thanks
I devise a test
I ask 
no thanks
contribute 
no thanks
some time
no thanks
ah I got it
thanks is
incomplete.


----------



## midcan5

'The Search Party'

"I wondered if the others felt
as heroic
as safe: my unmangled family
slept while I slid uncertain feet ahead
behind my flashlights beam.
Stones, thick roots as twisted as
a ruined body,
what did I fear?
I hoped my batteries
had eight more lives
than the lost child.
I feared Id find something.

Reader, by now you must be sure
you know just where we are,
deep in symbolic woods.
Irony, self-accusation,
someone elses suffering.
The search is that of art.

Youre wrong, though its
an intelligent mistake.
There was a real lost child.
I dont want to swaddle it
in metaphor.
Im just a journalist
who cant believe in objectivity.
Im in these poems
because Im in my life.
But I digress.
A man four volunteers
to the left of me
made the discovery.

We circled in like waves
returning to the parent shock.
Youve read this far, you might as well
have been there too. Your eyes accuse
me of false chase. Come off it,
youre the one who thought it wouldnt
matter what we found.
Though we came with lights
and tongues thick in our heads,
the issue was a human life.
The child was still
alive. Admit youre glad."


William Matthews


----------



## midcan5

'The Rain'

"All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent -
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be, for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness."


Robert Creeley


----------



## Sky Dancer

A Word to Husbands 

by Ogden Nash

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you&#8217;re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you&#8217;re right, shut up.


----------



## Sky Dancer

As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed 

by Jack Prelutsky

As soon as Fred gets out of bed,
his underwear goes on his head.
His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,
a head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains,
is where Fred's underwear remains.

At night when Fred goes back to bed,
he deftly plucks it off his head.
His mother switches off the light
and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"
And then, for reasons no one knows,
Fred's underwear goes on his toes.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Touched by An Angel 

by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.


----------



## midcan5

'For My Daughter'

  	"When I die choose a star
and name it after me
that you may know
I have not abandoned
or forgotten you.
You were such a star to me,
following you through birth
and childhood, my hand
in your hand.

When I die
choose a star and name it
after me so that I may shine
down on you, until you join
me in darkness and silence
together."

David Ignatow


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Crazy Woman 

by Gwendolyn Brooks

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.

I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.

And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."


----------



## Sky Dancer

To Be In Love

 by Gwendolyn Brooks


To be in love 
Is to touch with a lighter hand. 
In yourself you stretch, you are well. 
You look at things 
Through his eyes. 
A cardinal is red. 
A sky is blue. 
Suddenly you know he knows too. 
He is not there but 
You know you are tasting together 
The winter, or a light spring weather. 
His hand to take your hand is overmuch. 
Too much to bear. 
You cannot look in his eyes 
Because your pulse must not say 
What must not be said. 
When he 
Shuts a door- 
Is not there_ 
Your arms are water. 
And you are free 
With a ghastly freedom. 
You are the beautiful half 
Of a golden hurt. 
You remember and covet his mouth 
To touch, to whisper on. 
Oh when to declare 
Is certain Death! 
Oh when to apprize 
Is to mesmerize, 
To see fall down, the Column of Gold, 
Into the commonest ash.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Where beauty is, then there is ugliness;
where right is, also there is wrong.
Knowledge and ignorance are interdependent;
delusion and enlightenment condition each other.
Since olden times it has been so.
How could it be otherwise now?
Wanting to get rid of one and grab the other
is merely realizing a scene of stupidity.
Even if you speak of the wonder of it all,
how do you deal with each thing changing?

-Ryokan-


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

~Mary Oliver~


----------



## Sky Dancer

Prison Pruno Recipe

by Jarvis Jay Masters

Take 10 peeled oranges,
Jarvis Masters, it is the judgment and sentence of this 
          Court
one 8-oz. can of fruit cocktail, 
that the charged information was true, 
squeeze the fruit into a small plastic bag,
and the jury having previously, on said date,
and put the juice along with the mash inside;
found that the penalty shall be death,
add 16 oz. of water and seal the bag tightly.
and this Court having, on August 20, 1991,
Place the bag into your sink,
denied your motion for a new trial,
and heat it with hot running water for 15 minutes.
it is the order of this Court that you suffer death,
Wrap towels around the bag to keep it warm for 
          fermentation.
said penalty to be inflicted within the walls of San
          Quentin,
Stash the bag in your cell undisturbed for 48 hours.
at which place you shall be put to death,
When the time has elapsed,
in the manner prescribed by law,
add 40 to 60 cubes of white sugar,
the date later to be fixed by the Court in warrant of 
          execution.
6 teaspoons of ketchup,
You are remanded to the custody of the warden of San 
          Quentin,
then heat again for 30 minutes.
to be held by him pending final
Secure the bag as before,
determination of your appeal.
than stash it undisturbed again for 72 hours.
It is so ordered.
Reheat daily for 15 minutes.
In witness whereof,
After 72 hours,
I have hereon set my hand as Judge of this Superior 
          court,
with a spoon, skim off the mash;
and I have caused the seal of this Court to be affixed 
          thereto.
pour the remaining portion into two 16-oz. cups.
May God have mercy on your soul,
Guzzle down quickly!
Mr. Jarvis Masters.
Gulp Gulp Gulp!


----------



## midcan5

'Japanese-American Farmhouse, California, 1942'

  	"Everything has been taken that anyone
thought worth taking. The stairs are tilted,
scattered with sycamore leaves curled
like ammonites in inland rock.
Wood shows through the paint on the frame
and the door is open--an empty room,
sunlight on the floor. All that is left
on the porch is the hollow cylinder
of an Albert's Quick Oats cardboard box
and a sewing machine. Its extraterrestrial
head is bowed, its scrolled neck
glistens. I was born, that day, near there,
in wartime, of ignorant people."

Sharon Olds


----------



## midcan5

'All Quiet'

"How come nobody is being bombed today?
I want to know, being a citizen
of this country and a family man.
You can't take my fate in your hands,
without informing me.
I can blow up a bomb or crush a skull -
whoever started this peace
without advising me
through a news leak
at which I could have voiced a protest,
running my whole family off a cliff."

David Ignatow

Written at the start of one of our bombing pauses over North Vietnam.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

  	Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost


----------



## midcan5

worry

It wasn't supposed to be this way
we raised our children
we did our part. 
a simple act of biology
brought forth a child 
in a long multitude of children,
and yet the thoughts came back.
is she OK
eating right
healthy
what will she be like.
today she takes my finger,
we walk, 
she talks and pokes at the earth
with a small branch 
as if to check its solidity.
it wasn't supposed to be this way
it just is.


----------



## midcan5

'Halfies in Philadelphia and the Ritual of Desire'

"Twenty years later I find half a tennis ball
in the woods and return for a while
to that cramped geography at the other
end of my life, empty mills and El tracks
casting shadows we did not yet feel on our backs.
Our fingers curled around halfies ruined edges,
mop handle bats twitched within the fists of friends
now gone to drugs or crime or some other darkness,
a shot to the first floor a single, to the second, a double,
the third, a triple, the roof an elusive home run,
no bases to trot around, home plate a chalked square.
Radio pounding, tire hiss, acrid smell of smoke
from coal cars clacking past our dead neighborhood
on the way to somewhere far from Perlstein Glass
and the rank back alley of our failures. Our fathers
worked hard for nothing wages, came home to beer,
a hot shower, a hot meal. They did not talk much,
nor did we those afternoons we tested each other
with trick pitchesflying saucers, German helmets
tapping aside what we did not like until we strode
into one with a vicious uppercut, trying
to lift it above our little lives into the air
where no birds flew, where the wind could catch it
and pull it onto the roof, evanescent and free."

Daniel Donaghy


To this day I cannot pick up a rounded stick and not get a sense for how it would work in our summer school yard games. When the pimple ball lost too much air we cut it in half and played half ball. I wonder if any still rest on high roofs.

The Olympics for City kids « Political Pass


----------



## midcan5

'Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia'

the fear of long words

"On the first day of classes, I secretly beg
my students Don't be afraid of me. I know
my last name on your semester schedule

is chopped off or probably misspelled
or both. I can't help it. I know the panic
of too many consonants rubbed up
against each other, no room for vowels

to fan some air into the room of a box
marked Instructor. You want something
to startle you? Try tapping the ball of roots

of a potted tomato plant into your cupped hand
one spring, only to find a small black toad
who kicks and blinks his cold eye at you,
the sun, a gnat. Be afraid of the X-rays

for your teeth or lung. Pray for no dark spots.
You may have pneumonoultromononucleosis
coal lung. Be afraid of money spiders

tiptoeing across your face while you sleep
on a sweet, fat couch. But don't be afraid
of me, my last name, what language I speak
or what accent dulls itself on my molars.

I will tell jokes, help you see the gleam
of the beak of a mohawked cockatiel. I will
lecture on luminescent sweeps of ocean, full

of tiny dinoflagellates oozing green light
when disturbed. I promise dark gatherings
of toadfish and comical shrimp just when you think
you are alone, hoping to stay somehow afloat."

By Aimee Nezhukumatathil

http://img.slate.com/media/95/Hippopotomontroses_22kmono.wma


----------



## Sky Dancer

Let Me Die a Youngman's Death


  Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good humour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death 

Roger McGough


----------



## Peejay

Wearing a frown
out on the front porch swing
this same old town
listening to the trains
time has come and gone and why
you don&#8217;t feel a thing
roots and wings
you can&#8217;t fly away

screen door slam
quitin time again
who&#8217;d give a damn
it&#8217;s all just worn so thin
across the floor boards out the back door
you try to feel the pain
roots and wings
you can&#8217;t fly away

Roots and wings
you can&#8217;t fly away
such useless things
only kept for goodness sake
underneath the velvet sky
but only in your dreams
roots and wings
you can&#8217;t fly away

streets at night
walking with the moon
wrapped up tight
the dawn is coming soon
thunder in the distance
the wind that speaks your name
roots and wings
you can&#8217;t fly away

Roots and wings
no you can&#8217;t fly away
such useless things
kept for goodness sake
underneath the velvet sky
only in your dreams
roots and wings
you can&#8217;t fly away


----------



## midcan5

Peejay, reads like a song, did you write it?


----------



## Peejay

midcan5 said:


> Peejay, reads like a song, did you write it?



Yeah,  that's the title track from my last CD.  Let me dig up one that hasn't been arranged into a song yet.


----------



## Peejay

I think I've been hanging around the honky tonks too long.....



The crunch of the gravel
the smell of good pot
three to one pick ups
in the parking lot
a drunk girl on her ass
she won't make the show
someone propped her up 
out side of the door

inside there's a juke box 
thumping out rap
how can you expect
us to compete with that
it's just me and Dusty
we came pretty far
banjo and mando, six string guitar

boys dressed in camo
girls in tight jeans
rednecks and frat boys
everything in between
that's just how it is
down by the lake
there's a bathroom inside
for goodness sake

I said to the frat boy 
taking a leak
under the lamp post
right out on the street
I know that his mama
tauhgt him much better
than to stand with his goodies 
out in the weather

but we loaded all in 
and checked all the gear
the folks in the back
said they could hear
that maybe so
but they didn't listen
not anymore
than the kid out there pissin'

But a couple old timers
and a few young and hip
came down to the front
and decided to sit
so we gave 'em our best
and had our own fun
screw all the rest
they can go clean their guns

so they will be ready 
to shoot at Obama
or maybe at me 
or that boy, for his mama
she don't want him killed
I'm real sure of that 
but a few pellets of bird shot
stuck in his ass

Might teach him a lesson
or just a reminder
that ol' Smith and Wesson
could be right behind you
so keep yourself decent
mind all your manners
you don't get pass
because you got hammered


----------



## dilloduck

If

If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too; 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, 
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; 
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; 
If you can meet with triumph and disaster 
And treat those two imposters just the same; 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, 
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings 
And never breath a word about your loss; 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; 
If all men count with you, but none too much; 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son! 

                                                                      Rudyard Kipling


----------



## Peejay

Bicker and babble,  drivel and curse
righties and lefties and which one is worse
I ought to be sleeping,  in bed with the dog
but I'm up half the night on the boards and the blogs

Who's in the shithouse, who's gone to jail
hey, there's a cheap mower on Craigslist for sale
but maybe the grass will just dry up and die
like a VGA monitor burns up your eyes

But I've got this free time and nowhere to go
I twisted my brain and thought you should know
if keystokes were handjobs and mouse clicks were lube
you'd all be knee deep, at least, in the goo

In pillows and bedsheets is where I should be
but the web is like crack, except it's for geeks
which should beg the question why I'm not sawing logs
but I'm up half the night on the boards and the blogs

What's your collection, what's your favorite tune
do you believe that men walked on the moon
was Oswald alone, who was D.B. Cooper
what do you use for stains in the pooper

these questions that burn like a hole in the sun
it's amazing these days what passes for fun
trading off jabs with strangers and weirdos
I try not to listen, it keeps me awake though

so there's a coke in the fridge and shot of good whiskey
I'd go over to get it, but someone might miss me
so I'm stuck in the chair, in a dense cyber fog
up half the night on the boards and the blogs


----------



## midcan5

Saturday afternoon at the mall

My wife and I sit in a crossway at the mall
playing a game of guessing
the occupations of passersby.
we try not to point, items describe,
some are easy nerds and youth 
chino pants neat haircut
business executive
former teacher retired
hippy professor programmer
works in a pet store
faces make it hard
families harder
sometimes we laugh 
as I guess cook and she cop
clerk, no, teacher 
then as we leave
we point at each other
others wonder why.


----------



## Chris

Goddess on the mountain top 
Burning like a silver flame 
The summit of beauty and love 
And Venus was her name 

She's got it 
Yeah, baby, she's got it 
I'm your Venus, I'm your fire 
At your desire 
Well, I'm your Venus, I'm your fire 
At your desire 

Her weapons were her crystal eyes 
Making every man a man 
Black as the dark night she was 
Got what no-one else had 
Wa! 

She's got it 
Yeah, baby, she's got it 
I'm your Venus, I'm your fire 
At your desire 
Well, I'm your Venus, I'm your fire 
At your desire 

Goddess on the mountain top 
Burning like a silver flame 
The summit of beauty and love 
And Venus was her name 

She's got it 
Yeah, baby, she's got it 
I'm your Venus, I'm your fire 
At your desire 
Well, I'm your Venus, I'm your fire 
At your desire


----------



## midcan5

Chris, Peejay,  maybe we need a song lyrics thread. Please use quotes and author if it is not your writing. 

Bananarama - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

'Bananarama had a hit with "Venus" in 1986 on their True Confessions album.'


----------



## Peejay

midcan5 said:


> Chris, Peejay,  maybe we need a song lyrics thread. Please use quotes and author if it is not your writing.
> 
> Bananarama - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
> 
> 'Bananarama had a hit with "Venus" in 1986 on their True Confessions album.'




I have only posted my own work.


----------



## midcan5

'Going Deaf'

"No matter how she tilts her head to hear
she sees the irritation in their eyes.
She knows how they can read a small rejection,
a little judgment, in every What did you say?
So now she doesn't say What? or Come again?
She lets the syllables settle, hoping they form
some sort of shape that she might recognize.
When they don't, she smiles with everyone else,
and then whoever was talking turns to her
and says, "Break wooden coffee, don't you know?"
She pulls all she can focus into the face
to know if she ought to nod or shake her head.
In that long space her brain talks to itself.
The person may turn away as an act of mercy,
leaving her there in a room full of understanding
with nothing to cover her, neither sound nor silence."

Miller Williams


----------



## xotoxi

Bad Haiku
by Xotoxi



I am no good at
writing Haiku because I
can't count syllables.


----------



## midcan5

learn the simple way
count each finger as i do
that makes it easy


----------



## xotoxi

midcan5 said:


> learn the simple way
> count each finger as i do
> that makes it easy


 
The only problem
is that I only have 10
fingers. I need more.


----------



## xotoxi

Eight: A Haiku without letters
by Xotoxi

1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 7 6
5 4 3 2 1


----------



## midcan5

But you only need
five from one hand and two from
other to haiku.

If you multiply
zero times a billion it
still equals zero.

Why is there something
and what does it mean to us
that there is nothing.

Philosophy is
fundamentally about
rationality.

Where are we going 
so fast that life passes too soon
we need to slow down.


----------



## xotoxi

midcan5 said:


> But you only need
> five from one hand and two from
> other to haiku.


 
What do you do with
the leftover three fingers?
Just cut them all off?


----------



## midcan5

You save them in case
one day you should be questioned
show me ten fingers.


----------



## xotoxi

midcan5 said:


> You save them in case
> one day you should be questioned
> show me ten fingers.


 
Okay. Maybe I'll
keep all my fingers. But just 
to warn you: sometimes I lose count of how many syllables I have left and I might go over a bit.


----------



## midcan5

I know what you mean
it is sometimes hard to write 
the perfect haiku.

But back to poems
they can give such pleasure in
this electric world.

=================

'Older Love'

"His wife has asthma
so he only smokes outdoors
or late at night with head
and shoulders well into
the fireplace, the mesquite and oak
heat bright against his face.
Does it replace the heat
that has wandered from love
back into the natural world?
But then the shadow passion casts
is much longer than passion,
stretching with effort from year to year.
Outside tonight hard wind and sleet
from three bald mountains,
and on the hearth before his face
the ashes well all become,
soft as the back of a womans knee."

Jim Harrison


----------



## xotoxi

midcan5 said:


> But back to poems
> they can give such pleasure in
> this electric world.


 

I find that poems are too abstract
as concentration is what I lack
I read all the words
but find them absurd
so I give up and go grab a snack


----------



## Sky Dancer

Those Who Do Not Dance


A crippled child
Said, &#8220;How shall I dance?&#8221;
Let your heart dance
We said. 

Then the invalid said:
&#8220;How shall I sing?&#8221;
Let your heart sing
We said 

Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
But I, how shall I dance?&#8221;
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.

Then God spoke from above
&#8220;How shall I descend from the blue?&#8221;
Come dance for us here in the light
We said.

All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.  


~Gabriela Mistral~


----------



## midcan5

'16-bit Intel 8088 chip'

"with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens."

Charles Bukowski


----------



## belboz

There once was a thread from nantucket...


----------



## Sky Dancer

Ode to a gym teacher

She was a big tough woman
The first to come along
She showed me being female meant you still could be strong
And though graduation meant that we had to part
She'll always be a player on the ballfield of my heart

I wrote her name on my notepad and the ink got on my dress
And I etched it on my locker and I carved it on my desk
And I painted big red hearts with her initials on my books
And I never knew till later why I got those funny looks...

She was a big tough woman 
The first to come along
She showed me being female meant you still could be strong
And though graduation meant that we had to part
She'll always be a player on the ballfield of my heart

In gym class while the others talked of boys that they loved
I'd be thinking of new aches and pains the teacher had to rub
And while other girls went to the prom I languished by the phone
Calling up and hanging up if I found out she was home

She was a big tough woman
The first to come along....

I sang her songs by Johnny Mathis
I gave her everything
A new chain for her whistle, and daisies in the spring
Some suggestive poems for Christmas by Miss Edna Millay
And a lacy lacy lacy card for Valentine's Day
(Unsigned of course)

She was a big tough woman
The first to come along...

(Here comes the moral of the song...)

So you just go to any gym class
And you'll be sure to see
One girl who sticks to Teacher like a leaf sticks to a tree
One girl who runs the errands and who chases all the balls
One girl who may grow up to be the *gayest* of all...

She was a big strong woman 
The first to come along
To show me being female meant you still could be strong
And though graduation meant that we had to part
YOU"LL always be a player on the ballfield of my heart!

--By Meg Christian


----------



## midcan5

This Is Just To Say

"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold."

William Carlos Williams


----------



## Sky Dancer

When You Come


  When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,

I CRY. 

Maya Angelou


----------



## xotoxi

I am Prepared

When I cross the Bar of the Great Blue Beyonder
I know that my Maker, without pause or ponder,
Will welcome my soul. For my record is scar-less
I've eaten no oysters in months that are R-less

Dr. Seuss.


----------



## midcan5

'Whatif'

"Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow talle?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!"

Shel Silverstein


----------



## midcan5

'Talk'

"One day you sit down to talk with the woman you love
at the table in the kitchen, the scarred one with the extra leaf

that you never need now that you live so far from friends
and family, the table you daily bang your knee on, the only

piece of furniture you own from before you met her.
It could be after dinner with a drink or better still

on one of those brilliant fall mornings over a cup of coffee,
the brass mornings that go on forever, that all alone are enough

to hold you here though they mean less than nothing to her
without the people she loves. But instead of talking you think

about the farmer at the flea market who sold you the table,
the way he stood beside his wife embarrassed, tight lipped,

imagine the thousands of mornings they rose from that table
for the morning milking and were back out after supper,

in summer suffering the heat, in winter over a frozen path,
even before and after the child's funeral, the wife's wind-burned

face still wet, the husband's stiff blue suit re-hung in the closet,
barely a word passing between them except for work.

What was once water then becomes stone that no
talk or tears or surgeon's knife can begin to reach, and you

see now there is nothing left to say, so you sip your coffee
and smoke while the moon sets and a door upstairs closes."

Peter Klein


----------



## midcan5

'The History Teacher'

"Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.

The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"

The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.

The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off."

Billy Collins


----------



## midcan5

'Be Kind'

"we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.

one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.

but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.

not their fault?

whose fault?
mine?

I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life

among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives

is."

Charles Bukowski


----------



## Bootneck

The soldier stood and faced God, 
Which must always come to pass. 
He hoped his shoes were shining, 
Just as brightly as his brass. 

'Step forward now, you soldier, 
How shall I deal with you? 
Have you always turned the other cheek? 
To My Church have you been true? ' 

The soldier squared his shoulders, 
and said, 'No, Lord, I guess I ain't. 
Because those of us who carry guns, 
Can't always be a saint. 

I've had to work most Sundays, 
And at times my talk was tough. 
And sometimes I've been violent, 
Because the world is awfully rough. 

But, I never took a penny 
That wasn't mine to keep... 
Though I worked a lot of overtime 
When the bills got just too steep. 

And I never passed a cry for help, 
Though at times I shook with fear. 
And sometimes, God forgive me, 
I've wept unmanly tears. 

I know I don't deserve a place 
Among the people here. 
They never wanted me around, 
Except to calm their fears. 

If you've a place for me here, Lord, 
It needn't be so grand. 
I never expected or had too much, 
But if you don't, I'll understand.' 

There was a silence all around the throne, 
Where the saints had often trod. 
As the soldier waited quietly, 
For the judgment of his God. 

'Step forward now, you soldier, 
You've borne your burdens well. 
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets, 
You've done your time in Hell.' 


For the 32 men of 3 Commando Brigade who made the ultimate sacrifice.
RIP We shall not forget you.


----------



## midcan5

'In whom do I trust?'

"Me mate and me
out on patrol
eyes peeled
for any unrest,
scanning the roofs
for snipers bullets.
A car cruises past
thumping hearts
till it speeds on by
danger imagined.
A rock  skirted
for fear its real,
every step
a threat.
A typical day in Iraq.

Then in a vision
comes a woman
in black,
laden with goods
fresh from
the market.
Weighed down
she stumbles
dropping her wares.
Quick as a flash,
unrehearsed
my mate races -
across the dusty road.

I meet her look
stomach churning
somethings not right
something is wrong
the body is old
but the eyes are young.

I scream
GET B-A-C-K!
as the
water melon
EXPLODES
in his hand -
into fragments
of man  woman
into pulp of
flesh and bone.

I rock myself
to sleep
that night
full of
questions
full of doubt.

TELL ME; how
can I defend
when I know not
who to trust?

TELL ME; how
can I fight
when I achieve no good?

TELL ME; how
can I fight
in a war thats unjust?

HOW can I kill
a woman
in cold blood?

TELL ME;
all you
politicians back home!

For I do not know
I just dont know anymore
I just dont know."

Janet Hedger

War poetry 2009


----------



## midcan5

'Forever'

"I do know that birds continue to live and procreate as long as
the weather is amenable and the food thereas if it were a
deal between them, the weather and the crops. No questions
asked. And the birds are in earnest about it, as I am in earnest
about finding a reason for their lives, for what reason I myself
do not understand. So I too in my way am ignorant of myself,
my purpose, to perform simply the role of questioner.

If I were to say that it is because I want to know, I will again
surely be carrying out my function of questioner, as the birds
carry out theirs of eating and procreating.

I must call it good because to deny it is not one of my
functions, or is it? And here I am asking a question once again,
carrying out the function I have been assigned.

Meditation is its name, to meditate on practically nothing and to
find something to say about it, this that I have written, its own
purpose in being, for the sake of living with questions forever." 

David Ignatow


----------



## American Horse

_*CARPENTER *_ 

Unasked, he once said what he required of life 
and I was more surprised by the occasion of his
telling me than by his simple words;
rest when he got home, beer, and sports on tv;

he said it earnestly without swagger or resignation, 
with the pride and appraisal of a man who perceived 
himself ordinary and wanted what he had.
And I wondered if his flatness was meant to be

a check to me, carpenter, same as him but with desires 
flagrant and helplessly exposed by the years.
He held the rope while I drove nails
at the edge of a steep roof above a sixty-foot drop.

I trusted him not because he was the least imaginative
but because he understood and accepted that I was scared. 
A kind of respect really. As much as I longed
to tell my secrets he kept his mostly,

sitting on the ridge awkwardly transferring
a cigarette from hand to lip
as he adjusted the rope around his back and down to me
occasionally holding it with one hand

as he took a drag, though not thoughtlessly.
He tied steel his first day, an apprentice
from the union accustomed to abuse, his hands clumsy 
with the linesman's pliers but fast

from effort instead of skillthe sharp wire 
leaving a dozen marks of his work
on the back of his hands before lunch.
In the union he only learned to run shearwall,

miles of it, but these mornings walking with cigarette
and coffee from his truck he asks about the day: 
"What's up?" regarding me on his heels, 
having learned most of what I've taught.

Now with a family at thirty-four his belly sags,
and when he runs the bases he comes back to the bench 
with pain in his chest. On the phone his wife tells me 
of him standing in her kitchen, tool belt on,

with the six-foot level I gave him for his birthday, 
saying "Hey Hon, look!" And on the jobsite
we crown and cut a beam that we will raise to span 
two gables and support the rafters on the roof

while discussing how to set the ladders, and who gets which
end: getting tasks and calls straightthen leaning, reaching
from his ladder, guiding the beam to the wall he grins 
at me grimacing, anticipates the weight.


above from _*"Hammer poems"*_ by Mark Turpin

.


----------



## midcan5

American Horse said:


> _*CARPENTER *_
> 
> Unasked, he once said what he required of life
> and I was more surprised by the occasion of his
> telling me than by his simple words;
> rest when he got home, beer, and sports on tv;



I enjoyed that - it reminds me of a friend - younger but now in his fifties - I did a roof by myself in my fifties - I laid in bed that first night - and wondered if I'd be able to finish - my hands hurt so - finally did just before a rain - it made me think of labor - of all the men like him on roofs - we met recently at a funereal - sometimes that is where old friends meet most - he was stooped a bit - with large strong hands - but pain and resignation showing too.


----------



## American Horse

midcan5 said:


> American Horse said:
> 
> 
> 
> _*CARPENTER *_
> 
> Unasked, he once said what he required of life
> and I was more surprised by the occasion of his
> telling me than by his simple words;
> rest when he got home, beer, and sports on tv;
> 
> 
> 
> 
> I enjoyed that - it reminds me of a friend - younger but now in his fifties - I did a roof by myself in my fifties - I laid in bed that first night - and wondered if I'd be able to finish - my hands hurt so - finally did just before a rain - it made me think of labor - of all the men like him on roofs - we met recently at a funereal - sometimes that is where old friends meet most - he was stooped a bit - with large strong hands - but pain and resignation showing too.
Click to expand...


Roofing labor is the most unforgiving for the novice. My worst experiences in construction were when I decided to not pay the very reasonable price a roofer wanted and did it myself.  There's a good lesson in it about skill for the skill-less.

I heard one of these poems being read by Garrison Keelor in his nightly reading, and had to have the book....

Here's another

_*The Man Who Built This House*_


First realize he didn't build it for himself,
and that changes a man, and the way he thinks 
about building a house. There is joy but 
it's a colder type&#8212;he'd as easily joy in 
tearing it down, as we have done, down 
to the bare frame, loaded boxes of lath 
and plaster, stirring a dust unstirred since
well, we know the date: Thursday, June 19, 1930. 
Date on the newspaper stuffed between 
the doorbell battery and the box it lodged in. 
Not so long ago, seventy years, historical
only to a Californian. The headline: "Admiral Byrd 
Given Welcome In N.Y." "Rear Admiral 
Richard E. Byrd, conqueror of the South Pole." 
Safe to say, the man who built this house 
is gone or nearly gone by now&#8212;and we think 
of the houses we have built, and the strangers 
who will certainly, eventually come to change 
or tear them down&#8212;that further event that 
needs to happen. And there is foulness 
to this dust, dust locked in walls till 
we arrived to release it to the world again. 
So, maybe, all is as it should be. Still, the man 
himself haunts me. I noticed it&#8212;especially 
after my apprentice saw fit to criticize his work, 
this neat but spindly frame of rough 2x4's 
2x4's for the walls, the rafters, even for the ceiling joists 
(that he tied to the ridge to keep the ceiling from sagging) 
that functioned adequately all these years
till we knocked it loose. And so, for reasons 
my apprentice wouldn't understand, I admit 
a liking, yes, for him and for this sketch 
of a house, the lightness of his eye, as if
there might be something else to think about: 
a sister taken sick, or maybe just a book or 
a newspaper with a coffee and a smoke, as if
to say to the world: This is all you take from me. 
Of course, having lived here a month already, 
I know better&#8212;accustomed now to the 
hieroglyphs of his keel marks, his red crayon 
with an arrow denoting the sole plate of a wall, 
imaginary, invisible lines that he
unknowing, passes on to me, numbers and lines 
radiating from the corners and the eaves
&#8212;where the bird nests hide inside the vents&#8212;
all lining up, falling plumb, coming square and true 
for me, and all his offhand easiness just a guise 
for a mind too quick ever to be satisfied
&#8212;just moving quickly through the motions. 
And, now, what he has to show for it, hauled away 
in boxes and bags, and me about to alter 
what's left&#8212;not like Byrd's Pole, fixed 
forever. The pure radiating lines forever 
flowing and unalterable&#8212;lines of mind only, 
without a house attached. And yet, even a South Pole 
doesn't seem much of an accomplishment to us&#8212;
to have merely found another place on Earth. 
There is a special pity that we reserve 
for the dead, trapped in their newspapers' 
images of time, wearing what they wore, 
doing what they did. I feel as much for this man here, 
and for the force it took to pull a chalked string
off the floor, let it snap, and, make a wall.
Something apart from something else, 
Not forever but for a little while.
He must have felt it too, a man like him,
Else why leave the newspaper for us?

above from _*"Hammer poems"*_ by Mark Turpin

I remember once as a small child, when my dad cut into a wall to add the bathroom we didn't have - we'd previously enjoyed the benefits of an out-house and a #5 round galvanized "tub" we'd used for our weekly baths on Saturday night - and finding a newspaper from the time the house had been built, about the beginning of the last century. When found, and it was about 40 years old in 1946,  it was fascinating and unexpectedly oddly interesting at the time.  

During the years I build homes, I'd leave my own mark like that one to reveal the date, and something about our work there.  But more than  newspapers and "notes from the past" our houses are full of "archaeology" about the builders, and their daily  thinking, for those who are interested in deciphering it.


----------



## midcan5

American Horse said:


> During the years I build homes, I'd leave my own mark like that one to reveal the date, and something about our work there.  But more than  newspapers and "notes from the past" our houses are full of "archaeology" about the builders, and their daily  thinking, for those who are interested in deciphering it.



Nice. I rebuilt our first home room by room, it was as if the original builder used any wood of any size he could find. Circa 1920. Nothing was level or straight and nothing easy. lol

Philip Levine is another working man poet. Here's one.

'What Work Is'

"We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is--if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who's not beside you or behind or
ahead because he's home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is."

Philip Levine

Philip Levine Poems and Poetry


----------



## American Horse

midcan5 said:


> American Horse said:
> 
> 
> 
> During the years I build homes, I'd leave my own mark like that one to reveal the date, and something about our work there.  But more than  newspapers and "notes from the past" our houses are full of "archaeology" about the builders, and their daily  thinking, for those who are interested in deciphering it.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Nice. I rebuilt our first home room by room, it was as if the original builder used any wood of any size he could find. Circa 1920. Nothing was level or straight and nothing easy. lol
Click to expand...


There is a real talent in making the most of what you have at hand. I respect it when I see it. I know my own father built our first house without the benefit of electricity, using a hand saw, brace and bit, wood chisels, and hand planes to get the job done with native lumber.

Good poem...

.


----------



## Zoom-boing

Mary Rose sat on a pin.
Mary rose.


----------



## midcan5

The Interview II

      "I represent The Morning Shout. We hear you are dying.
      May we interview you before you pass on?

      Certainly. There won't be another such another opportunity, I'm sure.

      We'd like to know what you will miss most, at your death.

      Music, nothing but music. Classical and popular, if someone or an
      orchestra will play during my last hour. I'll be very thankful.

      Are you happy to be passing on?

      Well, I'm of two minds about it. One, I'd like to hang on a bit longer
      and, on the other hand, if I can't, I'd like my passing on to be considered
      an event of some importance.

      Next question: Do you have any regrets for having lived as you did?
      Is there anything you would have done differently if you were given
      a second chance?

      Oh, yes. I'd like to have said hello to my parents more often rather
      than ignoring them, as I did, even as a young man. I'm sorry about
      that.

      Is there something you can say you are proud of having done in life
      that you would do over again if given the chance?

      Oh, yes. I enjoyed making lots of money, and I'm very proud of having
      left a fortune. It was a pleasure to accumulate, and I'd gladly do it
      again, especially to see my name listed in the Obituary, with mention
      of my wealth. Excuse me, I think I'm beginning to sink rapidly. I will
      have to say good-by to you for now.

      One last question: What are you experiencing at this moment in passing on?

      Oh, a slight headache and a feeling of missing out on something.
      Good-by.

      Finally: Are you dead and, if so, can you describe it for us, for your
      admiring public.

      No comment."

David Ignatow


----------



## American Horse

Burnt Norton 


Time Past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbor where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

~ T.S. Eliots Four Quartets​


----------



## midcan5

'Dust'

I

"My wife tells me that when she was six
she came home from school to an empty house
put down her lunch box, sat on a hassock
by her father's chair, and simply waited.
Someone known would return home soon, she was sure.
The house was still, silent, holding its breath.
the late-afternoon sunlight streamed in
the unshaded windows and turned the dust
into tiny golden planets floating
before her. Sixty-four years later
she declares, "It was beautiful," and goes
on to describe the sense of awe and peace
before this vision of the universe
that descended from nowhere or perhaps
rose from within. North-central Iowa,
1933, her grandmother's house.
Nothing else remains of the day. She gazes
into space seeing again those whirling
worlds more perfectly than the room she's in,
her smile open, her glazed eyes radiant."

Philip Levine


----------



## Phoenix

_Perhaps my favorite poem:_

A Day
(Emily Dickinson)

I'll tell you how the sun rose,
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
"That must have been the sun!"

........................
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.




_Another good one from the same author:_

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!


----------



## American Horse

From _Faust_ 
Johann W. von Goethe

But Still I'm troubled by one thing: 
Time is short and art is long. 
I'd think you'd let yourself be taught. 
Associate yourself with a poet and let 
him gallop through all fields of thought 
and heap all noble qualities on your honored head 
the lions courage, the stags speed, 
the fiery Italian blood, the Normans fortitude.


----------



## midcan5

'Crimson Invitation'

"More sex, more books, more cake, more murder--consider the invitation to do it all again, could it be that some might refuse the journey? What does the cruel soul have to look forward to but further cruelty? Why should the shy soul locate itself in one more clumsy body? The suicides, the downcast, the rejected--why should they return if they can remain bodiless, carried aloft as specks of light? What must have happened not to want it again? Never to watch the sun sink into the sea, never to embrace, never to live again. The beggar, would he refuse the journey? The woman who lost her children, the man whose dear love ran off with another? Yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a fistful of ash--so Marcus Aurelius tells us. But consider all that comes between, the fleeting, the sweet, never to be repeated, never to happen again.

I think of skiing through the woods in winter, a few sparrows and chickadees in the branches, sunlight glistening on the snow, rabbit tracks, the whisper of trickling water beneath the ice, the silence rising into the blue bowl of sky. What does it mean never to want it again? I think of the faces of my children, the caress of my wife's fingertips against my cheek. Yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a fistful of ash. Is Marcus Aurelius's dark soul still a point of light carried aloft by currents of wind? I want them all to want to again, not just the happy ones or thoughtless ones or the ones who believed themselves successful. For even one to hang back creates a shard of doubt, a stone in the shoe."

[excerpt] 

Stephen Dobyns


----------



## American Horse

See what you think of this one written by E.A. POE: 

ELDORADO

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

THE END

.​


----------



## midcan5

'Possibilities'

"I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being."

Wislawa Szymborska


----------



## garyd

With a pounding o' the drums 
came a roaring o' the guns
And the brave died to a man
and the cowards turned an' ran

and the ground it was all gory
with those who died for futile glory

Ah where lies the glory in a death
died by many in one breath
for a yard of barren gound
and for reward not e'en a fun'ral mound?


----------



## midcan5

'The Routine Things Around the House'   	  


"When Mother died
I thought: now Ill have a death poem.
That was unforgivable

yet Ive since forgiven myself
as sons are able to do
whove been loved by their mothers.

I stared into the coffin
knowing how long shed live,
how many lifetimes there are

in the sweet revisions of memory.
Its hard to know exactly
how we ease ourselves back from sadness,

but I remembered when I was twelve,
1951, before the world
unbuttoned its blouse.

I had asked my mother (I was trembling)
if I could see her breasts
and she took me into her room

without embarrassment or coyness
and I stared at them,
afraid to ask for more.

Now, years later, someone tells me
Cancers whove never had mother love
are doomed and I, a Cancer,

feel blessed again. What luck
to have had a mother
who showed me her breasts

when girls my age were developing
their separated countries,
what luck

she didnt doom me
with too much or too little.
Had I asked to touch,

perhaps to suck them,
what would she have done?
Mother, dead woman

who I think permits me
to love women easily,
this poem

is dedicated to where
we stopped, to the incompleteness
that was sufficient

and to how you buttoned up,
began doing the routine things
around the house."

Stephen Dunn


----------



## American Horse

Poetry is a window into the soul, and the late 1950s saw a lot of emotions being expressed in  poetry.  At the time I had thought it was coming from the guys who had come home from the Korean War, the veterans. But that was probably the second stage of the phenomenon; the first being the Beat Generations" influence. 

In our town, which is the seat of Indiana University, many coffee houses, sprang up back then, where nothing but coffee was served,  or hot chocolate for those un-initiated to the black brew.  Customers would get up, go to a small public stage at the end of the room, and read their own poetry for the benefit of the coffee drinkers and other aspiring poets. 

These coffee houses were generally just that, residential houses converted for their new use. The poets were of all ages, at least all ages between the mid-teens and perhaps the late twenties. I was sixteen. I was part of that culture and at the time I felt the same need to express myself with poetry, so it was fun to go hear what others were writing, and compare. 

After, from the fifties and early 60's a lot of strange poetry was written and got popular acclaim. It was written by the likes of Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and others of the Beat Generation  they were the precursors of the Hippy Generation which included the likes of Bob Dylan etc. 

There wasnt much of these guys poetry I personally liked, but I checked it out from time to time. 

In 1961 a poem, appeared in Eros Magazine, which when I read it, I thought it had reached a new, higher level of erotic expression  as distinguished from the usual smut, and curse words strung together  so much so that I wrote it down, but then lost track of where Id put it.  I recently found the copy which Id made tucked into an older favorite book of poetry, taped with the written face against the inside of the back cover. Here it is:

A poem from 1962 Eros magazine

(Poets name and title unknown)

The loneliest moments come  
When recreation done,
You disengage gently
And reinclose softly
Yourself, into its pattern
Of singleness. As you turn
From me into sleep, I long
To know whether I belong
So much to you, while you dream,
As your touch has made it seem.


----------



## midcan5

American Horse,  The poet is actually an architect from what I found.  In the book it reads:

to Anita

'the loneliness moments come
when, re-creating done
you separate gently
and re-enclose slowly
yourself, into its pattern
of singleness. As you turn
from me into sleep, I long
to know whether I belong
so much to you as you dream
as your touch has made it seem.'

Craig Ellwood

California Modern: The Architecture of Craig Ellwood by Neil Jackson

[ame=http://www.amazon.com/reader/B001BYUI7E?_encoding=UTF8&query=As%20your%20touch%20has%20made%20it%20seem.#reader]Amazon.com: California Modern: The Architecture of Craig Ellwood: Neil Jackson: Books[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'The Olive Wood Fire'

"When Fergus woke crying at night,
I would carry him from his crib
to the rocking chair and sit holding him
before the fire of thousand-year-old olive wood,
which it took a quarter-hour of matches
and kindling to get the burning right. Sometimes
- for reasons I never knew and he has forgotten -
even after his bottle the big tears
would keep on rolling down his big cheeks
- the left cheek always more brilliant than the right -
and we would sit, some nights for hours, 
rocking in the almost lightless light 
eking itself out of the ancient wood,
and hold each other against the darkness,
his close behind and far away in the future,
mine I imagined all around.
One such time, fallen half-asleep myself,
I thought I heard a scream
- a flier crying out in horror
as he dropped fire on he didn't know what or whom,
or else a child thus set aflame -
and sat up alert. The olive wood fire
had burned low. In my arms lay Fergus,
fast asleep, left cheek glowing, God."

Galway Kinnell


----------



## American Horse

midcan5 said:


> American Horse,  The poet is actually an architect from what I found.  In the book it reads:
> 
> to Anita
> 
> 'the loneliness moments come
> when, re-creating done
> you separate gently
> and re-enclose slowly
> yourself, into its pattern
> of singleness. As you turn
> from me into sleep, I long
> to know whether I belong
> so much to you as you dream
> as your touch has made it seem.'
> 
> Craig Ellwood
> 
> California Modern: The Architecture of Craig Ellwood by Neil Jackson
> 
> Amazon.com: California Modern: The Architecture of Craig Ellwood: Neil Jackson: Books



Thanks, Midcan, you've "fleshed it out" for me.   I'd be interested in learning how you found out so much about the poet.  I've tried sporadically and never learned more than I already knew.  I'll be looking into the poet's work.  It might be interesting after all these years to learn more.  At  that time he offered something different from what had been done before.  I'm surprised the poet is a man rather than a woman, but I must have known the name of the poem back when I first read it which would seem to reveal the fact that it was a male poet rather than a female.


----------



## American Horse

Gaius Valerius Catullus (1st century poet of Republican Rome; lived 84 B.C.,  to about 57 B.C. about 27 years) 
Roman Erotica (rather than name his poems, he numbered them)

My sweetest Ipsithilla, dear,
My cutie, I implore
Ask me to come at noon, and sweetie,
Please don't lock the door.

Be right at home and waiting for me,
There's no time to lose,
I want you to be ready, pet,
For nine continuous screws.


----------



## midcan5

American Horse,  I liked the stanza and thought it should be easy to find the poet. Turned out it was an architect and a talented one. I found it in Google books after pasting and putting quotation marks on the last line.

I mostly agree with you on the Beat poets although there are a few I like. I want to post some one day. I tend towards more modern prose poetry, much older work seems forced to me. But Beat grew out of a time we cannot go back to, and often when we view the past, we do it through eyes too used to the present.

This thread seems popular as I see the number of views grow. I try to post only a poem a day even though I have lots, and occasionally even one of my own attempts. Carver is another favorite.

******************

'For Tess'

"Out on the Strait the water is whitecapping,
as they say here. Its rough, and Im glad
Im not out. Glad I fished all day
on Morse Creek, casting a red Daredevil back
and forth. I didnt catch anything. No bites
even, not one. But it was okay. It was fine!
I carried your dads pocketknife and was followed
for a while by a dog its owner called Dixie.
At times I felt so happy I had to quit
fishing. Once I lay on the bank with my eyes closed,
listening to the sound the water made,
and to the wind in the tops of the trees. The same wind
that blows out on the Strait, but a different wind, too.
For a while I even let myself imagine I had died 
and that was all right, at least for a couple
of minutes, until it really sank in: Dead.
As I was lying there with my eyes closed,
just after Id imagined what it might be like
if in fact I never got up again, I thought of you.
I opened my eyes then and got right up
and went back to being happy again.
Im grateful to you, you see. I wanted to tell you."

Raymond Carver


----------



## American Horse

midcan5 said:


> American Horse,  I liked the stanza and thought it should be easy to find the poet. Turned out it was an architect and a talented one. I found it in Google books after pasting and putting quotation marks on the last line.
> 
> I mostly agree with you on the Beat poets although there are a few I like. I want to post some one day. I tend towards more modern prose poetry, much older work seems forced to me. But Beat grew out of a time we cannot go back to, and often when we view the past, we do it through eyes too used to the present.
> 
> This thread seems popular as I see the number of views grow. I try to post only a poem a day even though I have lots, and occasionally even one of my own attempts.
> ******************



While our dog was still around I would walk her each evening for about an hour, and at the same time I would wear my "walkman-radio" and listen to NPR.  At the end each day at 7:00 I would catch Garrison Keelor's reading of his poem for the day.  

One a day was enough; more would've been more than enough, as poetry is something - probably like most anything else - which we can get too much of.  For the same reason, seeing what you were doing, I hold back, careful not to pile on; maybe just enough to create a foil for yours and others.


----------



## editec

I guess I am a child of my times.

I seldom read poetry except for work.

Bob Dylan's lyrics are probably my favorite poetry 

So here's something I find compelling.  

But naturally, since I hear it sung in my mind's ear, even I can't tell whether I like it _as poetry_ or as poetic song.

Guess it doesn't much matter.




> Nobody feels any pain
> Tonight as I stand here in the rain.
> Everybody knows that baby's got new clothes,
> But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
> Have fallen from her curls.
> 
> She takes
> just like a woman.
> She makes love
> just like a woman.
> And then she aches
> just like a woman.
> But she breaks just like a little girl.
> 
> Queen Mary, she's my friend.
> Yes I believe I'll go see her again.
> Nobody has to guess
> that baby can't be blessed
> 'Till she finally sees that she's like all the rest
> With her fog, her amphetamines, and her pearls.
> 
> She takes
> just like a woman.
> She makes love
> just like a woman.
> And then she aches
> just like a woman.
> But she breaks just like a little girl.
> 
> It raining at first, and I was dying there of thirst,
> So I came in here.
> And your long-time curse hurts, but what's worse
> Is this pain in here.
> I can't stay in here.
> Ain't it clear...
> That I just can't fit.
> I believe it's time for us to quit.
> But when we met again and are introduced as friends,
> Please don't let on that you knew me when
> I was hungry, and it was your world.
> 
> You take
> just like a woman.
> You make love
> just like a woman.
> And then you ache
> just like a woman.
> But you break just like a little girl.


 
Bob Dylan


----------



## midcan5

'Starlight'

"My father stands in the warm evening
on the porch of my first house.
I am four years old and growing tired.
I see his head among the stars,
the glow of his cigarette, redder
than the summer moon riding
low over the old neighborhood. We
are alone, and he asks me if I am happy.
``Are you happy?'' I cannot answer.
I do not really understand the word,
and the voice, my father's voice, is not
his voice, but somehow thick and choked,
a voice I have not heard before, but
heard often since. He bends and passes
a thumb beneath each of my eyes.
The cigarette is gone, but I can smell
the tiredness that hangs on his breath.
He has found nothing, and he smiles
and holds my head with both his hands.
Then he lifts me to his shoulder,
and now I too am there among the stars,
as tall as he. Are you happy? I say.
He nods in answer, Yes! oh yes! oh yes!
And in that new voice he says nothing,
holding my head tight against his head,
his eyes closed up against the starlight,
as though those tiny blinking eyes
of light might find a tall, gaunt child
holding his child against the promises
of autumn, until the boy slept
never to waken in that world again."

Philip Levine - hear the poet (remove space)

h ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0ilw12CpFg


----------



## American Horse

(From) Ovid's description of the creation of mankind:

And even though all other animals
lean forward and look down toward the ground,
he gave to man a face that is uplifted, 
and ordered him to stand erect and look
directly up into the vaulted heavens
and turn his countenance to meet the stars;
the earth, that was so lately rude and formless,
was changed by taking on the shapes of men.

Publius Ovidius Naso (43 BC - 18 AD)

Charles Martin's poetic translation of Ovids Metamorphose Book I


----------



## midcan5

My wife and I 

#2

My wife and I are watching 'House'
when an ad near an ocean highway
brings back to me the camping trips
we took in Nova Scotia with our boys.
My wife looks over at me, 
'that's because you live in the past.'
This thought bewilders me, 
I excuse the impulse
saying that it is the images
burned somewhere in my head
the many photographs
that bring these things 
back into view. 
Can we even live in the past,
why does it make one defensive,
often as we travel I tell her 
places of some mishap
a bicycle flat, 
when our son hears these stories
he laughs he shares these imprints.
The next morning I rise early
and into my heads come thoughts
of four AM rides 
on bicycle summer winter  
but as I turn to leave 
I say only, 'see you later.'

mc5


----------



## garyd

"Ode on a Grecian 
Urn" Truth be beauty, beauty be truth 
Who is kidding whom?


----------



## American Horse

The Dirty Word

The dirty word hops in the cage of the mind like the Pondicherry 
vulture, stomping with its heavy left claw on the sweet 
nest of the brain and tearing it with its vicious beak, ripping
and chopping the flesh. Terrified, the small boy bears the big
bird of the dirty word into the house, and grunting, puffing,
carries it up the stairs to his own room in the skull.  Bits of 
black feather cling to his clothes and his hair as he locks the 
staring creature in the dark closet.
. . . All day the small boy returns to the closet to examine
and feed the bird, to caress and kick the bird, that now snaps
and flaps its wings savagely whenever the door is opened.  How
the boy trembles and delights at the sight of the white excrement 
of the bird!  How the bird leaps and rushes against the
walls of the skull, trying to escape from the zoo of the vocabulary!  
How wildly snaps the sweet meat of the brain in its rage.
. . . And the bird outlives the man, being freed at the mans
death-funeral by a word from the rabbi.
. . . (But I one morning went upstairs and opened the door
and entered the closet and found in the cage of my mind the
great bird dead.  Softly I wept it and softly removed it and
softly buried the body of the bird in the hollyhock garden of
the house I lived in twenty years before.  And out of the worn 
black feathers of the wing have I made these pens to write
these elegies, for I have outlived the bird, and I have murdered 
it in my early manhood.)

Ken Shapiro

.


----------



## midcan5

'Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World'   	  

_The morning air is all awash with angels_. . .Richard Wilbur


"The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber, 
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because

He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma, 

I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,  
And then I remember that my father 

Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom," 
I say. "I forgot hes dead. Im sorry

How did I forget?" "Its okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee 

This morning and left it on the table
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years

And I didn't realize my mistake 
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust."

Sherman Alexie


----------



## Sky Dancer

Whites Only - A Decasyllabic

The privilege of having a moustache
with matching blue eyes, and a complexion
prone to skin cancer; a long nose and thin
lips, has returned once more to Zimbabwe.
Who else can play the part of boers, jailers
and policemen so beloved of movie
directors from the USA and Great 
Britain in movies such as "Cry Freedom"
and "The Power of One"? Parts well paid, mind
you, considering all you have to do
to look yourself for a second, or say
a few words in cartoon Afrikaans like
"Kaffir" and "Roer jou gat" and "Swart gevaar".
Since the heady days of Black Consciousness
in the seventies; Independence highs,
Post-independence lows in the eighties,
I have noted  not being a farmer
or a businessman  noted with relief
the rapid falling away, like cutis
from an unregenerative limb, of 
privileges: access to publication,
scholarships, promotion in the public
service, parcels from Mrs Jellyby . . . 
just when I began to think: We're even;
No more apologies, stepping aside,
head down, muttering, no more "after you"
in bread and passport queues, no more -isms
and -ists . . . just when the last crystals of guilt
in my joints had dissolved, this job  they give
you dark glasses if your eyes are gentle  
for white males with cruel faces only   

© 1995, John Eppel
From: Sonata for Matabeleland


----------



## Sky Dancer

Racism still sadly continues


  Racism comes in many different shapes and forms
Sadly I have had my fair share since Ive been born
Judged before I have been even given a chance
Delaying my future and for my career to advance

My parents tell me of stories they have had to endure 
I wish racism was a sickness with a dose of medication to cure 
Thankfully there are good hearted and educated people
Who can look beyond skin colour and treat us all as an equal

Why would another persons skin colour be such an issue? 
Get to know them; they might have things in common just like you
I am so fed up of hearing They from so and so, they all the same
Everyone has differences but skin colour is not to blame

I wonder sometimes is it because the racist themselves are afraid to mix
Who knows, I am only looking for a solution to get it fixed
Its a major problem none of us like or need, 
How sad to hear, a racist sees skin colour the only reason to want to make you bleed 
You see films like Mississippi Burning
I think to myself that was then but when are racist going to start learning? 

If humans never saw in colour, what would it be like then? 
I am sure everyone would get along and call each other friend
I hope my kids and the next generation never get to witness racism first hand
Lets pray for them racism was a issue in the past that no longer stands

Life is hard as it is, without the need of racism
Like supporting our family and giving our kids a good education
Ways to stop racism should begin at home and school
Getting along will be our biggest advantage, our strongest tool
I did have people who I did call friends
But their own racist views meant our friendship had to end

It does not matter, if your white, black or brown
You should feel safe to walk and talk in any town
Racism has to be erased from every country and every street
Knowing racism is not an issue when theirs someone new we meet
Everyone has the right to go anywhere they choose
Because whilst racism is still alive, no one wins, everybody lose

To those facing racism, all I can say is be brave and stay strong
To those racist, deep down in your heart you must know its wrong? 
God blessed us by putting us here, giving us all different shades of colour
Were not meant to have the same colour skin, but we all can respect one another

Martin Luther King Jr said in 1963 I have a dream
But up to now it has yet to be seen

21.04.08 

Amit Chubbah


----------



## midcan5

'In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself'

"The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.

A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?

Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
in every other way they're light.

On this third planet of the sun
among the signs of bestiality
a clear conscience is Number One."

Wislawa Szymborska


----------



## American Horse

(a quote: on "enlightenment"  From _ZEN TO GO_ )

This is It 
and I am It 
and You are It 
and so is That
and He is It 
and She is It 
And It is It 
And That is That 

James Broughton


----------



## midcan5

'Loud Music'

"My stepdaughter and I circle round and round.
You see, I like the music loud, the speakers
throbbing, jam-packing the room with sound whether
Bach or rock and roll, the volume cranked up so
each bass notes is like a hand smacking the gut.
But my stepdaughter disagrees. She is four
and likes the music decorous, pitched below
her own voice-that tenuous projection of self.
With music blasting, she feels she disappears,
is lost within the blare, which in fact I like.
But at four what she wants is self-location
and uses her voice as a porpoise uses
its sonar: to find herself in all this space.
If she had a sort of box with a peephole
and looked inside, what she'd like to see would be
herself standing there in her red pants, jacket,
yellow plastic lunch box: a proper subject
for serious study. But me, if I raised
the same box to my eye, I would wish to find
the ocean on one of those days when wind
and thick cloud make the water gray and restless
as if some creature brooded underneath,
a rocky coast with a road along the shore
where someone like me was walking and has gone.
Loud music does this, it wipes out the ego,
leaving turbulent water and winding road,
a landscape stripped of people and language-
how clear the air becomes, how sharp the colors."

Stephen Dobyns


----------



## midcan5

'The Hug'   	  

"It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
    Half of the night with our old friend
        Who's showed us in the end
    To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
        Already, I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug, 
        Suddenly, from behind, 
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
        Your instep to my heel,
    My shoulder-blades against your chest.
    It was not sex, but I could feel
    The whole strength of your body set,
           Or braced, to mine,
        And locking me to you
    As if we were still twenty-two
    When our grand passion had not yet
        Become familial.
    My quick sleep had deleted all 
    Of intervening time and place.
        I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace."

Thom Gunn


----------



## American Horse

_Last Hired_

On Monday  returned the man I fired
wanting  the phone number of the laborer he loaned money to, 
and stood mute while I wrote it  out on a  scrap of shingle
and the crew on the floor kept hammering

with the silence of three hammers tapping out different beats.
I scratched down the name and seven digits with a flat pencil, 
scrawling across a  ridged grain and then with it.
He thanked me with an uncomfortable smile and left.

He was incompetent but incompetence is not a crime. 
 I never liked him.
Out of almost pure intuition, right from the beginning
and I noticed how quickly the other men closed in behind me

against him.  He must have felt it too,
those days as  he knocked the nails out of his screwed-up form work,
and spit saliva in the hammer marks of his windowsills
to raise the grain.  Must have every day

felt more alone. He had a habit of mumbling explanations 
that trailed into incoherence.  But he was not a stupid man.
When I asked him to repeat himself he shrugged me off
with a sigh and asked me what I wanted him to do.

The morning I fired him I walked down to the street
before he could leave his truck, and was on the way surprised
and annoyed by a hypocritical watering in my eyes that went away.
Then catching him, saw in hand, I told him to go back to the truck.

I said it deliberately hard, so he would guess
before I said the words. Then we stood together. And he took it
as if he expected, and failure were something he had grown around.
Then he got back in his truck, drove down the street, and was gone.

_Hammer Poems_  by Mark Turpin

.


----------



## midcan5

Good stuff in video, 'Old Man' reminds me of .....

C.K. Williams&#039; poetry of youth and age | Video on TED.com

'Dirt'

"My grandmother is washing my mouth
out with soap; half a long century gone
and still she comes at me
with that thick, cruel, yellow bar.
All because of a word I said,
not even said really, only repeated,
but Open, she says, open up!
her hand clawing at my head.

I know now her life was hard;
she lost three daughters as babies,
then her husband died, too,
leaving young sons, and no money.
She'd stand me in the sink to pee
because there was never room in the toilet.
But, oh, her soap! Might its bitter burning
have been what made me a poet?

The street she lived on was unpaved,
her flat two cramped rooms and a fetid
kitchen where she stalked and caught me.
Dare I admit that after she did it
I never really loved her again?
She lived to a hundred, even then.
All along it was the sadness, the squalor,
but I never, until now, loved her again."

C. K. Williams


----------



## Sky Dancer

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you; 

Don't go back to sleep. 

You must ask for what you really want; 

Don't go back to sleep. 

People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. 

The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep. 


~  Jelaluddin Rumi


----------



## midcan5

'A Little Tooth'   	  

"Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone.  It's all

over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail.  And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing.  You did, you loved, your feet
are sore.  It's dusk.  Your daughter's tall."

Thomas Lux


----------



## Dis

The past isn't supposed to be anything
but spent emotions and a bag of useless memories
It's not supposed to be able to follow you, 
Haunt you with regrets and reminders
Every time you look in the mirror
Or hear a name that sends you reeling
Back in time so that in your mind
The pain is still fresh
From a wound that's still raw
And you'd give anything to go back
Change things, make things right again
Because, as they say, hind sight's 20-20 
And in my memories, I can pinpoint
Every mistake, wrong road, left turn
And the worst part is knowing that
No matter how many times
I revisit the same scene
I can't change the things that have been


----------



## American Horse

Rubaiyat LVII

Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin 
Beset the Road I was to wander in, 
Thou wilt not with Predestination round 
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

Edward Fitzgerald's Interpretation/translation


----------



## midcan5

'When a Woman Loves a Man'   	  

"When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
    is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
    another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
    airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
    she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes."

David Lehman


----------



## midcan5

"in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds 

-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were."

e.e. cummings


----------



## midcan5

'Memorial Day for the War Dead'   	  

"Memorial day for the war dead.  Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you.  Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.

Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.

Memorial day.  Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.

The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.

A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.

A great and royal animal is dying 
all through the night under the jasmine 
tree with a constant stare at the world.

A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.""

Yehuda Amichai


----------



## Phoenix

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

We Wear the Mask

    We wear the mask that grins and lies,
    It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,
    This debt we pay to human guile;
    With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
    And mouth with myriad subtleties.

    Why should the world be over-wise,
    In counting all our tears and sighs?
    Nay, let them only see us, while
            We wear the mask.

    We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
    To thee from tortured souls arise.
    We sing, but oh the clay is vile
    Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
    But let the world dream otherwise,
            We wear the mask!


----------



## midcan5

'Haddock of Mass Destruction' 

"Brain bored and arse numb
Finally the blades spun and we lifted
Skimmed the palm trees and popped flares above the Euphrates
We swooped low over the target truck
Then landed in its path

We charged in our Storm Trooper costumes
Blinding faceless shapes through dirty glass
With rifle mounted lasers
We were jumpy
We were ready

I dragged the driver from his seat
Slammed his face into hot tarmac
Held it there with my suede boot
Steadied my hands long enough to cuff his

We searched his packed pick-up
Boxes stacked four deep five wide
Emptied in the dust on the roadside
The first box revealed ice and fish, and the next
And the next, and the last

Intelligence had said he was armed and dangerous
Armed with melting ice and defrosting cod
No match for our guns, our bombs,
Our good intentions, our morals
Our God

We cut his cuffs, and his wifes
And left them to their ruined stock
I should demand commission
From the Taliban
For every recruit Ive converted to their flock."

Danny Martin


----------



## midcan5

'Lessons' 

"Do away with medals
Poppies and remembrance parades
Those boys were brave, we know
But look where it got them

Reduced to line after perfect line
Of white stones
Immobile, but glorious, exciting
To kids who havent yet learned
That bullets dont make little red holes

They rip and smash and gouge
And drag the worlds dirt behind them
Remember lads, you wont get laid
No matter how good your war stories

If youre dead
So melt down the medals
Fuel the fire with paper poppies, war books and Arnie films
Stop playing the pipes, stop banging the drums
And stop writing fucking poems about it."

Danny Martin


----------



## midcan5

'Last Day Of R&R'

"The balls started rolling, Ive turned on the tap,
I tried really hard not to as I have to go back.
The worst thing I could do was let my thoughts dwell
and consider the feelings I have for that hell.
But linger I have, let emotions come fore,
now re-check them I must, as I head back to war.
This time has been precious, a much needed pause,
but now box up the sentiment, re-lock the doors.
Head down and stay focussed, clear thinking apply,
re-cage those emotions with another goodbye."

B J Lewis


----------



## American Horse

Rubaiyat XVII and XXIII

I sometimes think that never blows so red 
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; 
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears 
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, 
Before we too into the Dust descend; 
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, 
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End

*Edward Fitzgerald's Interpretation/translation*


----------



## midcan5

'Looking Forward'

"Keen to survive the last attack,
dont want my name etched on a plaque:
in memory of those who fell in Iraq
I dont want a coffin to carry me back.

Go home to all those that I hold dear.
Relax, and enjoy having nothing to fear.
Forget all the hardship and hold loved ones near;
look forwards, not back, with a conscience thats clear.

Take pride in the knowledge that I did my best,
wear a shiny new medal upon my chest.
Restart my life with new vigour and zest,
thank the good fortune that kept me blessed.

But for those still out here Ill not forget,
that its you here, not I, I owe you a debt,
I know what youll go through, the challenges set,
I wish you good luck with my utmost respect."

B J Lewis


----------



## midcan5

'The Fallen Kindly Wait'

"Should I expire on foreign soil
mourn for me you must not.
First recall all else who fell
lest they be forgot.

Ill weep for those I leave behind
but dont you weep for me
for Ill have joined my brethren
and be in good company.

In service of their country
all of their dues were paid
but there are empty ranks to fill
on the grand final parade.

If God wills that I should join them
I will accept my fate.
But Id rather God delay awhile,
as the fallen kindly wait."

B J Lewis


----------



## midcan5

'Blur'   	  

"Storms of perfume lift from honeysuckle,
lilac, cloverand drift across the threshold,
outside reclaiming inside as its home.
Warm days whirl in a bright unnumberable blur,
a cupa grail brimmed with delirium
and humbling boredom both.  I was a boy,
I thought I'd always be a boy, pellmell,
mean, and gaily murderous one moment
as I decapitated daises with a stick,
then overcome with summer's opium,
numbslumberous.  I thought I'd always be a boy,
each day its own millennium, each
one thousand years of daylight ending in
the night watch, summer's pervigilium,
which I could never keep because by sunset
I was an old man.  I was Methuselah,
the oldest man in the holy book.  I drowsed.
I nodded, sleptand without my watching, the world,
whose permanence I doubted, returned again,
bluebell and blue jay, speedwell and cardinal
still there when the light swept back,
and so was I, which I had also doubted.
I understood with horror then with joy,
dubious and luminous joy: it simply spins.
It doesn't need my feet to make it turn.
It doesn't even need my eyes to watch it,
and I, though a latecomer to its surface, I'd
be leaving early.  It was my duty to stay awake
and sing if I could keep my mind on singing,
not extinction, as blurred green summer, lifted
to its apex, succumbed to gravity and fell
to autumn, Ilium, and ashes.  In joy
we are our own uncomprehending mourners,
and more than joy I longed for understanding
and more than understanding I longed for joy."

Andrew Hudgins


----------



## American Horse

midcan5 said:


> 'Blur'
> 
> "Storms of perfume lift from honeysuckle,
> lilac, clover&#8212;and drift across the threshold,
> outside reclaiming inside as its home.
> *Warm days whirl in a bright unnumberable blur,
> a cup&#8212;a grail brimmed with delirium*
> and humbling boredom both.  I was a boy,
> I thought I'd always be a boy, pell&#8212;mell,
> mean, and gaily murderous one moment
> as I decapitated daises with a stick,
> then overcome with summer's opium,
> numb&#8212;slumberous.  *I thought I'd always be a boy,
> each day its own millennium, each
> one thousand years of daylight ending in
> the night watch,* summer's pervigilium,
> which I could never keep because by sunset
> I was an old man.  I was Methuselah,
> the oldest man in the holy book.  I drowsed.
> I nodded, slept&#8212;and without my watching, the world,
> whose permanence I doubted, returned again,
> bluebell and blue jay, speedwell and cardinal
> still there when the light swept back,
> and so was I, which I had also doubted.
> I understood with horror then with joy,
> dubious and luminous joy: *it simply spins.
> It doesn't need my feet to make it turn.*
> It doesn't even need my eyes to watch it,
> and I, *though a latecomer to its surface, I'd
> be leaving early.*  It was my duty to stay awake
> and sing if I could keep my mind on singing,
> not extinction, as blurred green summer, lifted
> to its apex, succumbed to gravity and fell
> to autumn, *Ilium, and ashes.*  In joy
> we are our own uncomprehending mourners,
> *and more than joy I longed for understanding
> and more than understanding I longed for joy."*
> 
> Andrew Hudgins



A beautiful piece of work MC
Here&#8217;s a complementary piece:

Rubaiyat XVI,  XXXIV & LXXV

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai 
 Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, 
 How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp 
 Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn 
 My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn: 
 And Lip to Lip it murmur'd - "While you live 
 "Drink! - for once dead you never shall return."

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass 
 Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, 
 And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot 
 Where I made one - turn down an empty Glass!

*Edward Fitzgerald's Interpretation/translation*


----------



## midcan5

American Horse said:


> A beautiful piece of work MC...



I agree and someone I was not familiar with till now. We are approaching an Anthology in this thread. A lighter piece.

'Wedding Dress'   	  

"That Halloween I wore your wedding dress,
our children spooked & wouldnt speak for days.
Id razored taut calves smooth, teased each blown tress,
thenlipsticked, mascaraed, & self-amazed
shimmied like a starlet on the dance floor.
Id never felt so sensual before
Catholic schoolgirl & neighborhood whore.
In bed, dolled up, undone, we fantasized:
we clutched & fused, torn twins whod been denied.
You were my shy groom.  Love, I was your bride."

Michael Waters


----------



## American Horse

EVOLUTION

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip 
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into light again.

We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And drab as a dead man's hand;
We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees
Or trailed through the mud and sand.
Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet,
Writing a language dumb,
With never a spark in the empty dark
To hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,
And happy we died once more;
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of a Neocomian shore.
The eons came and the eons fled
And the sleep that wrapped us fast
Was riven away in a newer day
And the night of death was past.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung in our airy flights,
Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms
In the hush of the moonless nights;
And, oh! what beautiful years were there
When our hearts clung each to each;
When life was filled and our senses thrilled 
In the first faint dawn of speech.

Thus life by life and love by love
We passed through the cycles strange,
And breath by breath and death by death
We followed the chain of change.
Till there came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing side
The shadows broke and the soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Auroch bull
And tusked like the great cave bear;
And you, my sweet, from head to feet
Were gowned in your glorious hair.
Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
When the night fell o'er the plain
And the moon hung red o'er the river bed
We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge
And shaped it with brutish craft;
I broke a shank from the woodland lank
And fitted it, head and haft;
Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn
Where the mammoth came to drink;
Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone
And slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
Loud answered our kith and kin;
From west to east to the crimson feast
The clan came tramping in.
O'er joint and gristle and padded bone
We fought and clawed and tore,
And cheek by jowl with many a growl
We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved the fight on a reindeer bone
With rude and hairy hand;
I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
That men might understand.
For we lived by blood and the right of might
Ere human laws were drawn,
And the age of sin did not begin
Till our brutal tush were gone.

And that was a million years ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight in the mellow light
We sit at Delmonico's.
Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
Your hair is dark as jet,
Your years are few, your life is new,
Your soul untried, and yet 

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones
And deep in the Coralline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come today, what man may say
We shall not live again?

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that it shall not die,
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-bone men make war
And the oxwain creaks o'er the buried caves
Where the mummied mammoths are.

Then as we linger at luncheon here
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a tadpole and I was a fish.

 Langdon Smith


----------



## midcan5

'Day Job and Night Job'   	  

"After my night job, I sat in class
and ate, every thirteen minutes,
an orange peanutbutter cracker.
Bright grease adorned my notes.

At noon I rushed to my day job
and pushed a broom enough
to keep the boss calm if not happy.
In a hiding place, walled off

by bolts of calico and serge,
I read my masters and copied
Donne, Marlowe, Dickinson, and Frost,
scrawling the words I envied,

so my hand could move as theirs had moved
and learn outside of logic
how the masters wrote.  But why?  Words
would never heal the sick,

feed the hungry, clothe the naked,
blah, blah, blah.
Why couldn't I be practical,
Dad asked, and study law

or take a single business class?
I stewed on what and why
till driving into work one day,
a burger on my thigh

and a sweating Coke between my knees,
I yelled, "Because I want to!"
painedthrilled!as I looked down
from somewhere in the blue

and saw beneath my chastened gaze
another slack romantic
chasing his heart like an unleashed dog
chasing a pickup truck.

And then I spilled my Coke.  In sugar
I sat and fought a smirk.
I could see my new life clear before me.
lt looked the same.  Like work."

Andrew Hudgins


----------



## Metternich

_Voter, voter you'll be thinking
What a fine land this will be
When the taxes have been lowered
Taxes less for you and me_


----------



## American Horse

_'Rough ore, thrown into the melting-pot of 
Robert Burns' genius, comes out as purest gold.'_

_My Love Is Like A Red Red Rose_

O my love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O my love is like a melodie,
That's sweetly played in tune
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry.

Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry.

'Til all the seas gang dry my, my dear
And the rocks melt wi' the sun
And I will love thee still, my dear
While the sands o' life shall run
But fare thee weel, my only love
Oh, fare thee weel a while
And I will come again, my love
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile, my love
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile
And I will come again, my love
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile.

 Robert Burns


----------



## midcan5

'A Blessing'  

"Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom."

James Wright


----------



## American Horse

The below is just one of many other verses of cowboy &#8220;poetry&#8221; turned to song, and there were innumerable verses like this one which were quietly sung by the cowboy as he slowly rode around the herd all night long to keep it calmed.  From dusk to dawn there were two cowboys circling in opposite directions, meeting twice in their circuit around the herd; the singing human voice having a soothing affect on the herd, keeping it from stampeding. 

One herd might contain three thousand head of long-horn cattle, a breed highly prone to panic and then to dangerous stampede with the herd  being driven as far as fifteen hundred miles across terrain filled with dangers. 

By tradition at the beginning of the drive each cowboy in turn would pick his choice from the _remuda,_ then a second, then a third, until every rider had a string of 11 horses for the long trail ride to come.  The drive's own remuda would be driven along separately and trailing the herd by a &#8216;remuda boss&#8217; who managed their care along the way.

AH


A Cowboy's Song/I Ride and Old Paint

I ride an old paint, I lead an old dan.
I&#8217;m off to Montanny to throw the hoolihan...

We feed &#8216;m in the coulies and water in the draw.
Their tails are all matted, their backs are all raw...

Ride around, little doggies, ride around &#8216;em all slow&#8230;
They&#8217;re fiery and snuffy and a-rarin&#8217; to go. 

Old Bill Jones had a daughter and a son
One went to college, the other went wrong

His wife, she got killed in a poolroom fight
But still he's a-singin' from mornin' till night

When I die, take my saddle from the wall
Place it on my old pony, lead him out of his stall

Tie my bones to my saddle and turn our faces to the West
And we'll ride the prairie we love the best

I ride an old paint, I lead an old dan
I'm goin' to Montana to throw the hoolihan

They feed in the coulees, they water in the draw
Their tails are all matted, and their backs are all raw&#8230;..


James Michener, in his novel Centennial dates this to about 1868
The PBS History of the West site places the song in the 1868-1874 period, but without documentation.
Cowboy Poetry at the BAR-D Ranch


----------



## midcan5

'Be Drunk'   	  

"You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to itit's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."" 

Charles Baudelaire Translated by Louis Simpson


----------



## midcan5

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

William Shakespeare - from 'As You Like It'


----------



## American Horse

Rubaiyat LIII & XXIII

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, 
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: 
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote 
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, 
Before we too into the Dust descend; 
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, 
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!

Edward Fitzgerald's Interpretation/translation


----------



## midcan5

Another friend died last week, wife of an old friend from childhood. Too many women have cancer today, men die of heart and stress, but cancer invades the better half. All you women get checked frequently too often it is too late. I am not sure of the death image in this poem, but I like the blue jacket. 


'How It Is'

"Shall I say how it is in your clothes?
A month after your death I wear your blue jacket.
The dog at the center of my life recognizes
youve come to visit, hes ecstatic.
In the left pocket, a hole.
In the right, a parking ticket
delivered up last August on Bay State Road.
In my heart, a scatter like milkweed,
a flinging from the pods of the soul.
My skin presses your old outline.
It is hot and dry inside.

I think of the last day of your life,
old friend, how I would unwind it, paste
it together in a different collage,
back from the death car idling in the garage,
back up the stairs, your praying hands unlaced,
reassembling the bits of bread and tuna fish
into a ceremony of sandwich,
running the home movie backward to a space
we could be easy in, a kitchen place
with vodka and ice, our words like living meat.

Dear friend, you have excited crowds
with your example. They swell
like wine bags, straining at your seams.
I will be years gathering up our words,
fishing out letters, snapshots, stains,
leaning my ribs against this durable cloth
to put on the dumb blue blazer of your death."

Maxine W. Kumin


----------



## JW Frogen

Consider this skull

Yorick I believe his name is

We will all know him well.

 He warns against your entire life being about a buck

 a fuck

or a monster truck.


----------



## speedy35

I never saw a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But this I do know anyhow
I'd rather see than be one.

_Ogden Nash_


----------



## midcan5

'Meaning'

"When I die, I will see the lining of the world.
The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.
The true meaning, ready to be decoded.
What never added up will add Up,
What was incomprehensible will be comprehended.
- And if there is no lining to the world?
If a thrush on a branch is not a sign,
But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day
Make no sense following each other?
And on this earth there is nothing except this earth?
- Even if that is so, there will remain
A word wakened by lips that perish,
A tireless messenger who runs and runs
Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies,
And calls out, protests, screams."

Czeslaw Milosz


----------



## speedy35

THE OLD YELLOW HOUSE ON THE HILL

My old house upon the hill
I know it's still standing there still
Now it's covered with white siding
THe old yellow paint nicely hiding

Out back is the gigantic spruce tree
For its lofty heights forever I could see
Eight pear trees we also had
I loved to climb them when I was a lad

A goldfish pond from an old sink was made
Around its edge I often played
A long sloping yard at the house's side
Made a nice place on a sled to slide

Plenty of gras we had to mow
With the old push mower, it went kind of slow
WOrking in our garden of vegtables and flowers
Often filled my summer hours

A fireplace and a flag pole stand
Made from rock and cement by my mother's hand
A second-hand bike is what I rode
And a flexible flyer after it snowed

These are the things I recall with ease
These are the pleasant memories
BUt all was not rosy on Montague St.
Life was not all happy and sweet

The house was at least one hundred years old
The second one in the area I was told
In the unfinished cellar one could see frayed wire
I was ever afraid we would catch on fire.

To imply all was great was not my intent
Home was where many lonely hours were spent
Sedom did my friends play with me there
We AlWAYS seemed to go elsewhere

Missing was a devoted Dad
That I saw all my friends had
I suppose to others I seemed happy outside
But in my soul I'd already died

I guess if I have to tell the truth
FOr the most part I had a happy youth
And it still give me a little thrill
To remember the old yellow house on the hill
3-2-1997


----------



## midcan5

'Thursday Afternoon: Life Is Sweet'

"I know what's happening, see what's coming, and try like mad to fight it. Tapioca simmers in the dented pot. The Joy of Cooking says to use a bain-marie but I say, bain-marie, my ass. That Rombauer woman never shopped at Goodwill a day in her life. (He'll be home in three hours.) I stir constantly, watch carefully because that's what the damned book says to do but any fool knows that the stuff is done when the spoon starts to drag.

Tapioca has many lives, grows a new skin each time a scoop's dug out. Those beady little eyes--even though the cookbook insists on calling them pearls--bounce from the box all dry and nervous and then the hot milk leaches the starch out and makes a gluey mess. The book says, Never boil the pudding, but screw that: I love those thick, beige swells exploding like volcanoes, the sound as the surface breaks, the smell of burnt sugar at the bottom of the pot.

They tell you, Spoon the pudding into individual cups, but I put the whole mess in a plastic bowl and watch it quiver as it slides into the icebox. The kids like to press little dimples into it, then lick their fingers clean behind the icebox door so I won't know who did it. Me, I push clear through to the bottom of the bowl and my finger comes out so coated that it fills my mouth.

I leave the pot on the counter, won't wash it for hours. (Slob, he'll say, but I'm learning to ignore him.) The residue dries into a sheet as sheer as dragonfly wings and the kids will peel it off, laughing and drooling as it melts in their mouths. I can hear them yell now as they race up the driveway, pitch their bikes against the gate. The screen door slams and in rushes the smell of them: sweat, cotton, soap, candy. 

Holly Iglesias


----------



## midcan5

Consciousness

I have been trying to understand consciousness,
thought, how it takes in ideas,
what happens then that changes
the same view into another view,
is some pattern of neurons connected
to an answer some analogy
that places the idea in this box
where it make sense to the listener, 
the hearer only hears what
thoughts have paths and where no paths exist
the thought
is it discarded
lost.


----------



## midcan5

'Working Late'   	  

"A light is on in my father's study.
"Still up?" he says, and we are silent,
looking at the harbor lights,
listening to the surf
and the creak of coconut boughs.

He is working late on cases.
No impassioned speech! He argues from evidence,
actually pacing out and measuring,
while the fans revolving on the ceiling
winnow the true from the false.

Once he passed a brass curtain rod
through a head made out of plaster
and showed the jury the angle of fire--
where the murderer must have stood.
For years, all through my childhood,
if I opened a closet . . . bang!
There would be the dead man's head
with a black hole in the forehead.

All the arguing in the world
will not stay the moon.
She has come all the way from Russia
to gaze for a while in a mango tree
and light the wall of a veranda,
before resuming her interrupted journey
beyond the harbor and the lighthouse
at Port Royal, turning away
from land to the open sea.

Yet, nothing in nature changes, from that day to this,
she is still the mother of us all.
I can see the drifting offshore lights,
black posts where the pelicans brood.

And the light that used to shine
at night in my father's study
now shines as late in mine."

Louis Simpson


----------



## midcan5

'Parents'   	  

"What it must be like to be an angel
or a squirrel, we can imagine sooner.

The last time we go to bed good,
they are there, lying about darkness.

They dandle us once too often,
these friends who become our enemies.

Suddenly one day, their juniors
are as old as we yearn to be.

They get wrinkles where it is better
smooth, odd coughs, and smells.

It is grotesque how they go on
loving us, we go on loving them

The effrontery, barely imaginable,
of having caused us.  And of how.

Their lives: surely
we can do better than that.

This goes on for a long time.  Everything
they do is wrong, and the worst thing,

they all do it, is to die,
taking with them the last explanation,

how we came out of the wet sea
or wherever they got us from,

taking the last link
of that chain with them.

Father, mother, we cry, wrinkling,
to our uncomprehending children and grandchildren."

William Meredith


----------



## midcan5

'Those Winter Sundays'

"Sundays too my father got up early 
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 
then with cracked hands that ached 
from labor in the weekday weather made 
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 
and slowly I would rise and dress, 
fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

Speaking indifferently to him, 
who had driven out the cold 
and polished my good shoes as well. 
What did I know, what did I know 
of love's austere and lonely offices?"

Robert Hayden


----------



## midcan5

'Yesterday'

"My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand

he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know

even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes

he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father

he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me

oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father's hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me

oh yes I say

but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here

I say nothing

he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don't want to keep you

I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know

though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do"

W.S.Merwin


----------



## adamtaylor

Hi,
I really enjoyed reading all the poems. This is for all of you  .What bothers me have you guys gotten a Copyright fo yr your poems? In case not yet, I feel you get it asap and protect your intellectual property from getting stolen.


----------



## midcan5

adamtaylor said:


> Hi, I really enjoyed reading all the poems. This is for all of you  .What bothers me have you guys gotten a Copyright fo yr your poems? In case not yet, I feel you get it asap and protect your intellectual property from getting stolen.



Thanks for your comment.

================================================

'Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit in a Closet and Listen'

"Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.

I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.

Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.

I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning."

Lisa Zaran


----------



## Sky Dancer

A Dream Within A Dream 

by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?


----------



## Sky Dancer

Messy Room

 by Shel Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!


----------



## Sky Dancer

Life Is Fine 

_by Langston Hughes_

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!


----------



## midcan5

'my father'

"was a truly amazing man
he pretended to be
rich
even though we lived on beans and mush and weenies
when we sat down to eat, he said,
"not everybody can eat like this."

and because he wanted to be rich or because he actually
thought he was rich
he always voted Republican
and he voted for Hoover against Roosevelt
and he lost
and then he voted for Alf Landon against Roosevelt
and he lost again
saying, "I don't know what this world is coming to,
now we've got that god damned Red in there again
and the Russians will be in our backyard next!"

I think it was my father who made me decide to
become a bum.
I decided that if a man like that wants to be rich
then I want to be poor.

and I became a bum.
I lived on nickles and dimes and in cheap rooms and
on park benches.
I thought maybe the bums knew something.

but I found out that most of the bums wanted to be
rich too.
they had just failed at that.

so caught between my father and the bums
I had no place to go
and I went there fast and slow.
never voted Republican
never voted.

buried him
like an oddity of the earth
like a hundred thousand oddities
like millions of other oddities,
wasted."

Charles Bukowski


----------



## JW Frogen

Brilliant!

Charles Bukowski was (IS) one of my favorate poets, and not just because of his drinking and sexual adventures, but because he always seemed to be able to turn both into a warning, a metaphor for the larger, and often more boring, mundane human condition.


----------



## midcan5

I'm sure all have stories they repeat too often. Happy Father's day. 

==========================================

'Letter Of Recommendation From My Father To My Future Wife'

"During the war, I was in China.
Every night we blew the world to hell.
The sky was purple and yellow
like his favorite shirt.

I was in India once
on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
There were soldiers,
some women with parasols.
A dead body floated by
going in the opposite direction.
My son likes this story
and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.

When he was twelve,
there was an accident.
He almost went blind.
For three weeks he lay in the hospital,
his eyes bandaged.
He did not like visitors,
but if they came
he'd silently hold their hand as they talked.

Small attentions
are all he requires.
Tell him you never saw anyone
so adept
at parallel parking.

Still, your life will not be easy.
Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
Nothing matches. And what's the turtle shell
doing there, or the map of the moon,
or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart?

You must understand --
he doesn't see the world clearly.
Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!"
when it was only a blue cloud of insects
lifting from the trees.

But he's a good boy.
He likes to kiss
and be kissed.
I remember mornings
he would wake me, stroking my whiskers
and kissing my hand.

He'll tell you -- and it's true --
he prefers the green of your eyes
to all the green life
of heaven and earth."

Richard Jones


----------



## midcan5

Bomb

On the morning of the day I am going to die I took a shower. I stared closely in the mirror, my eyes not what they used to be and wondered at the whiteness of my teeth. Dressing was always simple for me I had black or blue trousers, dress shirt and loafers, when I was younger and still worked in the technical area I added a pocket protector. I think of images young, this nerdy person books in hand, schoolbag over shoulder, glass case stuck in pocket, I was thinner then. 

My wife doesn't like to talk in the morning I do, I am always alive and awake then. We mumble quick good byes to each other as she sips her tea. I check my inventory, the things I need for work, place a bus token in my right pocket, grab my backpack and out the door I go. Habit is comforting.

Birds are squawking, it is warming. The walk to the bus is short and the air smells of spring. I nod to people I see often and settle into a seat near the back of the bus. My mind wanders, I read a bit of a book on the environment and view the rows of homes, cars and people head in all directions. Patience and impatience, figures stand waiting for some destination. We arrive at the subway station and leave single file for the train.

Smells of age, dampness and metal wear fill the air. I maneuver for a seat on the express where I can read or daydream. It is Thursday, another weekend looms, I miss the children and wonder what is on for this weekend. Life goes too fast. The car fills quickly and metal screeches as the wheels turn for town. 

At the next stop a young man rises leaving a backpack. Someone calls to him, but he hurries away. People look up from papers books sleep, then resume daily habits. A young girl moves toward the backpack, looks unsure and moves away to another seat. At the next stop the usual coming and going as the doors open and close. Stations fly by as the express train hurtles toward town when a flash and quickly a boom fills the car, sounds now change, the mind fills with images a split second before silence, a siren sounds somewhere aboveground....


----------



## midcan5

Untitled  	  

"This is what was bequeathed us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.

No other world
But this one:
Willows and the river
And the factory
With its black smokestacks.

No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.

No meaning but what we find here.
No purpose but what we make.

That, and the beloveds clear instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake."

Gregory Orr

==================================

'What Came to Me'   	  

"I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before."

Jane Kenyon


----------



## midcan5

'Death Wants More Death'

"death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God's anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime"

Charles Bukowski


----------



## American Horse

Fifty years ago, every Freshman High school student read this beautiful Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and spent time in class analyzing it.  A few years back I ordered a copy of the poem (about a hundred printed pages in length) to enjoy it again, and I failed to enjoy it as I expected.  

But last evening, finally being in the mood, I tried again and felt some of the same way I felt when I first read it in High school.  It takes finding the right rhythm and timing for the meaning and imagery to make themselves felt.

_Evangeline _
A Tale of Arcadie 

PRELUDE
________________________________________

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, 
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, 
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, 
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. 
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? 
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers -- 
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! 
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré. 
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.


Part the Second  CANTO V (ENDING)
________________________________________

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed; 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey! 
Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom; 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.


A link to the whole poem:

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
from the 1893 Cambridge Edition
(Originally published in 1847)


----------



## midcan5

'Churchgoing'  	  

"The Lutherans sit stolidly in rows;
only their children feel the holy ghost
that makes them jerk and bobble and almost
destroys the pious atmosphere for those
whose reverence bows their backs as if in work.
The congregation sits, or stands to sing,
or chants the dusty creeds automaton.
Their voices drone like engines, on and on,
and they remain untouched by everything;
confession, praise, or likewise, giving thanks.
The organ that they saved years to afford
repeats the Sunday rhythms song by song,
slow lips recite the credo, smother yawns,
and ask forgiveness for being so bored.

I, too, am wavering on the edge of sleep,
and ask myself again why I have come
to probe the ruins of this dying cult.
I come bearing the cancer of my doubt
as superstitious suffering women come
to touch the magic hem of a saint's robe.

Yet this has served two centuries of men
as more than superstitious cant; they died
believing simply. Women, satisfied
that this was truth, were racked and burned with them
for empty words we moderns merely chant.

We sing a spiritual as the last song,
and we are moved by a peculiar grace
that settles a new aura on the place.
This simple melody, though sung all wrong,
captures exactly what I think is faith.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
That slaves should suffer in his agony!
That Christian, slave-owning hypocrisy
nevertheless was by these slaves ignored
as they pitied the poor body of Christ!
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble,
that they believe most, who so much have lost.
To be a Christian one must bear a cross.
I think belief is given to the simple
as recompense for what they do not know.

I sit alone, tormented in my heart
by fighting angels, one group black, one white.
The victory is uncertain, but tonight
I'll lie awake again, and try to start
finding the black way back to what we've lost."

Marilyn Nelson


----------



## midcan5

'Kentucky River Junction'   	 
to Ken Kesey & Ken Babbs


"Clumsy at first, fitting together
the years we have been apart,
and the ways.

But as the night
passed and the day came, the first
fine morning of April,

it came clear:
the world that has tried us
and showed us its joy

was our bond
when we said nothing.
And we allowed it to be

with us, the new green
shining.

          *

Our lives, half gone,
stay full of laughter.

Free-hearted men
have the world for words.

Though we have been
apart, we have been together.

          *

Trying to sleep, I cannot
take my mind away.
The bright day

shines in my head
like a coin
on the bed of a stream.

          *

You left
your welcome."


Wendell Berry


----------



## midcan5

'I Belong There'   	  

"I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to 
   her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a 
single word: Home."


Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Carolyn Forché and Munir Akash


----------



## midcan5

'I Hear America Singing'   	  

"I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
     singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
     at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
     the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the dayat night the party of young fellows,
     robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs."

Walt Whitman


----------



## midcan5

August 06, 1965

We are driving through Charleston and they are yelling ****** lover and some are cheering or just gawking and mom looks anxious but defiant while the driver risks his life and tries to keep eyes on road and roofs and the truck in front of us is there only in case there is a bomb daddy called me into his den Luci Baines he always used those words when there was trouble he'd offer advice I was youngest a bit wily he told me things to keep me from trouble for he knew youth thinks of itself he told how people needed help lots of people so Luci Baines I want you always whomever you meet to ask three people three things that concern them the train ride across the south mommy said we cannot neglect the south the people they risked everything and along the train some shouted things we betrayed them daddy says some will lose their livelihood because they voted and mommy said but we can't forget the south even when we feared daddy took me with him that August day when they signed it and the people in the south shouted and all across the country as he ran I asked three people three things and he always wanted to know for on that August day he said this will change things for lots of people and in two thousand eight my daddy's....

===================

I think LBJ was one of the great presidents in spite of the screw up in Nam. This was prompted after watching a few minutes of his daughters on cspan on the 4th. How America has changed and yet....


----------



## CandyMan

I miss punctuation.


----------



## American Horse

CandyMan said:


> I miss punctuation.


This is free flow free style blank verse poetry/prose. Punctuation isn't necessarily used in this style.


----------



## midcan5

'In Praise of My Bed'

"At last I can be with you!
The grinding hours
since I left your side!
The labor of being fully human,
working my opposable thumb,
talking, and walking upright.
Now I have unclasped
unzipped, stepped out of.
Husked, soft, a be-er only,
I do nothing, but point
my bare feet into your
clean smoothness
feel your quiet strength
the whole length of my body.
I close my eyes, hear myself
moan, so grateful to be held this way." 

Meredith Holmes


----------



## American Horse

Blue Mars (page 438)
_I&#8217;ve been reading a lot of science fiction again, after many years of neglect.  This is the last book of the Trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson.  The book series goes into great detail of the geology, the politics, the aereophany of Mars. Aereophany is essentially the new world-view/religion of Mars.

So much of these three books is much more than ordinary prose, verging on poetry. In this paragraph (I&#8217;ve divided into 3 parts) in Blue Mars&#8230;Robinson is describing a walk taken alone by a 180 year old scientist, on a future, terraformed Mars....after the aquifers have flooded the basins and lowlands, and Terran life has been transplanted there; about the year 2189:_

Meanwhile, the world. 
He went back out on it again. Rumpled land under the blue dome of the sky. The ordinary sky at the equator in spring changed color day by day, it took a color chart even to approximate the tone colors: some days it was a deep violet blue&#8212;clematis blue, or hyacinth blue, or lapis lazuli, or a purplish indigo. Or Prussian blue, a pigment made from ferric ferrocyanide, interestingly, as there was certainly a lot of ferric material up there. Iron blue. Slightly more purple than Himalayan skies as seen in photographs, but otherwise like the Terran skies seen at those high altitudes. And combined with the rock indented landscape, it did seem like a high-altitude place 
Everything: the sky color, the rumpled rock, the cold thin air so pure and chill. 

Everything so high. 
He walked into the wind, or across the wind, or with the wind at his back and each felt different. In his nostrils the wind was like mild intoxicant, flooding the brain. He stepped on lichen-crusted rocks, from slab to slab, as if walking on a personal sidewalk appearing magically out of the shatter of the land, up and down, every step just a step, wandering attentive to the this-ness of each moment. Moment to moment to moment, each one discrete, like.....loops of timespace, like the successive positions of a finch's head, the little birds plancking from one quantum pose to the next. 

It appeared on close inspection that moments were not regular units but varied in duration, depending on what was happening in them. The wind dropped, no birds in sight: everything suddenly still, and oh so silent, except for the buzzing of insects; those moments could last several seconds each. Whereas when sparrows were dogfighting a crow, the moments were nearly instantaneous. Look very closely; sometimes it was a flow, sometimes the planck-planck-planck of individual stillnesses. 
To know; There were different ways of knowing&#8230;..but none of them was quite so satisfactory.


----------



## JW Frogen

A drunk for so long

I forgot every season

And lost the moonshine.


----------



## JW Frogen

A drunk for so long

Changing like all the seasons

Lost in the moonshine


----------



## midcan5

'Children's Party'

"May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. 
My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me. 
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats, 
I kept them from each other's throats. 
I told them tales of magic lands, 
I took them out to wash their hands. 
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces, 
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. 
Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots. 
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. 
Oh, progeny playing by itself 
Is a lonely little elf, 
But progeny in roistering batches 
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. 
Shunned are the games a parent proposes, 
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses, 
Their playmates are their natural foemen 
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. 
Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it, 
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it. 
They observe with glee the ballistic results 
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, 
And inform the assembly with tears and glares 
That everyone's presents are better than theirs. 
Oh, little women and little men, 
Someday I hope to love you again, 
But not till after the party's over, 
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover."

Ogden Nash


----------



## midcan5

My Wife and I  #3

We are married too long 
we don't fight
instead we call each other names,
joke or just say you are crazy,
we deflect and realize no reason
exists to carry on too far,
today I say when 
she drives me mad,
I'm going to whip 
the bean soup outta you
... just as soon as
I work up the energy.
She laughs.


----------



## midcan5

'Some Things Don't Make Any Sense at All'   	  

"My mom says I'm her sugarplum.
My mom says I'm her lamb.
My mom says I'm completely perfect
Just the way I am.
My mom says I'm a super-special wonderful terrific little guy.
My mom just had another baby.
Why?"

Judith Viorst

'Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About'   	  

"My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
     (Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it."
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
     (Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
     (I'm better at printing.)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.

The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead."

Judith Viorst


----------



## midcan5

'A Lesson for This Sunday'


"The growing idleness of summer grass
With its frail kites of furious butterflies
Requests the lemonade of simple praise
In scansion gentler than my hammock swings
And rituals no more upsetting than a
Black maid shaking linen as she sings
The plain notes of some Protestant hosanna
Since I lie idling from the thought in things

Or so they should, until I hear the cries
Of two small children hunting yellow wings,
Who break my Sabbath with the thought of sin.
Brother and sister, with a common pin,
Frowning like serious lepidopterists.
The little surgeon pierces the thin eyes.
Crouched on plump haunches, as a mantis prays
She shrieks to eviscerate its abdomen.
The lesson is the same. The maid removes
Both prodigies from their interest in science.
The girl, in lemon frock, begins to scream
As the maimed, teetering thing attempts its flight.
She is herself a thing of summery light,
Frail as a flower in this blue August air,
Not marked for some late grief that cannot speak.

The mind swings inward on itself in fear
Swayed towards nausea from each normal sign.
Heredity of cruelty everywhere,
And everywhere the frocks of summer torn,
The long look back to see where choice is born,
As summer grass sways to the scythe's design."

Derek Walcott


----------



## midcan5

'Learning to Read'

"Very soon the Yankee teachers
   Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,
   It was agin their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide
   Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge didnt agree with slavery
   Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal
   A little from the book.
And put the words together,
   And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,
   Who took pot liquor fat
And greased the pages of his book,
   And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen
   The leaves upon his head,
Hed have thought them greasy papers,
   But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turners Ben,
   Who heard the children spell,
And picked the words right up by heart,
   And learned to read em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending
   The Yankee teachers down;
And they stood right up and helped us,
   Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And I longed to read my Bible,
   For precious words it said;
But when I begun to learn it,
   Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,
   Oh! Chloe, youre too late;
But as I was rising sixty,
   I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,
   And straight to work I went,
And never stopped till I could read
   The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin
   A place to call my own
And I felt independent
   As the queen upon her throne.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper


----------



## midcan5

"mr youse needn't be so spry
concernin questions arty

each has his tastes but as for i
i likes a certain party


gimme the he-man's solid bliss
for youse ideas i'll match youse

a pretty girl who naked is
is worth a million statues"

e.e. cummings


----------



## midcan5

'Television'

"The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did."

Roald Dahl


----------



## midcan5

Haven't heard or read Antin in years. There are pauses (spaces) in places but they do not show below.  

====

the theory and practice of postmodernism  a manifesto [excerpt]   	  


"         about two years ago elly and i decided we needed a new mattress 
or maybe elly decided it    because i didnt pay much attention to the 
  problem
               we had an old mattress wed had it for years and the salesman
 wed bought it from had assured us it would last us a lifetime      and it
was getting older and lumpy or lumpy in some places and hollowed out 
  in others and    i just assumed it was part of a normal process of aging
 it was getting older we were getting older and wed get used to it     but 
  eleanor has a bad back and she was getting desperate to get rid of 
this mattress     that had lived with us for such a long time and so
 lotally      that i thought i knew all its high points and low points     its
eminences and pitfalls    and i was sure    that at night my body
 worked its way carefully around the lumps    dodging the precipices
and moving to solider ground whenever it could
                                              but maybe eleanor
sleeps more heavily than i do    i have a feeling that i spent much of 
 my life at night avoiding the pitfalls of this mattress that i was used
to     and it was a skill id acquired over the ten or fifteen years of this
 mattress life     so I felt there was no reason to get rid of this mattress
that had been promised to us by a salesman who said it would last the
 rest of our lives     i figured we were going to live long lives i didnt  
think we were anywhere  close to dying     so neither was the mattress
  but eleanor kept waking up with backaches
          still i figured it was a good mattress and that elly just didnt have
 enough skill at avoiding the lumps      it never occurred to me that the 
mattress was at fault     so i didnt  do anything     and elly didnt do
  anything because shes not into consumer products and hates to go
 shopping    but by the end of a year elly convinced me     because she
  has a sensitive back and i dont     that she had a more accurate
  understanding of this business than i did      so I said sure eleanor  
         lets get a new mattress      were rebuilding the house       as long as
were going to have a new house      we may as well have a new mattress 
 but eleanor said how will i know its a good one     i dont want to get 
another mattress that gets hollowed and lumpy and gives me backaches
 when i wake up     how will i know how to get a good one
         i said well open the yellow pages and well look up mattresses and 
 therell be several places that sell them       and ill close my eyes and 
point a finger at one of these places      and it will be a place that has 
 lots of mattresses where we can make a choice as to what constitutes 
 a good one by lying on them "

David Antin


----------



## midcan5

'Caboose Thoughts'   	  

"It's going to come out all rightdo you know?
The sun, the birds, the grassthey know.
They get alongand well get along.

Some days will be rainy and you will sit waiting
And the letter you wait for wont come,
And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray
And the letter I wait for wont come.

There will be ac-ci-dents.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.

I never heard a mockingbird in Kentucky
Spilling its heart in the morning.

I never saw the snow on Chimborazo.
Its a high white Mexican hat, I hear.

I never had supper with Abe Lincoln.
Nor a dish of soup with Jim Hill.

But Ive been around.
I know some of the boys here who can go a little.
I know girls good for a burst of speed any time.

I heard Williams and Walker
Before Walker died in the bughouse.

I knew a mandolin player
Working in a barber shop in an Indiana town,
And he thought he had a million dollars.

I knew a hotel girl in Des Moines.
She had eyes; I saw her and said to myself
The sun rises and the sun sets in her eyes.
I was her steady and her heart went pit-a-pat.
We took away the money for a prize waltz at a
          Brotherhood dance.
She had eyes; she was safe as the bridge over the
          Mississippi at Burlington; I married her.

Last summer we took the cushions going west.
Pikes Peak is a big old stone, believe me.
Its fastened down; something you can count on.

Its going to come out all rightdo you know?
The sun, the birds, the grassthey know.
They get alongand well get along."

Carl Sandburg


----------



## American Horse

midcan5 said:


> 'Caboose Thoughts'
> 
> . . . .
> There will be ac-ci-dents.
> I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
> Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
> Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
> But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
> The train gets put together again
> And the caboose and the green tail lights
> Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
> . . . .


They said of the first trains: "They'll never gettem goin' ... but if they ever gettem goin' they'll never gettem stopped.  (which is a little like what an older man thinks about himself when he does his duty standing in the head)


----------



## Bootneck

The sunset vigil is sadly becoming an all too regular occurence in Afghanistan. We all attend too many and never a hard man will you spot at these sad services. I dedicate this poem by another soldier to all my brothers who gave their lives out there. Particularly the men of 3 Commando Brigade - my friends and colleagues. But most of all I dedicate it to my dearest, lifelong friend, Robert. I miss you Rob.
Rest in peace my brothers. You are loved and never forgotten.

*Sunset Vigil*

The news is spread far and wide
Another comrade has sadly died
A sunset vigil upon the sand
As a soldier leaves this foreign land

We stand alone, and yet as one
In the fading light of a setting sun
We've all gathered to say goodbye
To our fallen comrade who's set to fly

The eulogy's read about their life
Sometimes with words from pals or wife
We all know when the CO's done
What kind of soldier they'd become

The padre then calls us all to pray
The bugler has Last Post to play
The cannon roars and belches flame
We will recall, with pride, their name

A minute's silence stood in place
As tears roll down the hardest face
Deafening silence fills the air
With each of us in personal prayer

Reveille sounds and the parade is done
The hero remembered, forgotten by none
They leave to start the journey back
In a coffin draped in the Union Jack 

_Staff Sergeant Andrew McFarlane_


----------



## midcan5

American Horse said:


> They said of the first trains: "They'll never gettem goin' ... but if they ever gettem goin' they'll never gettem stopped.  (which is a little like what an older man thinks about himself when he does his duty standing in the head)



Ah aging, consider the alternative. Fifty four is young!

=====================================

'After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard'  	  


"East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
                                         looking for home
As night drifts up like a little boat.

Day after day, I become of less use to myself.
Like this mockingbird,
                       I flit from one thing to the next.
What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four?
Tomorrow is dark.
                  Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.

The sky dogs are whimpering.
Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening
                                           up from the damp grass.
Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day,
Go quietly, quietly."

Charles Wright


Sighs of Autumn Rain (1)


----------



## midcan5

Seeing an Elvis impersonator who was quite good last evening, I thought I'd share a few lyrics as poetry today.

"I cant stop loving you
So Ive made up my mind
To live in memory
Of such an old lonesome time

I cant stop wanting you
Its useless to say
So Ill just live my life
In dreams of yesterday.

*****

Are you lonesome tonight,
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Does your memory stray to a brighter sunny day
When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?
Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?
Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?
Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight? 

*****

Maybe I didnt treat you
Quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didnt love you
Quite as often as I could have
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

*****

Fools rush in, where wise men never go
But wise men never fall in love
So how are they to know
When we met, I felt my life begin
So open up your heart and let
This fool rush in

*****

Have I told you lately that I love you?
Could I tell you once again somehow?
Have I told with all my heart and soul how I adore you?
Well darling Im telling you now

*****

Im so hurt to think that you lied to me
Im hurt way down deep inside of me
You said our love was true
And well never, never part
Now youve got someone new
And it breaks my heart

*****

Love me tender,
Love me sweet,
Never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
And I love you so.

Love me tender,
Love me true,
All my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin I love you,
And I always will.

*****

And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and Im a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything

Ill guess Ill never know the reason why
You love me like you do
Thats the wonder
The wonder of you"


various song writers


----------



## midcan5

'A Farewell, Age 10'   	  

"While its owner looks away I touch the rabbit.
Its long soft ears fold back under my hand.
Miles of yellow wheat bend; their leaves
rustle away and wait for the sun and wind.

This day belongs to my uncle.  This is his farm.
We have stopped on our journey; when my father says to
we will go on, leaving this paradise, leaving
the family place.  We have my father's job.

Like him, I will be strong all my life.
We are men.  If we squint our eyes in the sun
we will see far.  I'm ready.  It's good, this resolve.
But I will never pet the rabbit again."

William Stafford


----------



## midcan5

'In a Country'   	  

"My love and I are inventing a country, which we 
can already see taking shape, as if wheels were 
passing through yellow mud. But there is a prob-
lem: if we put a river in the country, it will thaw 
and begin flooding. If we put the river on the bor-
der, there will be trouble. If we forget about the 
river, there will be no way out. There is already a 
sky over that country, waiting for clouds or smoke. 
Birds have flown into it, too. Each evening more 
trees fill with their eyes, and what they see we can 
never erase.

One day it was snowing heavily, and again we were 
lying in bed, watching our country: we could 
make out the wide river for the first time, blue and 
moving. We seemed to be getting closer; we saw 
our wheel tracks leading into it and curving out 
of sight behind us. It looked like the land we had 
left, some smoke in the distance, but I wasn't sure. 
There were birds calling. The creaking of our 
wheels. And as we entered that country, it felt as if 
someone was touching our bare shoulders, lightly, 
for the last time."

Larry Levis


----------



## midcan5

'A List of Praises'   	  

"Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing,
Give praise with Gospel choirs in storefront churches,
Mad with the joy of the Sabbath, 
Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun,
Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes, 
A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry 
living wild on the Streets through generations of children.

Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away 
With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistle
As it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning,
Give praise with the immense and peaceful sigh
Of the wind in the pinewoods, 
At night give praise with starry silences. 

Give praise with the skirling of seagulls 
And the rattle and flap of sails 
And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell
Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor. 
Give praise with the humpback whales, 
Huge in the ocean they sing to one another.

Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and cicadas, 
Give praise with hum of bees, 
Give praise with the little peepers who live near water.
When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like cries
We know that the winter is over. 

Give praise with mockingbirds, day's nightingales.
Hour by hour they sing in the crepe myrtle 
And glossy tulip trees
On quiet side streets in southern towns.

Give praise with the rippling speech
Of the eider-duck and her ducklings
As they paddle their way downstream
In the red-gold morning 
On Restiguche, their cold river,
Salmon river, 
Wilderness river. 

Give praise with the whitethroat sparrow.
Far, far from the cities, 
Far even from the towns, 
With piercing innocence 
He sings in the spruce-tree tops,
Always four notes 
And four notes only. 

Give praise with water, 
With storms of rain and thunder 
And the small rains that sparkle as they dry,
And the faint floating ocean roar 
That fills the seaside villages, 
And the clear brooks that travel down the mountains 

And with this poem, a leaf on the vast flood,
And with the angels in that other country."

Anne Porter


----------



## midcan5

'All That's Left'   	  

"All that's Left
     in the world
whether in Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia
as well as in China, Japan, the United States, 
Europe, the Middle East, Africa
all of them cannot,
   despite their resistance,
   despite their refusal,
stop this march of death
because they, 
as well as all that's Right 
in the world,
   despite their refusal,
   despite their resistance,
already are counted among those
   in this last parade.
Communists and progressives,
nazis, fascists and reactionaries,
zionists and anarchists of every stripe
none are excluded, none can evade the march.

This one's not coming 
with hammer and sickles or swastikas
or flags of any land.

This one's the march 
all wars surrender to.

But when?!   comes the unanimous cry.
When will it really happen?
If death is peace,
when can I truly die?

You will never know, and yet you do,
because you may already have,
and this life is your way
of paying homage to the power
that loves you enough 
to have taken your life away
and left you with the taste
of immortality on your lips.

Nothing mystical: no Christ,
Allah, Jahweh or Buddha in the wings.
Even lying on your back you're marching.

This is not a cynical or pessimist
or nihilist poem. Join death 
to your life and you will live
as if there were no drum to march to.

There is no march at all.

You're done. All will be well for all."

Jack Hirschman


----------



## Bootneck

O Lord I have not been to careful
In the things that I have said and done
Ive boasted too much on my nights on the spree
And the games of pontoon that Ive won

But I have always done my duty
Wherever I have been
Ashore with the gallant commandoes
Or out with the fleet at sea

But when Gabriel blows his last trumpet
And the reaper his harvest doth gleen
O Lord if Ive been a sinner
Well at least I was a Marine

Once a Marine, Always a Marine

Per Mare Per Terram


----------



## paperview

One of my favorites, by Adrienne Rich.
I may share some of my own here ...at some point.
------------------------------

Good-bye to you whom I shall see tomorrow,
Next year and when I'm fifty; still goodbye.
This is the leave we never really take.
If I were dead or gone to live in China
The event might draw your stature in my mind.
I should be forced to look upon you whole
The way we look upon things we lose.
We see each other daily and in segments;
Parting might make us meet anew, entire.

You asked me once, and I could give no answer,
How far dare we throw off the daily ruse,
official treacheries of face and name,
Have out our true identity?  I could hazard
An answer now, if you are asking still.
We are a small and lonely race
Showing no sign of mastering solitude
Out on this stony planet we farm.
The most that we can do for one another
Is let our blunders and our blind mischances
Argue a certain brusque abrupt compassion.
We might as well be truthful.  I should say
They're luckiest who know they're not unique;

But only art or common interchange
Can teach that kindest truth.  And even art
Can only hint at what disturbed a Melville
Or calmed a Mahler's frenzy; you and I
Still look from separate windows every morning
Upon the same white daylight.

And when we come into each others rooms
Once in a while, encumbered and self-conscious,
We hover awkwardly about the threshold
And usually regret the visit later.
Perhaps the harshest fact is, only lovers --
And once in a while two with the grace of lovers --
Unlearn that clumsiness of rare intrusion
And let each other freely come and go.
Most of us shut too quickly into cupboards
The margin-scribbled books, the dried geranium,
The penny horoscope, letters never mailed.
The door may open, but the room is altered;
Not the same room we look from night and day.

It takes a late and slow blooming wisdom
To learn that those we marked infallible
Are tragic-comic stumblers like ourselves.
The knowledge breeds reserve.  We walk on tiptoe,
Demanding more than we know how to render.
Two edged discovery hunts us finally down;
The human act will make us real again,
And then perhaps we come to know each other.

Let us return to imperfection's school.
No longer wandering after Plato's ghost,
Seeking the garden where all fruit is flawless,
We must at last renounce that ultimate blue
And take a walk in other kinds of weather.
The sourest apple makes its wry announcement
That imperfection has a certain tang.
Maybe we shouldn't turn our pockets out
To the last crumb or lingering bit of fluff,
But all we can confess of what we are
Has in it the defeat of isolation --
If not our own, then someone's, anyway.

So I come back to saying this good-by,
A sort of ceremony of my own,
This stepping backward for another glance.
Perhaps you'll say we need no ceremony,
Because we know each other, crack and flaw,
Like two irregular stones that fit together.
Yet, still good-by, because we live by inches
And only sometimes see the full dimension.
Your stature's one I want to memorize --
Your whole level of being, to impose
On any other comers, man or woman.
I'd ask them that they carry what they are
With your particular bearing, as you wear
The flaws that make you both yourself and human.


----------



## midcan5

'We Didn't Start The Fire'

"Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray
South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio 

Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Studebaker, television
North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe

Rosenbergs, H-Bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom
Brando, "The King and I", and "The Catcher in the Rye"

Eisenhower, vaccine, England's got a new queen 
Marciano, Liberace, Santayana goodbye

Chorus: We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Josef Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev
Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc

Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, dacron
Dien Bien Phu and "Rock Around the Clock" 

Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team
Davy Crockett, "Peter Pan", Elvis Presley, Disneyland

Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Khrushchev
Princess Grace, "Peyton Place", trouble in the Suez 

Chorus

Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac
Sputnik, Chou En-Lai, "Bridge on the River Kwai"

Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball
Starkweather, homicide, children of thalidomide

Buddy Holly, "Ben-Hur", space monkey, Mafia
hula hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no go

U2, Syngman Rhee, payola and Kennedy
Chubby Checker, "Psycho", Belgians in the Congo 

Chorus

Hemingway, Eichmann, "Stranger in a Strange Land" 
Dylan, Berlin, Bay of Pigs Invasion 

"Lawrence of Arabia", British Beatlemania
Ole Miss, John Glenn, Liston beats Patterson

Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British politician sex 
JFK, blown away, what else do I have to say

Chorus

Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon, back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock 
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, terror on the airline
Ayatollolah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan

"Wheel of Fortune" , Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz 
Hypodermics on the shore, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola Wars, I can't take it anymore

Chorus

We didn't start the fire
But when we are gone
Will it still burn on, and on, and on, and on..."

Billy Joel


[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8lrRvuwczk]YouTube - We Didn't Start the Fire[/ame]


----------



## The Illusion

Malady
By Jamie

The rhythm of life surrounds me. The steady pulse from the Mother echoes through the womb of the Earth. She bears witness to the deformities of the Circle, broken. She adjusts herself in an attempt to regain the balance once maintained by mankind.

I view the world around me through the eyes of ignorance in her purist form...releasing herself through me...a radiance that beats through my very existence. Beating. pulsating. Neverending. She comfots me withher beautiful scenery...but WHY???? Comfort is for the imperfect souls- the weak - the vulnerable! How dare I think I should need comfort! Raised with a stiff upper lip and skin of leather I was! To accept comfort, is to sheath the only pride remaining in me. I do not deserve comfort.

Society is relentless - never ceasing to assault my person...backing me up into recluse. I am but a composer of my own sorrow - a tragedian - my very own author and I have now completed my nightmare. Society cannot punish me, I simply will not allow it. Miserable I make my every day - creating for myself and intense reality...that I do not want.

Escape! I need to escape! Melting from the mind outward...the dreams..the thoughts...the conscious - all bleeding from the sockets of my eyes and flowing thus from my vision - clouding my view of reality. Day after day, misery is my companion, a self created asylum inside my mind...thirteen long years of malignant torture...

It had me. It fooled me. It blinded me. No mercy - my own mind - my own predator - my very own shadow. All my fears and anger-guilt...shame...everything was deranged and malicious...deadly mad and breathing in nothing less than heinous thoughts. Chaos drifts pasts and cloaks itself around me. Darkness consumes the fathoms of my heart...tearing myself apart from the inside out. The dwelling place of a little blue-eyed girl...destroyed and then burned...chased away by the heathen woman residing in this flesh. The little girl murdered and left to rot in the heat of the present evil...and her soul left scarred on that ether of time, replaying it's lonliness over and over like a broken record...

Death of innocence is never easy, nor it is ever forgotten. Guilt plays in the mind..boiling over time..and then suicide. Suicide of the mind. Death to the soul. It becomes me...and i...become it. I welcome death. I caress it. I contain it. It fights for its freedom but I've become too strong. It relaxes and lays at my feet...obediently: Death.

Within the Bardo I can see many selves - crystal clear vision. My heart pure as the most flawless diamond...my mind overflowing with the mother's sweet wisdom. Memories of the before-self...a genuine sycophant. I've been now inoculated with her seed bearing the inscription of my path and an insatiable thirst for knowledge prevents me from remaining listless...to think that at one point I was that temerarious...a prig - plucked out of the weeds...ah god - the noxious weed garden of mundane, torment infested by the many irreparable maladies...collections of misery..now lost forever...in time...


----------



## Bootneck

I'm sitting here thinking of my best friend Rob. Today would have been his birthday. So, dear Rob, I lift my glass and wish you happy birthday...wherever you are. I'll never forget you brother.

Wherever we must go
Whatever we must do
My brothers in arms I promise
Ill always stand beside you
Ill face the dangers you face
Keep you safe from harm
Ill guard you as you rest your heads
When all about seems calm
When the enemy is closing in
Ill help keep them at arms length
Then well send those bastards packing
Together with our strength

Should one of our brothers fall
I will share his pain like you
For the honour well hold for our brothers
Helps each one of us through
Were all in this together
Brothers in arms far from home
And knowing we all stand together
Not one of us is ever alone

My Brothers I salute you
For you are all my friends
Im proud to stand beside you all
United til the end

Michaela Turner 


To Rob and all my fallen brothers from 3 Commando Brigade
Cheers and bless you all.

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IG82urgLZXU&NR=1]YouTube - Royal Marine's Commando R I P[/ame]​


----------



## The Illusion

Thats nice, boot.  Very very nice... almost made me cry...

Jamie


----------



## Bootneck

The Illusion said:


> Thats nice, boot.  Very very nice... almost made me cry...
> 
> Jamie



Thank you Jamie. My tears run freely for those of my brothers I'll see no more.


----------



## PixieStix

Bootneck said:


> I'm sitting here thinking of my best friend Rob. Today would have been his birthday. So, dear Rob, I lift my glass and wish you happy birthday...wherever you are. I'll never forget you brother.
> 
> Wherever we must go
> Whatever we must do
> My brothers in arms I promise
> Ill always stand beside you
> Ill face the dangers you face
> Keep you safe from harm
> Ill guard you as you rest your heads
> When all about seems calm
> When the enemy is closing in
> Ill help keep them at arms length
> Then well send those bastards packing
> Together with our strength
> 
> Should one of our brothers fall
> I will share his pain like you
> For the honour well hold for our brothers
> Helps each one of us through
> Were all in this together
> Brothers in arms far from home
> And knowing we all stand together
> Not one of us is ever alone
> 
> My Brothers I salute you
> For you are all my friends
> Im proud to stand beside you all
> United til the end
> 
> Michaela Turner
> 
> 
> To Rob and all my fallen brothers from 3 Commando Brigade
> Cheers and bless you all.
> 
> 
> YouTube - Royal Marine's Commando R I P​


 

That is beautiful Bootneck  It made me cry

~Rest in Peace Warrior Brothers! You mission is complete. Your Brothers will carry on~ A Friend


----------



## midcan5

'Still I Remain'

"Who is this man, that can pull a trigger,
and end a life without so much as
the quickening of his heartbeat?
What do his hands grasp now I wonder?
Cold metal, a Commando dagger,
whilst the memory of his soft touch,
still aches on the surface of my skin.

I may not know who he is, but my heart does.
It shouts his name with every beat,
and grieves every second that were parted.
It knows every inch of his skin,
and can see the edges of his soul.
Each beat a metronome counting,
the moments until hes safe in my arms.

I didnt know that fear like this was possible.
But it has become my everyday companion.
Im waiting for him alone in the darkness,
like a princess locked in a tower,
whilst I spin my fear into hope and,
my love and prayers into a suit of armour,
to keep him safe.  Still I remain."

"Lucy"

February 2009
War poetry 2009


----------



## midcan5

'A Love Song'   	  

"What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?"

William Carlos Williams


----------



## The Illusion

Those are quite good, Mid.  I enjoy reading your work.

Jamie


----------



## Sky Dancer

Speaking: The Hero


I did not want to go.
They inducted me. 
I did not want to die.
They called me yellow. 

I tried to run away.
They courtmartialed me.

I did not shoot.
They said I had no guts.

I cried in pain.
They carried me to safety.

In safety I died.
They blew taps over me.

They crossed out my name
And buried me under a cross.

They made a speech in my home town.
I was unable to call them liars.

They said I gave my life.
I had struggled to keep it.

They said I set an example
I had tried to run.

They said they were proud of me.
I had been ashamed of them.

They said my mother should be proud.
My mother cried.

I wanted to live.
They called me a coward.

I died a coward.
They called me a hero.

by Felix Pollak


----------



## Sky Dancer

The End and the Beginning 

by Wislawa Szmborska


After every war 
someone has to clean up. 
Things won't 
straighten themselves up, after all. 
Someone has to push the rubble 
to the sides of the road, 
so the corpse-laden wagons can pass. 

Someone has to get mired 
in scum and ashes, 
sofa-springs, 
splintered glass, 
and bloody rags. 

Someone must drag in a girder 
to prop up a wall. 
Someone must glaze a window, 
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not, 
and takes years. 
All the cameras have left 
for another war. 

Again we'll need bridges 
and new railway stations. 

Sleeves will go ragged 
from rolling them up. 
Someone, broom in hand, 
still recalls how it was. 
Someone listens 
and nods with unsevered head. 
Yet others milling about 
already find it dull. 

From behind the bush 
sometimes someone still unearths 
rust-eaten arguments 
and carries them to the garbage pile. 

Those who knew 
what was going on here 
must give way to 
those who know little. 
And less than little. 
And finally as little as nothing. 

In the grass which has overgrown 
causes and effects, 
someone must be stretched out, 
blade of grass in his mouth, 
gazing at the clouds.

Wislawa Szmborska was a Polish poet. She was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1996. She died in 2002, at the age of 101.


----------



## BasicGreatGuy

What Gift is Fitting for Thee?

What gift is fitting for thee, if not my heart?
Shall mere thoughts of inaction be the light
that illuminates the depths of my heart, of which
I ask of thee to walk in?

What gift is fitting for thee, if not my friendship?
Shall I make a kindred fire that reflects the
whimsical dances of your face, if friendship is
not the spark that has created the fire upon which
we find comfort?

What gift is fitting for thee, if not compassion?
Shall the footsteps of ego and cynicism bring my
heart closer to yours, if compassion is nothing more
than the vain echoes of derision? How will I be able to
walk with you, if I cannot see the person of you in the
mirror of compassion?

What gift is fitting for thee, if not understanding?
Shall I call to thee from my hidden room, and require
thee to understand that which I deny myself?
Shall I covet the past in its dimmed memories,
while seeking to find the light in the woman of you?

What gift is fitting for thee, if not love?

copyright 2008 BGG


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Peace of Wild Things  

  When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

Wendell Berry


----------



## dilloduck

I got a lot of compliments on a shirt I bought

I hate when people notice what I wear

It was white with green and black stripes

I took it back 


_dillo duck_


----------



## Phoenix

dilloduck said:


> I got a lot of compliments on a shirt I bought
> 
> I hate when people notice what I wear
> 
> It was white with green and black stripes
> 
> I took it back
> 
> 
> _dillo duck_



Deep, ducky.  Really deep.


----------



## dilloduck

Eve said:


> dilloduck said:
> 
> 
> 
> I got a lot of compliments on a shirt I bought
> 
> I hate when people notice what I wear
> 
> It was white with green and black stripes
> 
> I took it back
> 
> 
> _dillo duck_
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Deep, ducky.  Really deep.
Click to expand...


thanks--some of my latest stuff--neo-duckish


----------



## Phoenix

dilloduck said:


> thanks--some of my latest stuff--neo-duckish



Way better than anything I've got.


----------



## dilloduck

Eve said:


> dilloduck said:
> 
> 
> 
> thanks--some of my latest stuff--neo-duckish
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Way better than anything I've got.
Click to expand...


Writer's envy-----I get that a lot.


----------



## Phoenix

dilloduck said:


> Writer's envy-----I get that a lot.



yes, but I have female angst and drama.  You can't compete with that.


----------



## dilloduck

Eve said:


> dilloduck said:
> 
> 
> 
> Writer's envy-----I get that a lot.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> yes, but I have female angst and drama.  You can't compete with that.
Click to expand...


oh shit--do you play a ukelele, wear a stocking hat and cry about evil men ??????


----------



## Phoenix

dilloduck said:


> oh shit--do you play a ukelele, wear a stocking hat and cry about evil men ??????



I'm getting better on the ukelele, wear a camp ball cap or cowboy hat and cry about evil men who don't bring me a filet or good chocolate.  It's rough, but makes for mediocre poetry.


----------



## midcan5

'Always on the Train'   	  

"Writing poems about writing poems
is like rolling bales of hay in Texas.
Nothing but the horizon to stop you.

But consider the railroad's edge of metal trash;
bird perches, miles of telephone wires.
What is so innocent as grazing cattle?
If you think about it, it turns into words.

Trash is so cheerful; flying up
like grasshoppers in front of the reaper.
The dust devil whirls it aloft; bronze candy wrappers,
squares of clear plastic--windows on a house of air.

Below the weedy edge in last year's mat,
red and silver beer cans.
In bits blown equally everywhere,
the gaiety of flying paper
and the black high flung patterns of flocking birds."

Ruth Stone


----------



## midcan5

'Apart'   	  

Do not write. I am sad, and want my light put out.
Summers in your absence are as dark as a room.
I have closed my arms again. They must do without.
To knock at my heart is like knocking at a tomb.
                Do not write!

Do not write. Let us learn to die, as best we may.
Did I love you? Ask God. Ask yourself. Do you know?
To hear that you love me, when you are far away,
Is like hearing from heaven and never to go.
                Do not write!

Do not write. I fear you. I fear to remember,
For memory holds the voice I have often heard.
To the one who cannot drink, do not show water,
The beloved one's picture in the handwritten word.
                Do not write!

Do not write those gentle words that I dare not see,
It seems that your voice is spreading them on my heart,
Across your smile, on fire, they appear to me,
It seems that a kiss is printing them on my heart.
                Do not write!"

Louis Simpson and Marceline Desbordes-Valmore


----------



## midcan5

'Old Friends'

"Old friends? We must be. You&#8217;re delighted to see me. I&#8217;m delighted to see you. But who are you? Oh, my God, you&#8217;re Jane. I can&#8217;t believe it. Jane. &#8220;Jane! How are you? It&#8217;s been &#8212; how long has it been?&#8221; I&#8217;d like to suggest that the reason I didn&#8217;t recognize you right off the bat is that you&#8217;ve done something to your hair, but you&#8217;ve done nothing to your hair, nothing that would excuse my not recognizing you. What you&#8217;ve actually done is&#8217; gotten older. I don&#8217;t believe it. You used to be my age, and now you&#8217;re much, much, much older than I am. You could be my mother. Unless of course I look as old as you and I don&#8217;t know it. Which is not possible. Or is it? I&#8217;m looking around the room and I notice that everyone in it looks like someone &#8212; and when I try to figure out exactly who that someone is, it turns out to be a former version of herself, a thinner version or a healthier version or a pre-plastic-surgery version or a taller version. If this is true of everyone, it must be true of me. Mustn&#8217;t it? But never mind: you are speaking. &#8220;Maggie,&#8221; you say, &#8220;it&#8217;s been so long.&#8221; &#8220;I&#8217;m not Maggie,&#8221; I say. &#8220;Oh, my God,&#8221; you say, &#8220;It&#8217;s you. I didn&#8217;t recognize you. You&#8217;ve done something to your hair.""

Nora Ephron


----------



## Fatality

looney left 
weep for their god
the man who fed them
has fallen 
from his throne


----------



## midcan5

In the future you need to give your 
meaningless assumption
more heft and weighty bombast
add slogans and chest beating
to hoist up your empty words,
hammer in another unwarranted extrapolation
possibly add imaginative obfuscation
reply in all seriousness
with intention and additional bullshit
I know you can do it 
try again, you do it so well.


----------



## midcan5

'American History'

"Those four black girls blown up
in that Alabama church
remind me of five hundred
middle passage blacks,
in a net, under water
in Charleston harbor
so redcoats wouldn't find them.
Can't find what you can't see
can you?"

Michael S. Harper


----------



## Fatality

praise be obama 
the moist haired god 
of blessed satisfaction 
who engulfs all 
with his beaming half white smile


----------



## midcan5

Day #2: Poem

"On Tuesday at noon the
sun suddenly came out I
swear I said to my
daughter something was happening but
what and the stars don't
care about us who we
elect or when we listen to
the radio and hear it
say President Obama is going
to shut down the prison
the stars don't care they
are forever exploding hydrogen atoms
slowly depleting dying like us
to them if they thought
at all they'd think everything
we do is in prison
the president said we could
write poems again saying "president"
that people would have to
think about not just understand
like he said "science is
coming, people" to which my
son said "did he say
science?" I said "I know
it's hard to believe but
the new president said science""

Matt Rohrer

From poems on the Obama presidency.


----------



## Fatality

obama speaks

watch my left hand so you wont see the right
look a rainbow in the sky
a puff of smoke
presto!
night.


----------



## midcan5

'Dreams'   	  

"Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.


Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow."

Langston Hughes


----------



## Fatality

obama the lord

oh lord on holy hill
speak to us the willing 
raise an arm outstreatched
in salute to do thy bidding


----------



## midcan5

'A Psalm of Life'  

'What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist'

"Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   "Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
   Is our destined end or way;
But to act to each to-morrow
   Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
   And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
   In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
   Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
   Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
   With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
   Learn to labor and to wait."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


----------



## Fatality

oh barry
holy golden god of us
let my hands never do a days work
pay me for my service


----------



## midcan5

'If'   	  

"If you can keep your head when all about you
   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
   But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
   Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
   And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
   If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
   And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
   And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
   And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
   To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
   Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
   Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
   If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
   Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!"

Rudyard Kipling


----------



## Sky Dancer

I am accused of tending to the past 

by Lucille Clifton


I am accused of tending to the past
as if I made it.
as if I sculted it.
with my own hands, I did not.
this past was waiting for me
when I came.
a monstrous unnamed baby.
and I with my mother's itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now
learning language every day,
remembering faces, names and dates,
when she is srong enough to travel
on her own, beware she will.


----------



## midcan5

'In The Secular Night'

"In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
you remember it from being sixteen,
when the others were out somewhere, having a good time,
or so you suspected,
and you had to baby-sit.
You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
and filled up the glass with grapejuice
and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
with his big-band sound,
and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple.
Now, forty years later, things have changed,
and it's baby lima beans.
It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
This is what comes from forgetting to eat
at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
drain, add cream and pepper,
and amble up and down the stairs,
scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
talking to yourself out loud.
You'd be surprised if you got an answer,
but that part will come later.

There is so much silence between the words,
you say. You say, The sensed absence
of God and the sensed presence
amount to much the same thing,
only in reverse.
You say, I have too much white clothing.
You start to hum.
Several hundred years ago
this could have been mysticism
or heresy. It isn't now.
Outside there are sirens.
Someone's been run over.
The century grinds on."

Margaret Atwood


----------



## midcan5

'Doing Laundry on Sunday'

"So this is the Sabbath, the stillness
in the garden, magnolia
bells drying damp petticoats

over the porch rail, while bicycle
wheels thrum and the full-breasted tulips
open their pink blouses

for the hands that pressed them first
as bulbs into the earth.
Bread, too, cools on the sill,

and finches scatter bees
by the Shell Station where a boy
in blue denim watches oil

spread in phosphorescent scarves
over the cement. He dips
his brush into a bucket and begins

to scrub, making slow circles
and stopping to splash water on the children
who, hours before it opens,

juggle bean bags outside Gantsys
Ice Cream Parlor,
while they wait for color to drench their tongues,

as I wait for water to bloom
behind mewhite foam, as of magnolias,
as of green and yellow

birds bathing in leaveswait,
as always, for the day, like bread, to rise
and, with movement

imperceptible, accomplish everything."

Brigit Pegeen Kelly


----------



## AZ_X_BubbleHead

Holy smokes some talented writers here...Some scary ones as well.  I love authors who write about their pasts, views, life..Just tell stories.  So here goes my first, and old, poetry entry to USMB...

08July2003 - 2:25am

The Submariner


I have punched holes through almost every ocean.

In most foreign ports I have caused quite a commotion.

I have kissed the local island girls as they rubbed me with lotion.

I have stumbled around town high upon the Habu potion.


I must admit we are a strange breed.

A little fun is all we really need.

Dive Dive is our humbling creed.

For we are the heros upon the pages you read.


We work very hard and strive to be the best.

We train all day to pass the final test.

We wear symbolic dolphins across our chest.

And a red badge of courage upon our vest.


We don't fight wars banging the war drum.

Through depth and stealth is the way we come.

And when we return we'll preform our victory hum,

Because we fight for a cause, a cause known as Freedom.


----------



## midcan5

'Dangerous for Girls'	  

"It was the summer of Chandra Levy, disappearing
       from Washington D.C., her lover a Congressman, evasive
              and blow-dried from Modesto, the TV wondering

in every room in America to an image of her tight jeans and piles
       of curls frozen in a studio pose. It was the summer the only 
              woman known as a serial killer, a ten-dollar whore trolling

the plains of central Florida, said she knew she would
       kill again, murder filled her dreams
              and if she walked in the world, it would crack

her open with its awful wings. It was the summer that in Texas, another
       young woman killed her five children, left with too many
              little boys, always pregnant. One Thanksgiving, she tried

to slash her own throat. That summer the Congressman
       lied again about the nature of his relations, or,
              as he said, he couldn't remember if they had sex that last

night he saw her, but there were many anonymous girls that summer,
       there always are, who lower their necks to the stone
              and pray, not to God but to the Virgin, herself once

a young girl, chosen in her room by an archangel.
       Instead of praying, that summer I watched television, reruns of
              a UFO series featuring a melancholic woman detective

who had gotten cancer and was made sterile by aliens. I watched
       infomercials: exercise machines, pasta makers,
              and a product called Nails Again With Henna,

ladies, make your nails steely strong, naturally,
       and then the photograph of Chandra Levy
              would appear again, below a bright red number,

such as 81, to indicate the days she was missing.
       Her mother said, please understand how we're feeling
              when told that the police don't believe she will be found alive,

though they searched the parks and forests
       of the Capitol for the remains and I remembered
              being caught in Tennessee, my tent filled with wind

lifting around me, tornado honey, said the operator when I called
       in fear. The highway barren, I drove to a truck stop where
              maybe a hundred trucks hummed in pale, even rows

like eggs in a carton. Truckers paced in the dining room,
       fatigue in their beards, in their bottomless
              cups of coffee. The store sold handcuffs, dirty

magazines, t-shirts that read, Ass, gas or grass.
       Nobody rides for free, and a bulletin board bore a 
              public notice: Jane Doe, found in a refrigerator box

outside Johnson, TN, her slight measurements and weight.
       The photographs were of her face, not peaceful in death,
              and of her tattoos Born to Run, and J.T. caught in

scrollworks of roses. One winter in Harvard Square, I wandered 
       drunk, my arms full of still warm, stolen laundry, and
              a man said come to my studio and of course I went&#8212;

for some girls, our bodies are not immortal so much as
       expendable, we have punished them or wearied
              from dragging them around for so long and so we go

wearing the brilliant plumage of the possibly freed
       by death. Quick on the icy sidewalks, I felt thin and
              fleet, and the night made me feel unique in the eyes

of the stranger. He told me he made sculptures
       of figure skaters, not of the women's bodies,
              but of the air that whipped around them,

a study of negative space,
       which he said was the where-we-were-not
              that made us. Dizzy from beer,

I thought why not step into
       that space? He locked the door behind me."

Connie Voisine


----------



## Bootneck

*The Illegal Immigrant*

I cross ocean, poor and broke. 
Take bus, see employment folk. 
Nice man treat me good in there. 
Say I need to see welfare. 
Welfare say, 'You come no more, 
We send cash right to your door.' 
Welfare cheques - they make you wealthy! 
NHS - it keep you healthy! 
By and by, I get plenty money. 
Thanks to you, you British dummy! 
Write to friends in motherland. 
Tell them 'come fast as you can.' 
They come in turbans and Ford trucks,
And buy big house with welfare bucks! 
They come here, we live together. 
More welfare cheques, it gets better! 
Fourteen families, they moving in, 
but neighbour's patience wearing thin. 
Finally, British guy moves away. 
Now I buy his house, then say, 
'Find more immigrants for house to rent.' 
And in the yard I put a tent. 
Everything is very good, 
and soon we own the neighbourhood. 
We have hobby, it's called breeding. 
Welfare pay for baby feeding. 
Kids need dentist? Wives need pills? 
We get free! We got no bills! 
British crazy! They work all year, 
to keep the welfare running here. 
We think UK darn good place. 
Too darn good for British race! 
If they no like us, they can scram. 
Got lots of room in Afghanistan !


----------



## midcan5

'Facing It'

"My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears. 
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's 
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair."

Yusef Komunyakaa


----------



## midcan5

'Beyond the Red River'

"The birds have flown their summer skies to the south,
And the flower-money is drying in the banks of bent grass
Which the bumble bee has abandoned. We wait for a winter lion,
Body of ice-crystals and sombrero of dead leaves.

A month ago, from the salt engines of the sea,
A machinery of early storms rolled toward the holiday houses
Where summer still dozed in the pool-side chairs, sipping
An aging whiskey of distances and departures.

Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land.
My possibles are all packed up, but still I do not leave.
I am happy enough here, where Dakota drifts wild in the universe,
Where the prairie is starting to shake in the surf of the winter dark."

Thomas McGrath


----------



## midcan5

'Niggerlips' 	  

"Niggerlips was the high school name
for me.
So called by Douglas
the car mechanic, with green tattoos
on each forearm,
and the choir of round pink faces
that grinned deliciously 
from the back row of classrooms,
droned over by teachers
checking attendance too slowly.

Douglas would brag
about cruising his car 
near sidewalks of black children
to point an unloaded gun,
to scare *******
like crows off a tree,
he'd say.

My great-grandfather Luis
was un negrito too,
a shoemaker in the coffee hills
of Puerto Rico, 1900.
The family called him a secret
and kept no photograph.
My father remembers
the childhood white powder
that failed to bleach
his stubborn copper skin,
and the family says
he is still a fly in milk.

So Niggerlips has the mouth 
of his great-grandfather,
the song he must have sung 
as he pounded the leather and nails,
the heat that courses through copper,
the stubbornness of a fly in milk,
and all you have, Douglas,
is that unloaded gun."

Martín Espada


----------



## Bootneck

*WOMAN'S LOVE POEM *

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong,
One who loves to listen long. 
One who thinks before he speaks, 
One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he's gainfully employed,
When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man who'll make love to my mind,
Knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
I pray that this man will love me to no end,
And always be my very best friend.

*MAN'S LOVE POEM*

I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with
Huge boobs who owns a bar on a golf course,
And loves to send me fishing and hunting. This
Doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit


----------



## midcan5

Life is Good

There were no really good Labor day poems
so I decided I would write a few thoughts.
I have worked so long and yet it seems a short time
If religious I would say I was blessed
WE were blessed we started slow and saved
Eventually we lived the American dream
New car vacations and kids to college
New home no bills everyone's dream
Dinners out and a good bottle of wine large tip 
I used to save weeks $1.50 for an AMC model car
One twenty-fifth the size of the car 
One day I would own, American what else 
And now my wife's clothing fill the house
We have seen Paris and little town America
The backroads still entice, saner places,
Places Rockwell painted.

Bill Moyers Journal . Special Feature: Deepening the American Dream | PBS
Rethinking the American Dream | vanityfair.com


----------



## midcan5

'Good Looker'

"I have a place for everything and all is in its place,
But when my husband&#8217;s searching things just vanish without trace.
He opens up the cupboard door and says, &#8220;It&#8217;s not in here.&#8221;
(I think he&#8217;s waiting for the thing to wave to him and cheer.)

&#8220;It must be in there somewhere, you just used it yesterday.&#8221;
&#8220;Nope&#8221;, he says with arms still folded, &#8220;not in here, no way.&#8221;
By now I&#8217;m getting crabby &#8216;cause I&#8217;ve got my job to do,
But for the sake of peace I take up searching for it too.

I reach inside the cupboard and I shift a tin or two,
Do you believe in miracles? The thing comes into view.
And does he hug and kiss me &#8216;cause the flaming thing is found?
Not on your life, that&#8217;s when he turns the situation &#8216;round.

He accuses me of hiding it, &#8220;You shouldn&#8217;t shove it here.&#8221;
&#8220;I haven&#8217;t shoved it anywhere!&#8221;... (at least not yet, my dear.)
So now I&#8217;m an inventor and I&#8217;m working on a plan,
To build a see-through cupboard that will liberate my man.

The shelves are all transparent, things are set to wave and cheer,
Automatically, when someone says, "It&#8217;s not in here.""

Glenny Palmer


----------



## midcan5

'Out of the Blue'

1. 

"All lost.

All lost in the dust.
Lost in the fall and the crush and the dark.
Now all coming back.

2.

Up with the lark, downtown New York.
The sidewalks, the blocks.
Walk.  Don't walk.  Walk.  Don't Walk.

Breakfast to go:
an adrenalin shot
in a Styrofoam cup

Then plucked from the earth,
rocketed skyward,
a fifth a mile
in a minute, if that.
The body arrives
then the soul catches up.

3.

That weird buzz
of being at work
in the hour before work.

All terminals dormant,
all networks idle.
Systems in sleep-mode,

all stations un-peopled.
I get here early
just to gawp from the window.

Is it shameless or brash to have reached top,
just me and America
ninety floors up?

Is it brazen to feel like a king, like a God, 
to ge surfing the wave
of a power trip,

a fortune under each fingertip,
a billion a minute, a million a blink,
selling sand to the desert,

ice to the Arctic,
money to the rich.
The elation of trading in futures and risk.

Here I stand, a compass needle,
a sundial spindle
right at the pinnacle.

Under my feet
Manhattan's a simple bagatelle, a pinball table,
all lights and mirrors and whistles and bells.

The day begun.
The sun like a peach.
A peach of a sun.

And everything framed 
by a seascape dotted with ferries and sails
and a blue sky zippered with vapour trails.

Beyond this window it's vast and it's sheer.
Exhilaration.  All breath.  All clear.

4.

Arranged on the desk
among the rubber bands and bulldog clips:

here is a rock from Brighton beach,
here is a beer-mat, here is a leaf

of a oak, pressed and dried, papery thin.
Here is a Liquorice Allsorts tin.

A map of the  Underground pinned to the wall
The flag of St George.  A cricket ball.

Here is a calendar, counting the days.
Here is a photograph snug in its frame,

this is my wife on our wedding day,
here is a twist of her English hair.

Here is a picture in purple paint:
two powder-paint towers, heading for space,

plus rockets and stars and the Milky way,
plus helicopters and aeroplanes.

Jelly-copters and fairy-planes.
In a spidery hand, underneath it, it says,

"If I stand on my toes can you see me wave?"

5.

The towers at one.
The silent prongs of a tuning fork,
testing the calm.

Then a shudder or bump.
A juddering thump or a thud.
I swear no more

than a thump or a thud
But a Pepsi Max jumps out of its cup.
and a filing cabinet spews its lunch.

And the water-cooler staggers then slumps.
Then a sonic boom and the screen goes blue.
Then a deep, ungodly dragon's roar.

In the lobby, the lift opens up,
and out of the door
the tongue of a dragon comes rolling out.

Then the door slides shut and the flames are gone.
Then ceiling tiles, all awry at once.
Then dust, a soft, white dust

snowing down from above.
We are ghostly at once.
See, there on the roof,

the cables, wires, pipes and ducts,
the veins and fibres and nerves and guts,
exposed and loose.

In their shafts, the lift-cars clang
and the cables are plucked,
a deep, sub-human, unaudible twang.

And a lurch.
A pitch.
A sway to the south.

I know for a fact these towers can stand
the shoulder-charge of a gale force wind
or the body-check of a hurricane.

But this is a punch, a hammer blow.
I sense it thundering underfoot,
a pulsing, burrowing, aftershock

down through the bone-work of girders and struts,
down into earth and rock.
Right to the root.

The horizon totters and lists.
The line of the land seems to teeter
on pins and stilts,

a perceptible tilt.
Then the world re-aligns, corrects itself.
Then hell lets loose.

And I knew we torn
I knew we were holed
because through that hole

a torrent of letters and memos and forms
now streams and storms
now flocks and shoals
now passes and pours
now tacks and jibes
now flashes and flares
now rushes and rides
now flaps and glides...

the centrefold of the New York Times
goes winging by

then a lamp
a coat
a screen
a chair

a youghurt pot
a yucca plant
a yellow cup
a Yankees cap

A shoe falls past, freeze-framed against the open sky.
I see raining flames.
I see hardware fly.

6.

Millicent wants an answer now.
Anthony talks through a megaphone.
Mitch says it looks like one of those days.
Abdoul calls his mother at home.

Christopher weeps for his cat and his dog.
Monica raises her hand to her eye.
Lee goes by with his arm on fire.
Abigail opens a bottom drawer.

Raymond punches a hole in the wall.
Pedro loosens his collar and tie.
Ralph and Craig join an orderly queue.
Amy goes back to look for her purse.

Joseph presses his face to the glass.
Theresa refrains from raising her voice.
Abdoul tries his mother again.
Bill pulls a flashlight out of his case.

Tom replaces the top on a pen.
Peter hears voices behind the door
Abdoul tries his mother again.
Glen writes a note on a paper plane.

Gloria's plan is another dead-end.
Paul draws a scarf over Rosemary's face.
Arnold remembers the name of his wife.
Judy is looking for Kerry and Jack.

Edwardo lights a ciragette.
Dennis goes down on his hands and knees
Stephanie edges out onto the ledge.
Jeremy forces the door of the lift.

Dean gets married in less than a month.
Peter is struggling under the weight.
Sue won't leave without locking her desk.
Mike lifts a coat-stand over his head.

Elaine is making a call to a school.
Claude won't be needing this anymore.
Rosa and Bob never stood a chance.
Josh goes looking but doesn't come back."

Simon Armitage

rest here.

Out of the Blue Simon Armitage


----------



## Sky Dancer

Race

Sometimes I think about Great-Uncle Paul who left Tuskeegee,
Alabama to become a forester in Oregon and in so doing
became fundamentally white for the rest of his life, except
when he travelled without his white wife to visit his siblings 
now in New York, now in Harlem, USA  just as pale-skinned,
as straight-haired, as blue-eyed as Paul, and black. Paul never told anyone
he was white, he just didnt say that he was black, and who could imagine,
an Oregon forester in 1930 as anything other than white?
The siblings in Harlem each morning ensured 
no one confused them for anything other than what they were, black.
They were black! Brown-skinned spouses reduced confusion.
Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
When Paul came East alone he was as they were, their brother. 

The poet invents heroic moments where the pale black ancestor stands up
on behalf of the race. The poet imagines Great-Uncle Paul 
in cool, sagey groves counting rings in redwood trunks,
imagines pencil markings in a ledger book, classifications, 
imagines a sidelong look from an ivory spouse who is learning
her husbands caesuras. She can see silent spaces
but not what they signify, graphite markings in a foresters code.

Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
The one time Great-Uncle Paul brought his wife to New York 
he asked his siblings not to bring their spouses,
and that is where the story ends: ivory siblings who would not 
see their brother without their telltale spouses. 
What a strange thing is race, and family, stranger still.
Here a poem tells a story, a story about race.

Elizabeth Alexander


----------



## Sky Dancer

Wild Geese 

You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves. 
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 
Meanwhile the world goes on. 
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers. 
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again. 
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things.

© Mary Oliver. Online Source


----------



## midcan5

'An Inventory of an Elaborate Pile of Garbage at 2nd Ave. and 2nd St. on June 1, 2000'  

"Blackened tea kettle like one I have at home, couch with living man, eyes closed, his dog and runny dog shit on sidewalk. Cardboard boxes, lamp shade, the filter basket of a drip-o-later, a wooden serving tray with loose bottom. A mouse's body with eyes open and intact. Styrofoam peanuts. 2 balsa wood whiskey bottle boxes, thin wooden fruit basket. Wooden construction walls with POST NO BILLS painted gray. A piece of paper ordering the closing of the Mars Bar garden. A man setting out 4 candles, and 2 sets of wrapped paper plates. A junkie couple, white, late 30s, covered in scabs and tattoos with dog, had constructed a lean-to over the couch and slept that day. I thought about what brought them to this moment and thought "be in the moment," thought "be here now," thought "what's the worse thing that could happen?" Thought "shit happens." And began to think "today is the first day of the rest of. . ." Thought this could be the best day of their lives."

Brenda Coultas


----------



## Bootneck

*Ode Tae A Fart* 
Writen in the style of Robert Burns:

Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in your belly efter the feastie
Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts to stir an enormous wind
The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
Stert workin like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin wi the sauncie face
Will have ye blawin all ower the place

Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
A'body's gonnae hiv tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
It's like a bullet oot a rifle
Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
Tae try and stop the leakin air
Shifty yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Prae tae God it doesnae reek

But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap o thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom
God almighty it fairly reeks
Hope I huvnae shit my breeks
Tae the bog I better scurry
Aw whit the hell it's no ma worry

A'body roon aboot me chokin
Wan or two are nearly bokin
I'll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile
Wiz him! I shout with accusin glower
Alas too late, he's just keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
A dinnae feel welcome any mair

Where e'ere ye go let yer wind gan' free
Sounds like just the job fur me
Whit a fuss at rabbie's party
Ower the sake o one wee farty


----------



## midcan5

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qC-YSIsBGLs]YouTube - Patrick Swayze - Lisa Niemi - George - One Last Dance[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'A Happy Birthday'   	  

"This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness. 
I could easily have switched on a lamp, 
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page 
with the pale gray ghost of my hand."

Ted Kooser


----------



## midcan5

'The Anniversary of My Death'

"Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what"

W.S.Merwin


----------



## glade

This is so nice all your poems are grate! I wish I could share too, but I write in Spanish!  I've tried in English but it's not the same....but you guys are awesome....


----------



## Sky Dancer

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems 

by Oscar Wilde

I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.


----------



## midcan5

'Three Oddest Words'

"When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold."

Wislawa Szymborska


----------



## midcan5

'The Big Kid'

"If the big kid on the block
picks a fight on the street,
and shows no kindness towards the young kids
who cannot step up yet,
then there is no neighborhood.
When aggression goes unquestioned
And when we are distracted from what must be said
to put the strangers at ease,
We all lose.
When our block, our neighborhood, our
country needs something besides our silence and sarcasm,
then mistrust grows among us like an age of darkness,
Or something much smaller that divides us.

When we are not present for the others
who don&#8217;t step up,
something in us dies.
we are orphans without a home
who cannot accept an end to loneliness,
even for a short while.
then as we gradually become something
to be conquered, we become like buildings
with boarded up windows,
with blocks of yards and cars on blocks waiting
to be swept up by our facades of progress

All of this is because we do not care for
The slightest voices among us,
and our street, our neighborhood, our country
becomes the shining city on the hill
Spoiling for the next fight,
and waiting to be captured."

Bill Turley


----------



## Sky Dancer

Cat's Dream  


 How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into 
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.



Pablo Neruda


----------



## midcan5

'I Cannot Speak of War'

"I can only speak of soldiers: captured
in nearly a century of photographs.
Old eyes in young faces who wear
integrity as easily as their crisp
dress blues and browns.

I can speak of my grandfather: the doughboy
learning a bit of the old parlez-vous 
with gay mademoiselles baring
frantic smiles and foxholed nights
when the chauchaut rifle was useless.

I can speak of my father: GI Joe following
in the footsteps of Fat Man through the hot
ashes of Nagasaki, where watches stopped,
Geiger counters clicked and wildflowers 
bloomed in the nuclear afternoon.  

I can speak of my brother: always faithful
to the Corps. The drill instructor of Parris Island, pulling weekend suicide watches - basic
training of grunts into privates &#8211; the process 
of plucking out the few and the proud.

I can speak of my son: nearly a man the day the towers fell.  His eyes were unforgiving, dark and newly old.  The next custodian turned to face the incoming storm and I placed his picture on the shelf along with the others."

Pat Harvey

Wife, mother, daughter, grandmother, former grocery store manager turned writing instructor, but always a storyteller and poet.


----------



## Sky Dancer

No More Clichés  

Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell, 
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you? 
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice? 
To your obsessive illusion
To you manufacture fantasy.

But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.

This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm, 
In their intelligence, 
In their character, 
Not on their fabricated looks.

This poem is to you women, 
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell, 
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles: 
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.

Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.

From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars, 
And so, no more clichés. 

Octavio Paz


----------



## midcan5

'Family Album'

"I like old photographs of relatives
in black and white, their faces set like stone.
They knew this was serious business.
My favorite album is the one that&#8217;s filled
with people none of us can even name.

I find the recent ones more difficult.
I wonder, now, if anyone remembers
how fiercely I refused even to stand
beside him for this picture&#8212;how I shrank
back from his hand and found the other side.

Forever now, for future family,
we will be framed like this, although no one
will wonder at the way we are arranged.
No one will ever wonder, since we&#8217;ll be
forever smiling there&#8212;our mouths all teeth."

Diane Thiel


----------



## Sky Dancer

Let America Be America Again 

by Langston Hughes


Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!


----------



## midcan5

'Smells'

"Why is it that the poet tells 
So little of the sense of smell? 
These are the odors I love well:

The smell of coffee freshly ground; 
Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned; 
Or onions fried and deeply browned.

The fragrance of a fumy pipe; 
The smell of apples, newly ripe; 
And printer's ink on leaden type.

Woods by moonlight in September 
Breathe most sweet, and I remember 
Many a smoky camp-fire ember.

Camphor, turpentine, and tea, 
The balsam of a Christmas tree, 
These are whiffs of gramarye. . . 
A ship smells best of all to me!"

Christopher Morley


----------



## midcan5

'Aubade' 

"&#8220;Take me with you&#8221; 
my mother says 
standing in her nightgown 
as, home from college, 
I prepare to leave 
before dawn. 
The desolation 
she must face 
was once my concern 
but like a bobber 
pulled beneath  
the surface 
by an inedible fish 
she vanished 
into the life 
he offered her. 
It stopped occurring 
to me she might return. 
&#8220;I&#8217;ll be back&#8221; I say 
and then I go."

Dore Kiesselbach


----------



## midcan5

'Long Marriage' 

"You&#8217;re worried, so you wake her 
& you talk into the dark: 
Do you think I have cancer, you 
say, or Were there worms 
in that meat, or Do you think 
our son is OK, and it&#8217;s 
wonderful, really&#8212;almost 
ceremonial as you feel 
the vessel of your worry pass 
miraculously from you to her&#8212; 
Gee, the rain sounds so beautiful, 
you say&#8212;I&#8217;m going back to sleep."

Gerald Fleming


----------



## midcan5

'The Powwow at the End of the World'

"I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam 
and topples it. I am told by many of you that I must forgive 
and so I shall after the floodwaters burst each successive dam 
downriver from the Grand Coulee. I am told by many of you 
that I must forgive and so I shall after the floodwaters find 
their way to the mouth of the Columbia River as it enters the Pacific 
and causes all of it to rise. I am told by many of you that I must forgive 
and so I shall after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed by that salmon 
waiting in the Pacific. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 
after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia 
and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors 
of Hanford. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 
after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River 
as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives 
in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone. 
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall after 
that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws 
a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire 
which will lead all of the lost Indians home. I am told 
by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 
after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon 
who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: one story will teach us 
how to pray; another story will make us laugh for hours; 
the third story will give us reason to dance. I am told by many 
of you that I must forgive and so I shall when I am dancing 
with my tribe during the powwow at the end of the world."

Sherman Alexie


----------



## midcan5

'The Woman Who Collects Noah's Arks' 

         "Has them in every room of her house, 
wall hangings, statues, paintings, quilts and blankets, 
ark lampshades, mobiles, Christmas tree ornaments, 
t-shirts, sweaters, necklaces, books, 
comics, a creamer, a sugar bowl, candles, napkins, 
tea-towels and tea-tray, nightgown, pillow, lamp. 
         Animals two-by-two in plaster, wood, 
fabric, oil paint, copper, glass, plastic, paper, 
tinfoil, leather, mother-of-pearl, styrofoam, 
clay, steel, rubber, wax, soap. 
         Why I cannot ask, though I would like 
to know, the answer has to be simply 
because. Because at night when she lies 
with her husband in bed, the house rocks out 
into the bay, the one that cuts in here to the flatlands 
at the center of Texas. Because the whole wood structure 
drifts off, out under the stars, beyond the last 
lights, the two of them pitching and rolling 
as it all heads seaward. Because they hear 
trumpets and bellows from the farther rooms. 
Because the sky blackens, but morning finds them always 
safe on the raindrenched land, 
bird on the windowsill."

Janet McCann


----------



## Colin

*THE GREEN BERET MEN*

A word in the house, a stroke of a pen
The country disbanded a fine body of men
With fighting finesse and fitness supreme
The creme de la creme wore berets of Green.

Their training was tough, it had to be so
How to fight with a knife and kill with one blow
Salerno, Vaagso, Dieppe and St Nazaire
With impossible odds the Commando's were there.

Their raids so successful that once Hitler said
"If captured no prisoners I want these men dead"
To late he discovered his men were not keen
To battle with these Marines who wore berets of Green.

On D-Day at Sword beach they were there to the fore
As they jumped from the landing craft and made for the shore
Their contempt for the Nazi's was very plain to see
For they wore not steel helmets but berets of Green.

When it was all over and the fighting no more
The first that was disbanded was the Green beret Corp's
Who went back to their Shires, their Towns and their Glens
A real fine body of gentle self disciplined men.

As the years roll on by they still meet it is said
To talk, toast the Queen and remember their dead
Whose memorial stands at the foot of the Ben
Where they fought for the right to be Green beret men.

For our freedom of movement our freedom of speech
To those who come after , this gospel I preach
A word in the house a stroke of the pen these cannot wipe out
The debt to those brave Green beret men.

PER MARE PER TERRAM. 

Author: Rod Spinks
former Royal Marine 1957/68.


----------



## Colin

He ain't exactly a Tommy, he ain't exactly a Tar, 
He ain't too cocky or nothing, like the best blokes never are. 
They christened him bootneck, Jolly and a ruddy old bullock he's been,
for if there's a war, afloat or ashore, they call on the Royal Marine. 

He's frozen in ice in the Arctic, he's sweated in African heat, 
he smiled at the welcome at Ypres, he's popped off the guns with the fleet. 
But where trouble is brewing or something that's doing, 
then send for the Royal Marine". 

When earth's little canter is over, and the sun burns the colour of lead 
and the last bugle call is sounding to summon the quick and the dead. 
There may be a panic by people who don't know what discipline means, 
but I'll wager my pay the first to obey, will be The last of  the Royal Marines


----------



## midcan5

'What Can We Do?'

"at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, murder. 
what can we do with it, this Humanity? 
nothing. 
avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can kill you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape. 
it's up to you to figure a plan. 
I have met nobody who has escaped. 
I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity. 
I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again. 
before my death I hope to obtain my
life."

Charles Bukowski


----------



## midcan5

'Turning Forty' 

"At times it's like there is a small planet 
inside me. And on this planet, 
there are many small wars, yet none 
big enough to make a real difference. 
The major countries&#8212;mind and heart&#8212;have 
called a truce for now. If this planet had a ruler, 
no one remembers him well. All 
decisions are made by committee. 
Yet there are a few pictures of the old dictator&#8212; 
how youthful he looked on his big horse, 
how bright his eyes. 
He was ready to conquer the world."

Kevin Griffith


----------



## midcan5

Call this number if you are having trouble. 

I used to stand in front of large drawings
Pasted paper, dated, rectangles
In bottom right corner
Relays and lines and paths and sequences
I would jot down a place to check
Pick set and ear 
Touching here and there, 
Listening for clicks and silence
Now I sit on hold 
Ear glued to receiver
And a foreign voice 
Tells me this is Robert
And I know it is not a Robert
And they read a script 
The large drawings now words 
And next and next and next
Expert systems never worked 
Why should this.


----------



## midcan5

'My Father Teaches Me to Dream' 

"You want to know what work is? 
I&#8217;ll tell you what work is: 
Work is work. 
You get up. You get on the bus. 
You don&#8217;t look from side to side. 
You keep your eyes straight ahead. 
That way nobody bothers you&#8212;see? 
You get off the bus. You work all day. 
You get back on the bus at night. Same thing. 
You go to sleep. You get up. 
You do the same thing again. 
Nothing more. Nothing less. 
There&#8217;s no handouts in this life. 
All this other stuff you&#8217;re looking for&#8212; 
it ain&#8217;t there. 
Work is work."

Jan Beatty


----------



## PLYMCO_PILGRIM

THE TRAVELLER By Plymco_Pilgrim

Into the tranquil darkness
The Traveller falls
He knows not what may lurk
In this dungeons halls.
But he transgresses with courage
Further into the darkness
Only to find that he has fallen deeper
Into dark webs of thought
The light which can still be remembered
Now faded and dim
His thoughts of hope become likened to the light
And through the power of fright turn on him
He now roams and wanders
through the shadows eclipse
Clueless to the creature lurking behind
Plotting the traveller's sudden demise


----------



## Colin

*Please Wear a Poppy*

"Please wear a poppy," the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.

A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she's pinned it on he turned to say,
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, "This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.

"I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
and became a man - as you will, too.

"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mum, so please don't cry.

"But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

"Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a poppy son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son - did he come back all right?"

A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Thought our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!

And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and give!

~~By Don Crawford.~~


----------



## midcan5

'35/10'

"Brushing out our daughter&#8217;s brown 
silken hair before the mirror 
I see the grey gleaming on my head, 
the silver-haired servant behind her. Why is it 
just as we begin to go 
they begin to arrive, the fold in my neck 
clarifying as the fine bones of her 
hips sharpen? As my skin shows 
its dry pitting, she opens like a moist 
precise flower on the tip of a cactus; 
as my last chances to bear a child 
are falling through my body, the duds among them, 
her full purse of eggs, round and 
firm as hard-boiled yolks, is about 
to snap its clasp. I brush her tangled 
fragrant hair at bedtime. It&#8217;s an old 
story&#8212;the oldest we have on our planet&#8212; 
the story of replacement."

Sharon Olds


----------



## midcan5

'True Love'

"In the middle of the night, when we get up 
after making love, we look at each other in 
complete friendship, we know so fully 
what the other has been doing. Bound to each other 
like mountaineers coming down from a mountain, 
bound with the tie of the delivery room, 
we wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can 
hardly walk, I wobble through the granular 
shadowless air, I know where you are 
with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other 
with huge invisible threads, our sexes 
muted, exhausted, crushed, the whole 
body a sex&#8212;surely this 
is the most blessed time of my life, 
our children asleep in their beds, each fate 
like a vein of abiding mineral 
not discovered yet. I sit 
on the toilet in the night, you are somewhere in the room, 
I open the window and snow has fallen in a 
steep drift, against the pane, I 
look up, into it, 
a wall of cold crystals, silent 
and glistening, I quietly call to you 
and you come and hold my hand and I say 
I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it."

Sharon Olds


----------



## Colin

This poem was written by a British soldier serving in Afghanistan. 
It makes a pointed reference to the fact that our politicians have NEVER
attended ANY of the repatriation ceremonies for our fallen heroes.

*Repatriation*

_The leviathan of the sky does land
In England's green and pleasant land.
Its cargo more precious than gold
The body of a hero, bold.

Once the giant's engines stopped
The cargo ramp is gently dropped
Carried by six on shoulders true
The hero is saluted by the crew.

The coffin draped in Union Jack
Is slowly carried out the back.
Out of the dark and into light
Slowly down the ramp and to the right.

The six approach the hearse all black
And place the hero gently in the back.
The six then turn and march away
Their duty has been done this day.

Politicians usually have much to say
No sign of them near here this day.
They hide away and out of danger,
Much easier if the hero is a stranger.

The hearse with its precious load
Moves slowly out onto the road.
The floral tributes line the route
While comrades snap a smart salute.

At the edge of a Wiltshire town
The cortege slows its pace right down.
The streets are packed, many deep,
Some throw flowers, most just weep.

The crowd have come to say farewell,
The church bell rings a low death knell.
Regimental standards are lowered down
As the hero passed through the town.

The cortege stops and silence reigns
The townsfolk feel the family's pain.
The nations' flag lowered to half mast
Our brave hero is home at last._


_Staff Sergeant Andy McFarlane_


----------



## Neser Boha

Steven Wallace - Sunday Morning

I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkness among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
II
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.
III
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
IV
She says, ``I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?''
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evenings, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
V
She says, ``But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.''
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
VII
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.
VIII
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, *"The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.''*
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or an old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings. 
-----
My favorite poem.  So full imagery and meaning.  Mmmm...


----------



## PLYMCO_PILGRIM

THIS IS NOT MINE AND I DON'T KNOW WHO WROTE IT


Tax his land,
Tax his wage,
Tax his bed in which he lays.
Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes is the rule.
Tax his cow,
Tax his goat,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.

Tax his ties,
Tax his shirts,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.

Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he tries to think.

Tax his booze,
Tax his beers,
If he cries,
Tax his tears.

Tax his bills,
Tax his gas,
Tax his notes,
Tax his cash.

Tax him good and let him know
That after taxes, he has no dough.

If he hollers,
Tax him more,
Tax hi m until he's good and sore.

Tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in which he lays.
Put these words upon his tomb,
'Taxes drove me to my doom!'

And when he's gone,
We won't relax,
We'll still be after the inheritance TAX!!
Accounts Receivable Tax
Building Permit Tax
CDL License Tax
Cigarette Tax
Corporate Income Tax
Dog License Tax
Excise Tax (cars)
Federal Income Tax
Federal Unemployment Tax (FUTA)
Fishing License Tax
Food License Tax
Fuel Perm it Tax
Gasoline Tax
Hunting License Tax
Inheritance Tax
Inventory Tax
IRS Interest Charges (tax on top of tax),
IRS Penalties (tax on top of tax),
Liquor Tax,
Luxury Tax,
Marriage License Tax,
Medicare Tax,
Property Tax,
Real Estate Tax,
Service charge taxes,
Social Security Tax,
Road Usage Tax (Truckers),
Sales Taxes, 
Recreational Vehicle Tax,
School Tax,
State Income Tax,
State Unemployment Tax (SUTA),
Telephone Federal Excise Tax,
Telephone Federal Universal Service Fee Tax,
Telephone Federal, State and Local Su rcharge Tax,
Telephone Minimum Usage Surcharge Tax,
Telephone Recurring and Non-recurring Charges Tax,
Telephone State and Local Tax,
Telephone Usage Charge Tax,
Utility Tax,
Vehicle License Registration Tax,
Vehicle Sales Tax,
Watercraft Registration Tax,
Well Permit Tax,
Workers Compensation Tax.


----------



## Sky Dancer

A banana plant in the autumn gale -
I listen to the dripping of rain
Into a basin at night.

Basho


----------



## Sky Dancer

The migrating bird
leaves no trace behind
and does not need a guide.

Dogen


----------



## Sky Dancer

Leaves before the Wind 


We have walked, looked at the actual trees: 
The chesnut leaves wide-open like a hand, 
The beech leaves bronzing under every breeze, 
We have felt flowing through our knees 

As if we were the wind. 

We have sat silent when two horses came, 
Jangling their harness, to mow the long grass. 
We have sat long and never found a name 
For this suspension in the heart of flame 

That does not pass. 

We have said nothing; we have parted often, 
Not looking back, as if departure took 
An absolute of will--once not again 
(But this is each day's feat, as when 

The heart first shook). 

Where fervor opens every instant so, 
There is no instant that is not a curve, 
And we are always coming as we go; 
We lean toward the meeting that will show 

Love's very nerve. 

And so exposed (O leaves before the wind!) 
We bear this flowing fire, forever free, 
And learn through devious paths to find 
The whole, the center, and perhaps unbind 

The mystery 

Where there are no roots, only fervent leaves, 
Nourished on meditations and the air, 
Where all that comes is also all that leaves, 
And every hope compassionately lives 

Close to despair. 


- May Sarton


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Cloud 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 
Lightning, my pilot, sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 
It struggles and howls at fits; 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 
In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 
Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star shines dead; 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 
In the light of its golden wings. 
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 
Its ardors of rest and of love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depth of Heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 
That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the Moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, 
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim 
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 
Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,-- 
The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 
With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, 
Is the million-colored bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 
And the nursling of the Sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 
I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain when with never a stain 
The pavilion of Heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 
Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 


Percy Bysshe Shelley


----------



## Sky Dancer

PUBLIC CONFIDENTIAL 


MEMO: to all employees 
RE: toxic levels of oversimplification in the media 

it has come to our attention 
here in the boardroom 
that people are getting 
dumber 
and it is a direct 
result of our 
polluting their already 
fragile imaginary ecosystems, 
our systematic dilution of 
their unstable brains 
with vapid and dull images on the 
screen, with dialogue fit only for 
remedial writing classes, 
with murders, rapes, and failures 
sprinkled with weather and sports, 

with 
imformation masquerading as 
information pretending to be 
news acting like 
entertainment. 

keep up 
the good 
work. 


Christopher Cunningham


----------



## midcan5

I watched large V's of birds flying south along the Jersey coast this morning. Marvelous sight. 


'27,000 Miles'	  

"These two asleep . . . so indrawn and compact,
like lavish origami animals returned

to slips of paper once again; and then
the paper once again become a string

of pith, a secret that the plant hums to itself . . . . 
You see? &#8212; so often we envy the grandiose, the way

those small toy things of Leonardo&#8217;s want to be
the great, air-conquering and miles-eating

living wings
they&#8217;re modeled on.  And the bird flight is

amazing: simultaneously strength, 
escape, caprice: the Artic tern completes

its trip of nearly 27,000 miles every year;
a swan will frighten bears away

by angry aerial display of flapping wingspan.
But it isn&#8217;t all flight; they also

fold; and at night on the water or in the eaves
they package their bodies

into their bodies, smaller, and deeply
smaller yet: migrating a similar distance

in the opposite direction."

Albert Goldbarth


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Small Boy and the Mouse

 by D H Maitreyabandhu


When he closed his eyes and asked the question,

he saw an egg, a boiled egg, lodged

above his heart. The shell had been broken off,

with a teaspoon he supposed, it was pure curd white

and still warm. Inside  he could see inside 

there was a garden with rows of potatoes,

sweet peas in a tangle, and a few tomatoes, red

and green ones, along with that funny sulphur smell

coming from split sacks. There was an enamel bathtub

in the garden, with chipped edges, a brown puddle

staining around itself, and a few wet leaves.

He could see down the plughole, so the sun must have shone,

and he heard his father digging potatoes,

knocking off the soil, and his mother fetching the washing in

because the sky promised a shower. There was a hole

or rather a pipe under the tub, where the water went,

and down at the bottom was a mouse  its ribs were poking out,

its damp fur clung together. The mouse was holding

a black-and-white photograph of a boy

who might have been three or four years old;

the boy was playing with boxes, or were they saucepans

from the kitchen?  he was leaning forward and slightly blurred.

And what was strange about the picture,

apart from being held by a mouse who sat on his haunches

and gripped it in his forepaws, was that the space

around the boy, the paleness around him, expanded,

got very bright and engulfed the mouse, the bathtub, the garden,

and the egg with its shell cracked off.

After that there was nothing, apart from the dark

inside the boy's head and a kind of quiet

he'd never had before. He opened his eyes. All the furniture

looked strange, as if someone had rearranged it.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Red Gloves


Reaching the restaurant late

I find the empty shells

Of your gloves on the cold kerb:



Stretchy, crushed red velvet

Which slithered off your lap

To float in the sodium stream.



What could they mean, except

You have arrived before me,

And simply taken your place?



The things we forget, or lose,

Live in a heaven of debris,

Waiting for us to collect them;



Already your naked hands

Are fluttering over the table,

Missing they don't know what.


Andrew Motion


----------



## Cryptick`

I tried to tell her, be careful or you might fall in love
Started off using protection but now she forbids glove&#8217;s

Got a nigga thinking, that shorty is forming plots
But that pussy so good, thinking abruptly stops

That was the goal wasn&#8217;t it, to get in between her legs
The most satisfying feeling when she spreads em&#8217; cause of ya game

Sometimes I don&#8217;t even know why I hit em&#8217; fo.
Gotta admit, my aim is a little bit myst-i-cal. 

On a side note - that&#8217;s what I think get&#8217;s em&#8217; though
But you wouldn&#8217;t know, cause you put that pussy on a ped-a-stole (pedestal )

It&#8217;s funny how fe&#8217;s play off vanity for confidence
And the niggas she fucks, are the ones who spottin this

maybe not at first, but eventually I&#8217;ll be rocking it.
Then she&#8217;ll look at you and want no part of it.

She don&#8217;t drop me, it&#8217;s more like I drop her
That&#8217;s when YOU come in and eat up my left-o-vers (left over&#8217;s)

See l play dumb, making my peers laugh
Hiding behind this mask &#8211; giving yall dap
[16]

But there&#8217;s something deep that go far beneath the surface
And it&#8217;s something like fire coming out of hell&#8217;s furnace 

I rope-a-dope niggas, so right when I see that grin
It&#8217;s Muhammad Ali on dat ass, and I walk away with the win

Honestly though, my steeze is too righteous 
So it&#8217;s understandable when niggas so blatantly bite this

I laugh inside when niggas try and give me advice
As if I want the same things that they want in life

Then you got dumb niggas telling you &#8216;listen&#8217; treating you like a tool
Nothing more annoying then sitting there listening to a fool

Truth is, I&#8217;m far more intelligent in ways that you never could
See you&#8217;re materialistic, and I&#8217;m intangible goods. 

But you don&#8217;t understand, so I&#8217;m not gonna act like you do
I&#8217;ll just do me and you just do you. 

This is just that frivolous flow for some frivolous hoes
Just remember that my name is synonymous with incredible bro
[32]


----------



## midcan5

Loved this. Reminded me of a piece in Douglas Hofstadter's 'I am a strange Loop' in which he talks about the loss of his wife, too young and how she lives on....

'They Sit Together on the Porch' 

"They sit together on the porch, the dark 
Almost fallen, the house behind them dark. 
Their supper done with, they have washed and dried 
The dishes&#8211;only two plates now, two glasses, 
Two knives, two forks, two spoons&#8211;small work for two. 
She sits with her hands folded in her lap, 
At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak, 
And when they speak at last it is to say 
What each one knows the other knows. They have 
One mind between them, now, that finally 
For all its knowing will not exactly know 
Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding 
Goodnight, and which sits on a while alone."

Wendell Berry


----------



## Sky Dancer

Child in Red  

Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.

She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.

Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.

It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.

It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right. 

Rainer Maria Rilke


----------



## Sky Dancer

She Does Not Remember  


 She was an evil stepmother.
In her old age she is slowly dying
in an empty hovel.

She shudders
like a clutch of burnt paper.
She does not remember that she was evil.
But she knows
that she feels cold.


Anna Swirszczynska


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Same Inside  

Walking to your place for a love fest
I saw at a street corner
an old beggar woman.
I took her hand,
kissed her delicate cheek,
we talked, she was
the same inside as I am,
from the same kind,
I sensed this instantly
as a dog knows by scent
another dog.
I gave her money,
I could not part from her.
After all, one needs
someone who is close.
And then I no longer knew
why I was walking to your place. 

Anna Swirszczynska


----------



## midcan5

'The Peace of Wild Things' 

"When despair for the world grows in me 
and I wake in the night at the least sound 
in fear of what my life and my children&#8217;s lives may be, 
I go and lie down where the wood drake 
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. 
I come into the peace of wild things 
who do not tax their lives with forethought 
of grief. I come into the presence of still water. 
And I feel above me the day-blind stars 
waiting with their light. For a time 
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."

Wendell Berry


----------



## midcan5

What is the cause of evil, what is its source. [ame=http://www.amazon.com/Becoming-Evil-Ordinary-Genocide-Killing/dp/0195189493/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257517832&sr=1-2]Amazon.com: Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing (9780195189490): Books[/ame]

==========================================

"Start with an empty canvas
Sketch in broad outline the forms of
men, women, and children.

Dip into the unconsciousness well of your own
disowned darkness
with a wide brush and
stain the strangers with the sinister hue
of the shadow.

Trace onto the face of the enemy the greed,
hatred, carelessness you dare not claim as
your own.

Obscure the sweet individuality of each face.

Erase all hints of the myriad loves, hopes,
fears that play through the kaleidoscope of
every infinite heart.

Twist the smile until it forms the downward
arc of cruelty.

Strip flesh from bone until only the
abstract skeleton of death remains.

Exaggerate each feature until man is
metamorphasized into beast, vermin, insect.

Fill in the background with malignant
figures from ancient nightmares &#8211; devils,
demons, myrmidons of evil.

When your icon of the enemy is complete
you will be able to kill without guilt,
slaughter without shame.

The thing you destroy will have become
merely an enemy of God, an impediment
to the sacred dialectic of history."


Sam Keen


----------



## midcan5

'Things We Tell Our Eyeballs'

"Microscopes are for inspecting the infinitesimal.
Telescopes expose Colossus bit by bit,
but we avert our ordinary eyeballs to protect us
from a universe of pain within plain sight.

Lacking special training, we can do little about cells.
We are not called upon to manage the fortunate stars.
Escape is easy.  Let others do manipulations, visits, tabulate, fund inquiries, make decisions.

Their esoteric knowledge is beyond our ken.
We can escape concern and feel no guilt.
We are not scholars, so.... Fill in the dots.
Let others do what they dangerously will.

Thus we become callous of heart,self-immunized,
claim habits of innocence, shirk duty&#8217;s nag
while tens of thousands fall in useless wars
or starve, or are imprisoned without trial.

We turn away from caskets, rapes and chains
and pray to be locked up behind closed eyes."

Jean Gerard (94 years young)


----------



## midcan5

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bynVL4XezXg]YouTube - Names On A Wall/The Vietnam Wall Memorial[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'Fences' 

"Mouths full of laughter, 
the _turistas_ come to the tall hotel 
with suitcases full of dollars. 

Every morning my brother makes 
the cool beach new for them. 
With a wooden board he smooths 
away all footprints. 

I peek through the cactus fence 
and watch the women rub oil 
sweeter than honey into their arms and legs 
while their children jump waves 
or sip drinks from long straws, 
coconut white, mango yellow. 

Once my little sister 
ran barefoot across the hot sand 
for a taste. 

My mother roared like the ocean, 
&#8220;No. No. It&#8217;s their beach. 
It&#8217;s their beach.&#8221;"

Pat Mora


----------



## midcan5

'The Female of the Species'

"When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale --
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, --
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger --- Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue --  to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity -- must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions -- not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions -- in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! --
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges --  even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons -- even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish -- like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice -- which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern -- shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male."

Rudyard Kipling


----------



## midcan5

'The Quarrel'

"If there were a monument 
to silence, it would not be 
the tree whose leaves 
murmur continuously 
among themselves; 

nor would it be the pond 
whose seeming stillness 
is shattered 
by the quicksilver 
surfacing of fish. 

If there were a monument 
to silence, it would be you 
standing so upright, so unforgiving,    
your mute back deflecting 
every word I say."

Linda Pastan


----------



## midcan5

'The Thanksgivings'

"We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are here
          to praise Him.
We thank Him that He has created men and women, and ordered
          that these beings shall always be living to multiply the earth.
We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings its products
          to live on.
We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and runs
          for our lands.
We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.
We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids coming
          from them for us all.
We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow shadows
          for our shelter.
We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the thunder
          and lightning that water the earth.
We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest brother, the sun
          that works for our good.
We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and vines.
We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and thank
          all its trees.
We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for the kind Being
          of the darkness that gives us light, the moon.
We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us signs,
          the stars.
We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of our harvests.
We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be heard
          through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.
We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this pleasant
          occasion.
We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great Spirit's music,
          and hope they will be privileged to continue in his faith.
We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform the ceremonies
          on this occasion."

Harriet Maxwell Converse


----------



## American Horse

Thick As A Brick  (lyrics from)


Really don't mind if you sit this one out.

My words but a whisper -- your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter -- your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in
the tidal destruction
the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers
the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels and
your suntan does rapidly peel and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had today -- and you
shake your head and
say it's a shame.

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.

See there!  A son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll
make a man of him
put him to trade
teach him
to play Monopoly and
to sing in the rain.

The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water --
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other --
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling --
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping -- their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.

And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.....

[Here's a 30-second snippet of Jethro Tull's "Brick" in concert]

Here's a full text copy of the lyrics


----------



## midcan5

'Thanksgiving Letter from Harry' 	  

"I guess I have to begin by admitting
I'm thankful today I don't reside in a country
My country has chosen to liberate,
That Bridgeport's my home, not Baghdad.
Thankful my chances are good, when I leave
For the Super Duper, that I'll be returning.
And I'm thankful my TV set is still broken.
No point in wasting energy feeling shame
For the havoc inflicted on others in my name
When I need all the strength I can muster
To teach my eighth-grade class in the low-rent district.
There, at least, I don't feel powerless.
There my choices can make some difference.

This month I'd like to believe I've widened
My students' choice of vocation, though the odds
My history lessons on working the land
Will inspire any of them to farm
Are almost as small as the odds
One will become a monk or nun
Trained in the Buddhist practice
We studied last month in the unit on India.
The point is to get them suspecting the world
They know first hand isn't the only world.

As for the calling of soldier, if it comes up in class,
It's not because I feel obliged to include it,
As you, as a writer, may feel obliged.
A student may happen to introduce it,
As a girl did yesterday when she read her essay
About her older brother, Ramon,
Listed as "missing in action" three years ago,
And about her dad, who won't agree with her mom
And the social worker on how small the odds are
That Ramon's alive, a prisoner in the mountains.

I didn't allow the discussion that followed
More time than I allowed for the other essays.
And I wouldn't take sides: not with the group
That thought the father, having grieved enough,
Ought to move on to the life still left him;
Not with the group that was glad he hadn't made do
With the next-to-nothing the world's provided,
That instead he's invested his trust in a story
That saves the world from shameful failure.

Let me know of any recent attempts on your part
To save our fellow-citizens from themselves.
In the meantime, if you want to borrow Ramon
For a narrative of your own, remember that any scene
Where he appears under guard in a mountain village
Should be confined to the realm of longing. There
His captors may leave him when they move on.
There his wounds may be healed,
His health restored. A total recovery
Except for a lingering fog of forgetfulness
A father dreams he can burn away."

Carl Dennis


----------



## midcan5

'Thanksgiving' 	  

"Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, 
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice; 
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they 
Are growin' more beautiful day after day; 
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men, 
Buildin' the old family circle again; 
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer, 
Just for awhile at the end of the year. 

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door 
And under the old roof we gather once more 
Just as we did when the youngsters were small; 
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all. 
Father's a little bit older, but still 
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will. 
Here we are back at the table again 
Tellin' our stories as women an' men. 

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; 
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there. 
Home from the east land an' home from the west, 
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best. 
Out of the sham of the cities afar 
We've come for a time to be just what we are. 
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, 
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank. 

Give me the end of the year an' its fun 
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; 
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, 
Let me sit down with the ones I love best, 
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, 
See the old faces unblemished by wrong, 
See the old table with all of its chairs 
An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers."

Edgar Guest


----------



## Colin

*The Hidden Killer*

Sitting and waiting, hoping that your turn never comes around, 

the IED that rips through your body, tearing pound for pound.

The hidden killer that lies beneath the hard baked sand, 

waiting for its victim, so it can explode from this bloody land.

The chaos and confusion that occurs straight after the blast, 

your comrades will have to act quickly; they will have to react fast.

The smell of burnt flesh, and the horrific pain at first sight, 

you will have to hang on to your life brave soldier, now begins the fight.

How many more soldiers will end their lives in such a way, 

its not what they joined for, they are burying these brave men every other day.


_Sergeant David Stenhouse
Royal Logistics Corps_


----------



## midcan5

'Successful War'

"Coming right down to it
It was a successful war
Plenty of speeches at the start
Plenty of blood of young boys
And of course the other innocents
In the horror-filled middle
And at the end
All the flags lovingly draped

You say the war failed the war didn&#8217;t fail
The soldiers did their part
The innocents died as anticipated
And the lovely flags were well-draped

Only you were on the losing side
You made desperate instant refugees
In the broken streets of Baghdad 
You lost and it will be a proper retreat
And the war will be successful
There was the winner
There were the losers
There were many dead
And you played your part

What more do you want?
What else did you expect?"

Doug Thiele


----------



## midcan5

'Questions'

"What was the world like before words became an action
What was the world like before the seas were created
what was the world like before living things inhabited
What was the world like before wars destroyed many lives
What was the world like before kings were crowned
What was the world like before throbbing tears filled a dry river
What was the world like when there was only one nation and race
What was the world like before people began noticing their differences

What was the world like before books were written
What was the world like before divinity existed
What was the world like before crimes were committed
What was the world like before music was danced
What was the world like before time and space became paramount
What was the world like before blood stains tinted hearts that were once noble
What was the world like before freedom was sold in exchange of vanity
What was the world like before beauty became princesses and goddesses

What was the world like before rules became a guidance
What was the world like before the angels swam in the skies
What was the world like before no-thing became something
What was the world like before the fear of losing our lives
What was the world like before Ceaser demanded his dues
What was the world like before faith was put in god
What was the world like before angry thoughts and dark moods came upon us
What was the world like before we became who we are today

What was the world like before questions were asked
What was the world like before justifications were fabricated
What was the world like before graves were opened
What was the world like before a teaching was created
What was the world like before the sun shone and the rains fell
What was the world like before breath was blown in my lungs
What was the world like before anything existed"

Irenio Bero


----------



## midcan5

'Poor Patriarch'

"The rooster pushes his head
high among the hens, trying to be
what he feels he must be, here
in the confines of domesticity.
Before the tall legs of my presence,
he bristles and shakes his ruby comb.

Little man, I want to say
the hens know who they are.
I want to ease his mistaken burden,
want him to crow with the plain
ecstasy of morning light as it
finds its winter way above the woods.

Poor outnumbered fellow,
how did he come to believe
that on his plumed shoulders
lay the safety of an entire flock?
I run my hand down the rippled
brindle of his back, urge him to relax,
drink in the female pleasures
that surround him, of egg laying,
of settling warm-breasted in the nest
of this brief and feathered time."

Susie Patlove


----------



## midcan5

'The Rain Poured Down'

"My mother weeping 
in the dark hallway, in the arms of a man, 
not my father, 
as I sat at the top of the stairs unnoticed&#8212; 
my mother weeping and pleading for what I didn't know 
then and can still only imagine&#8212; 
for things to be somehow other than they were, 
not knowing what I would change, 
for, or to, or why, 
only that my mother was weeping 
in the arms of a man not me, 
and the rain brought down the winter sky 
and hid me in the walls that looked on, 
indifferent to my mother's weeping, 
or mine, 
in the rain that brought down the dark afternoon."

Dan Gerber


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Soldier

He stands inside my chest and throat,
a soldier at attention. Holding the 
line, guarding the storehouse from
looters. They came once and stole
everything, every bit of trust, every
reassuring touch and all the spontaneity.

Those days were long ago, when
intruders came and left their bloody
footprints on my skin.
Still that soldier stands, holding a
musket, a feather in his hat.
I try to steal a smile from him
everyday, but he knows his duty.

I say, At ease soldier! As you were
before strangers occupied the land,
as you were before my innocent
heart was cut open like a ripe melon!

He guards the scars and every day I
visit with my bouquet of tender
attention, basket of appreciation.

We touch each other with understanding,
but he does not relax his stand for security.
He has his duties. I have mine.


Robert K Hall


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Guest House 

This being human is a guest house. 
Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 
some momentary awareness comes 
as an unexpected visitor. 

Welcome and entertain them all! 
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, 
who violently sweep your house 
empty of its furniture, 
still, treat each guest honorably. 
He may be clearing you out 
for some new delight. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, 
meet them at the door laughing, 
and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, 
because each has been sent 
as a guide from beyond.


~ Rumi ~


(The Essential Rumi, versions by Coleman Barks)


----------



## Sky Dancer

Last Night As I Was Sleeping  

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamtmarvelous error!
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamtmarvelous error!
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamtmarvelous error!
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamtmarvelous error!
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Antonio Machado


----------



## Sky Dancer

IMPROVEMENT

A young man squandered all his inherited wealth. As generally happens in such cases, the moment he was penniless he found that he was friendless too. At his wit's end, he sought the Master out and said, What is to become of me? I have no money and no friends. 

Don't worry, son. Mark my words: All will be well with you again. 

Hope shone in the young man's eyes. Will I be rich again? 

No. You will get used to being penniless and lonely.

Anthony De Mello


----------



## midcan5

'December Substitute'

"Our substitute is strange because 
he looks a lot like Santa Claus. 
In fact, the moment he walked in 
we thought that he was Santa&#8217;s twin. 

We wouldn&#8217;t think it quite so weird, 
if it were just his snowy beard. 
But also he has big black boots 
and wears these fuzzy bright red suits. 

He&#8217;s got a rather rounded gut 
that&#8217;s like a bowl of you-know-what. 
And when he laughs, it&#8217;s deep and low 
and sounds a lot like &#8220;Ho! Ho! Ho!&#8221; 

He asks us all if we&#8217;ve been good 
and sleeping when we know we should. 
He talks of reindeers, sleighs, and elves 
and tells us to behave ourselves. 

And when it&#8217;s time for us to go 
he dashes out into the snow. 
But yesterday we figured out 
just what our sub is all about. 

We know just why he leaves so quick, 
and why he&#8217;s dressed like Old Saint Nick 
in hat and coat and boots and all: 
He&#8217;s working evenings at the mall."

Kenn Nesbitt


----------



## midcan5

'Your Luck Is About To Change'

(A fortune cookie) 

"Ominous inscrutable Chinese news 
to get just before Christmas, 
considering my reasonable health, 
marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan, 
career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet. 
Not bad, considering what can go wrong: 
the bony finger of Uncle Sam 
might point out my husband, 
my own national guard, 
and set him in Afghanistan; 
my boss could take a personal interest; 
the pain in my left knee could spread to my right. 
Still, as the old year tips into the new, 
I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking 
his legs in the air. I won't give in 
to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog, 
or even the neighbors' Nativity. 
Their four-year-old has arranged 
his whole legion of dinosaurs 
so they, too, worship the child, 
joining the cow and sheep. Or else, 
ultimate mortals, they've come to eat 
ox and camel, Mary and Joseph, 
then savor the newborn babe."

Susan Elizabeth Howe


----------



## midcan5

'The Shivering Beggar' 	  

"Near Clapham village, where fields began,  
Saint Edward met a beggar man.  
It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled,  
The old man trembled for the fierce cold.  

Saint Edward cried, "It is monstrous sin
A beggar to lie in rags so thin!  
An old gray-beard and the frost so keen:  
I shall give him my fur-lined gaberdine."  

He stripped off his gaberdine of scarlet  
And wrapped it round the aged varlet,  
Who clutched at the folds with a muttered curse,  
Quaking and chattering seven times worse.  

Said Edward, "Sir, it would seem you freeze  
Most bitter at your extremities.  
Here are gloves and shoes and stockings also,
That warm upon your way you may go."  

The man took stocking and shoe and glove,  
Blaspheming Christ our Saviour&#8217;s love,  
Yet seemed to find but little relief,  
Shaking and shivering like a leaf.  

Said the saint again, "I have no great riches,  
Yet take this tunic, take these breeches,  
My shirt and my vest, take everything,  
And give due thanks to Jesus the King."  

The saint stood naked upon the snow  
Long miles from where he was lodged at Bowe,  
Praying, "O God! my faith, it grows faint!  
This would try the temper of any saint.  

"Make clean my heart, Almighty, I pray,  
And drive these sinful thoughts away.    
Make clean my heart if it be Thy will,  
This damned old rascal&#8217;s shivering still!"  

He stooped, he touched the beggar man&#8217;s shoulder;  
He asked him did the frost nip colder?  
"Frost!" said the beggar, "no, stupid lad!
&#8217;Tis the palsy makes me shiver so bad.""

Robert Graves


----------



## midcan5

'The Use of Poetry'

"On the day a fourteen-year-old disappeared in Ojai, California,
having left a Christmas Eve slumber party barefoot
to go with a guy in a green truck,
and all Christmas Day volunteers searched for her body within a fifteen-mile radius,
and her father and grandfather searched
and spoke to reporters because TV coverage
might help them find her if she were still alive,
and her mother stayed home with the telephone,
not appearing in public, and I could imagine
this family deciding together this division of labor
and what little else they could do to do something,
and the kitchen they sat in, the tones they spoke in,
who cried and who didnt, and how they comforted one another
with words of hope and strokings of backs and necks,
but I couldnt imagine their fear that their daughter
had been murdered in the woods, raped no doubt,
tied up, chopped up, God knows what else,
or them picturing her terror as it was happening to her
or their own terror of her absence ever after,
cut off from them before she had a chance to grow through adolescence,
her room ever the same with its stupid posters of rock stars
until they can bear to take them down
because they cant bear to leave them up anymore
on this day, which happened to be Christmas,
at the kind of holiday gathering with a whole turkey and spiral-cut ham
and beautiful dishes our hosts spent their money and time making
to cheer their friends and enjoy the pleasure of giving,
in a living room sparkling with scented candles and bunting
and a ten-foot tree adorned with antique ornaments,
the girls disappearance kept surfacing in conversations across the room
while I was being cornered by a man who said his wife was leaving him
after twenty-one years of marriage, then recited his resume
as if this couldnt happen to someone with his business acumen;
and it did again after I excused myself to refill my punch glass
when someone at the punch bowl said what she had heard about it from someone else
who had played tennis that morning with the girls mothers doubles partner,
while I filled a punch glass for somebodys dad
brought along so he wouldnt be alone on Christmas,
a man in his eighties with a face like a ravens,
his body stooped, ravaged by age and diseases,
who told me he was amazed to still be alive himself
after a year in which he had lost both his wife and son,
then, to my amazement, began telling me how important
he is in his business world
just like the man I had just gotten away from,
that hes still a player in international steel
involved in top-drawer projects for the navy,
and I was selfish enough to be selfless enough
to draw him out a little, and the younger man, too
(who appeared at my elbow again and started talking again),
but not selfless enough to feel what they each were going through
because my own fear and hunger
cloud how I imagine everyone,
including the bereaved family of the missing girl,
and the girl herself, and certainly her murderer,
although I know what it is to hate yourself completely
and believe all human community is lies and bullshit
and what happens to other people doesnt matter."

Michael Ryan


----------



## midcan5

'Brief reflection on killing the Christmas carp'

"You take a kitchen-mallet 
and a knife 
and hit 
the right spot, so it doesn&#8217;t jerk, for 
jerking means only complications and reduces profit. 

And the watchers already narrow their eyes, already admire the 
            dexterity, 
already reach for their purses. And paper is ready 
for wrapping it up. And smoke rises from chimneys. 
And Christmas peers from windows, creeps along the ground 
and splashes in barrels. 

Such is the law of happiness. 

I am just wondering if the carp is the right creature. 

A far better creature surely would be one 
which&#8212;stretched out&#8212;held flat&#8212;pinned down&#8212; 
would turn its blue eye 
on the mallet, the knife, the purse, the paper, 
the watchers and the chimneys 
and Christmas, 

And quickly 

say something. For instance 

These are my happiest days; these are my golden days. 
Or 
The starry sky above me and the moral law within me, 
Or 
And yet it moves. 

Or at least 
Hallelujah!"

Miroslav Holub


----------



## midcan5

'Christmas Eve'

"Oh sharp diamond, my mother! 
I could not count the cost 
of all your faces, your moods-- 
that present that I lost. 
Sweet girl, my deathbed, 
my jewel-fingered lady, 
your portrait flickered all night 
by the bulbs of the tree. 

Your face as calm as the moon 
over a mannered sea, 
presided at the family reunion, 
the twelve grandchildren 
you used to wear on your wrist, 
a three-months-old baby, 
a fat check you never wrote, 
the red-haired toddler who danced the twist, 
your aging daughters, each one a wife, 
each one talking to the family cook, 
each one avoiding your portrait, 
each one aping your life. 

Later, after the party, 
after the house went to bed, 
I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, 
watching your picture, 
letting the tree move in and out of focus. 
The bulbs vibrated. 
They were a halo over your forehead. 
Then they were a beehive, 
blue, yellow, green, red; 
each with its own juice, each hot and alive 
stinging your face. But you did not move. 
I continued to watch, forcing myself, 
waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. 

I wanted your eyes, like the shadows 
of two small birds, to change. 
But they did not age. 
The smile that gathered me in, all wit, 
all charm, was invincible. 
Hour after hour I looked at your face 
but I could not pull the roots out of it. 
Then I watched how the sun hit your red sweater, your withered neck, 
your badly painted flesh-pink skin. 
You who led me by the nose, I saw you as you were. 
Then I thought of your body 
as one thinks of murder-- 

Then I said Mary-- 
Mary, Mary, forgive me 
and then I touched a present for the child, 
the last I bred before your death; 
and then I touched my breast 
and then I touched the floor 
and then my breast again as if, 
somehow, it were one of yours."

Anne Sexton


----------



## midcan5

"Nearing Xmas Eve! I don't know why--since I'm not a believer in the conventional sense--but every year around this time I end up standing here, pausing before this gray, hulking building with so many of its tall, stained glass windows darkened and lit only by floodlights from outside of it, but with twin spires still pointing towards heaven. Tonight I can see only a single light still shining--in a half-open casement window located on the second floor. "Hello, hello," I call out, "Anybody around up there?--anybody home tonight?" Silhouetted at the casement window, a head appears. "Sure, we're open all night tonight all right--but this isn't a church anymore," the head shouts back in a decidedly irritated voice. "Didn't you know?--our entire operation was finally taken over last year--we were shut down for a while and then re-opened again converted to a peanut-brittle factory," "But don't I recognize you, Sir," I call back--"aren't you the former Sexton?" "Yes," the head says, after we were converted the takeover people thought it would be wise for the sake of efficiency to retain some of the same personnel for a while, so together with some of my staff, I agreed to stay on for a bit." "Does that include God, too?" I hear myself calling back to the former Sexton. "Sure it does," the Sexton shouts back, "have a Merry Christmas!"--and his head disappears from the window. Then I see no silhouetted head much less face, and hear a far deeper and far more resonant voice: "My Son, my Son--we've been putting you on, my Son. But you know you should really come up here anyway--you know in your heart that for all He's ever meant to you, Christ might as well have been a part-time worker in a peanut-brittle factory!" Then suddenly the casement window slams shut. "Oh My God!" I hear myself cry out--"Could that have been God Himself up there? And if so, was He genuinely angry with me, personally?" On the way up the stairs to find out--trembling slightly I must confess--I meet an angel. He's coming down the stairs after apparently just knocking off from working on the night-shift somewhere upstairs. He's beaming radiantly; his wings are folded neatly behind him and he's licking his lips; his cheeks are covered up with peanut-butter and candy and look like two big chocolate chip cookies; and there's a big blob of marshmallow on the tip of his nose...."

Michael Benedikt


----------



## midcan5

'Requiem for the New Year'

"On this first dark day of the year 
      my daddy was born lo 
these eighty-six years ago who now 
      has not drawn breath or held 
bodily mass for some ten years and still   
      I have not got used to it. 
My mind can still form to that chair him   
      whom no chair holds. 
Each year on this night on the brink 
      of new circumference I stand and gaze 
towards him, while roads careen with drunks,   
      and my dad who drank himself 
away cannot be found. Daddy, I&#8217;m halfway   
      to death myself. The millenium 
hurtles towards me, and the boy I bore   
      who bears your fire in his limbs 
follows in my wake. Why can you not be   
      reborn all tall to me? If I raise my arms 
here in the blind dark, why can you not   
      reach down now to hoist me up? 
This heavy carcass I derive from yours is   
      tutelage of love, and yet each year 
though older another notch I still cannot stand   
      to reach you, or to emigrate 
from the monolithic shadow you left."

Mary Karr


----------



## midcan5

'New Year&#8217;s Day'

"The rain this morning falls   
on the last of the snow 

and will wash it away. I can smell   
the grass again, and the torn leaves 

being eased down into the mud.   
The few loves I&#8217;ve been allowed 

to keep are still sleeping 
on the West Coast. Here in Virginia 

I walk across the fields with only   
a few young cows for company. 

Big-boned and shy, 
they are like girls I remember 

from junior high, who never   
spoke, who kept their heads 

lowered and their arms crossed against   
their new breasts. Those girls 

are nearly forty now. Like me,   
they must sometimes stand 

at a window late at night, looking out   
on a silent backyard, at one 

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls   
of other people&#8217;s houses. 

They must lie down some afternoons   
and cry hard for whoever used 

to make them happiest,   
and wonder how their lives 

have carried them 
this far without ever once 

explaining anything. I don&#8217;t know   
why I&#8217;m walking out here 

with my coat darkening 
and my boots sinking in, coming up 

with a mild sucking sound   
I like to hear. I don&#8217;t care 

where those girls are now.   
Whatever they&#8217;ve made of it 

they can have. Today I want   
to resolve nothing. 

I only want to walk 
a little longer in the cold 

blessing of the rain,   
and lift my face to it."

Kim Addonizio


----------



## Brubricker

I have memorized the following poem and I often recite it out-loud to myself when I just need to take a moment to chill.



The Beautiful Changes
by Richard Wilbur


One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides 
The Queen Anne&#8217;s Lace lying like lilies 
On water; it glides 
So from the walker, it turns 
Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you 
Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes. 

The beautiful changes as a forest is changed 
By a chameleon&#8217;s tuning his skin to it; 
As a mantis, arranged 
On a green leaf, grows 
Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves 
Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows. 

Your hands hold roses always in a way that says 
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes 
In such kind ways, 
Wishing ever to sunder 
Things and things&#8217; selves for a second finding, to lose 
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.


----------



## midcan5

'Faith Healing'

"Slowly the women file to where he stands 
Upright in rimless glasses, silver hair, 
Dark suit, white collar. Stewards tirelessly 
Persuade them onwards to his voice and hands, 
Within whose warm spring rain of loving care 
Each dwells some twenty seconds. Now, dear child, 
What&#8217;s wrong, the deep American voice demands, 
And, scarcely pausing, goes into a prayer 
Directing God about this eye, that knee. 
Their heads are clasped abruptly; then, exiled 

Like losing thoughts, they go in silence; some 
Sheepishly stray, not back into their lives 
Just yet; but some stay stiff, twitching and loud 
With deep hoarse tears, as if a kind of dumb 
And idiot child within them still survives 
To re-awake at kindness, thinking a voice 
At last calls them alone, that hands have come 
To lift and lighten; and such joy arrives 
Their thick tongues blort, their eyes squeeze grief, a crowd 
Of huge unheard answers jam and rejoice&#8212; 

What&#8217;s wrong! Moustached in flowered frocks they shake: 
By now, all&#8217;s wrong. In everyone there sleeps 
A sense of life lived according to love. 
To some it means the difference they could make 
By loving others, but across most it sweeps 
As all they might have done had they been loved. 
That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache, 
As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps, 
Spreads slowly through them&#8212;that, and the voice above 
Saying Dear child, and all time has disproved."

Philip Larkin


----------



## midcan5

'Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight'

(In Springfield, Illinois)

"It is portentous, and a thing of state 
That here at midnight, in our little town 
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, 
Near the old court-house pacing up and down. 

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards 
He lingers where his children used to play, 
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones 
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. 

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, 
A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl 
Make him the quaint great figure that men love, 
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. 

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. 
He is among us:as in times before! 
And we who toss and lie awake for long 
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. 

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. 
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? 
Too many peasants fight, they know not why, 
Too many homesteads in black terror weep. 

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. 
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. 
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now 
The bitterness, the folly and the pain. 

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn 
Shall come;the shining hope of Europe free; 
The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, 
Bringing long peace to Cornwall, Alp and Sea. 

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, 
That all his hours of travail here for men 
Seem yet in vain.   And who will bring white peace 
That he may sleep upon his hill again?"

Vachel Lindsay


----------



## midcan5

'Everybody'

"I stood at a bus corner
one afternoon, waiting
for the #2. An old
guy stood waiting too.
I stared at him. He
caught my stare, grinned,
gap-toothed. Will you
sign my coat? he said.
Held out a pen. He wore
a dirty canvas coat that
had signatures all over
it, hundreds, maybe
thousands.
          I&#8217;m trying
to get everybody, he
said.
          I signed. On a
little space on a pocket.
Sometimes I remember:
I am one of everybody."

Marie Sheppard Williams


----------



## midcan5

'Faith'

"Leaves drift from the cemetery oaks onto late grass,   
Sun-singed, smelling like straw, the insides of old barns.   
The stone angel's prayer is uninterrupted by the sleeping   
Vagrant at her feet, the lone squirrel, furtive amid the litter.   

Someone once said my great-grandmother, on the day she died,   
rose from her bed where she had lain, paralyzed and mute   
For two years following a stroke, and dressed herself&#8212;the good   
Sunday dress of black crepe, cotton stockings, sensible, lace-up shoes.   

I imagine her coiling her long white braid in the silent house,   
Lying back down on top of the quilt and folding her hands,   
Satisfied.   I imagine her born-again daughters, brought up    
In that tent-revival religion, called in from kitchens and fields   
To stand dismayed by her bed like the sisters of Lazarus,   
Waiting for her to breathe, to rise again and tell them what to do.   

Here, no cross escapes the erosion of age, no voice breaks   
The silence; the only certainty in the crow's flight   
Or the sun's measured descent is the coming of winter.   
Even the angel's outstretched arms offer only a formulated   
Grace, her blind blessings as indiscriminate as acorns,   
Falling on each of us, the departed and the leaving."

Judy Loest


----------



## midcan5

'Boy and Egg' 

"Every few minutes, he wants 
to march the trail of flattened rye grass 
back to the house of muttering 
hens. He too could make 
a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh 
it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it 
to his ear while the other children 
laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him, 
so little yet, too forgetful in games, 
ready to cry if the ball brushed him, 
riveted to the secret of birds 
caught up inside his fist, 
not ready to give it over 
to the refrigerator 
or the rest of the day."

Naomi Shihab Nye


----------



## midcan5

'Hurry' 

"We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store   
and the gas station and the green market and   
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,   
as she runs along two or three steps behind me   
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.   

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?   
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?   
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,   
Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry&#8212;   
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.   

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking    
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,   
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands."

Marie Howe


----------



## midcan5

'Sober Song' 

"Farewell to the starlight in whiskey, 
So long to the sunshine in beer. 
The booze made me cocky and frisky 
But worried the man in the mirror. 
Goodnight to the moonlight in brandy, 
Adieu to the warmth of the wine. 
I think I can finally stand me 
Without a glass or a stein. 
Bye-bye to the balm in the vodka, 
Ta-ta to the menthol in gin. 
I'm trying to do what I ought to, 
Rejecting that snake medicine. 
I won't miss the blackouts and vomit, 
The accidents and regret. 
If I can stay off the rotgut, 
There might be a chance for me yet. 
So so long to God in a bottle, 
To the lies of rum and vermouth. 
Let me slake my thirst with water 
And the sweet, transparent truth."

Barton Sutter


----------



## American Horse

On the Way to Work

Life is a bitch. And then you die.
          a bumper sticker

I hated bumper stickers, hated
the notion of wanting to be known
by one glib or earnest thing. 
But this time I sped up to see
a woman in her forties, cigarette, 
no way to tell how serious
she was, to what degree she felt
the joke, or what she wanted from us
who'd see it, philosophers all. 
If I'd had my own public answer 
"New Hope For The Dead," 
the only sticker I almost stuck 
I would have driven in front of her
and slowed down. How could we not
have become friends
or the kind of enemies
who must talk into the night, 
just one mistake away from love? 
I rode parallel to her, 
glancing over, as one does
on an airplane at someone's book. 
Short, straight hair. No make-up. 
A face that had been a few places
and only come back from some. 
At the stop light I smiled
at her, then made my turn
toward the half-life of work
past the placebo shops
and the beautiful park, white
like a smokescreen with snow. 
She didn't follow, not in this
bitch of a life. 
And I had so much to tell her
before we die
about what I'd done all these years
in between, under, and around
truths like hers. Who knows
where we would have stopped?

Stephen Dunn - _from Between Angels. _


----------



## midcan5

The Effect of Bumper Stickers

When I road a bicycle to work
There was no place 
For 'this is what I think'
Demonstrative slogans. 
So attached to my backpack 
Mondale Ferraro,
One driver shouted
If they're elected
there'll be no money 
for your bicycle upkeep.
When Kerry Edwards lost
I told my wife 
I'd leave it till 
A week went by 
And I saw no Kerry Edwards,
But a year went by and more.
I kept the backpack pin till
Veterans for Obama 
replaced my Obama for President,
This time it worked. 
So next time 
be specific 
One out of three ain't bad.


----------



## midcan5

'At The Top Of The Food Chain 
But The Bottom Of The Line' 

"I am an American. 
I rush to be before the bullet, 
as I push air out of my way. 
I snap commands, advice 
without request, involuntarily. 
I wait only briefly for anything. 
I comb my hair without looking, 
as fast as possible, then 
cant understand why my 
strands are haphazard. 
I brush past, my goal in sight, 
but you, who are you? 

I am an averter. 
My eyes have never touched 
anyone. I will rush to my grave 
and even in the tomb 
will be pissed, for everything 
I didnt get to finish. 

I am an American. I pledge allegiance 
to the clock, to productivity, to the bottom line. "


Judith Pordon


----------



## midcan5

'The Pessimist'

"Nothing to do but work, 
  Nothing to eat but food, 
Nothing to wear but clothes 
  To keep one from going nude. 

Nothing to breathe but air 
  Quick as a flash 't is gone; 
Nowhere to fall but off, 
  Nowhere to stand but on. 

Nothing to comb but hair, 
  Nowhere to sleep but in bed, 
Nothing to weep but tears, 
  Nothing to bury but dead. 

Nothing to sing but songs, 
  Ah, well, alas! alack! 
Nowhere to go but out, 
  Nowhere to come but back. 

Nothing to see but sights, 
  Nothing to quench but thirst, 
Nothing to have but what we've got; 
  Thus thro' life we are cursed. 

Nothing to strike but a gait; 
  Everything moves that goes. 
Nothing at all but common sense 
  Can ever withstand these woes."

Ben King


----------



## American Horse

HAWK


What a needy, desperate thing
to claim what's wild for oneself,
yet the hawk circling above the pines
looks like the same one I thought

might become mine after it crashed
into the large window and lay
one wing spread, the other loosely
tucked, then no, not dead, got up

dazed, and in minutes was gone.
Now once again
this is its sky, this its woods.
The tasty small birds it loves

have seen their God and know
the suddenness of such love
as we know lightning or flash flood.
If hawks can learn, this hawk learned

what's clear can be hard
down where the humans live,
and that the hunting isn't good
where the air is such a lie.

It glides above the pines and I
turn back into the room, the hawk book
open on the cluttered table
to Cooper's Hawk

and the unwritten caption:
that to be wild
means nothing you do or have done
needs to be explained.

Stephen Dunn - _from Between Angels_


----------



## midcan5

'Grandfather' 

"Dead before I came into this world, grandfather, 
I carry your name, yet I've never met you. 
I hear my name, and know 
that somehow they refer to you. 
When I scribble those six letters 
fast, to sign some document 
or print them neatly in a box, 
I feel your presence flow with the ink 
stain and burn through the paper, 
forever imprinted in my mind. 
Late summer nights 
gathered around the dinner table, 
leftovers being cleared away, 
faces clouded in cigarette smoke, 
I hear voices pass the word 
back and forth in reverence. 
Somehow I know it's not me 
the little one grabbing for attention. 
They speak of you, Andrei, 
the one I've never met, 
whose name I carry."

Andrei Guruianu


----------



## midcan5

'On Snow' 	  

A Riddle

"From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin.
No lady alive can show such a skin.
I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to insnare.
Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,
The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another,
The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother."

James Parton


----------



## midcan5

'Must keep in touch'

"I ran into myself
at a party.
There was definitely
a certain rapport:
ground shared,
tastes in common,
attitudes
not all that far apart.
But &#8211;
well,
you know how it is at parties.
After a bit
we shuffled our feet,
started looking around,
swapped cards,
said
let&#8217;s meet for a drink
one of these days.
Must keep in touch
old boy,
must keep in touch."

Michael Swan


----------



## midcan5

'8 Count' 

"from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies 
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is 
tombstone 
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker. "

Charles Bukowski


----------



## midcan5

'Corned Beef and Cabbage' 

"I can see her in the kitchen, 
Cooking up, for the hundredth time, 
A little something from her 
Limited Midwestern repertoire. 
Cigarette going in the ashtray, 
The red wine pulsing in its glass, 
A warning light meaning 
Everything was simmering 
Just below the steel lid 
Of her smile, as she boiled 
The beef into submission, 
Chopped her way 
Through the vegetable kingdom 
With the broken-handled knife 
I use tonight, feeling her 
Anger rising from the dark 
Chambers of the head 
Of cabbage I slice through, 
Missing her, wanting 
To chew things over 
With my mother again."

George Bilgere


----------



## midcan5

I couldn't find a Valentine's day poem I really liked, but I liked the images. By the way, my three year old granddaughter is my valentine so stop sending all those heart shaped cards. 

And another bit of romance in pictures. http://todayspictures.slate.com/20100212/


'Windchime'

"She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It&#8217;s six-thirty in the morning
and she&#8217;s standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she&#8217;s trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.

She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it&#8212;the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn&#8217;t making
because it wasn&#8217;t there.

No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving&#8212;
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands upon the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it."

Tony Hoagland


----------



## midcan5

'The Quiet World'

"In an effort to get people to look
into each other&#8217;s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn&#8217;t respond,
I know she&#8217;s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe."

Jeffrey McDaniel


----------



## midcan5

'Love Explained'

"Guy calls the doctor, says the wife&#8217;s
contractions are five minutes apart.
Doctor says, Is this her first child?
guy says, No, it&#8217;s her husband.

I promise to try to remember who
I am. Wife gets up on one elbow,

says, I wanted to get married.
It seemed a fulfillment of some

several things, a thing to be done.
Even the diamond ring was some

thing like a quest, a thing they
set you out to get and how insane

the quest is; how you have to turn
it every way before you can even

think to seek it; this metaphysical
refraining is in fact the quest. Who&#8217;d

have guessed? She sighs, I like
the predictability of two, I like

my pleasures fully expected,
when the expectation of them

grows patterned in its steady
surprise. I&#8217;ve got my sweet

and tumble pat. Here on earth,
I like to count upon a thing

like that. Thus explained
the woman in contractions

to her lover holding on
the telephone for the doctor

to recover from this strange
conversational turn. You say

you&#8217;re whom? It is a pleasure
to meet you. She rolls her

eyes, but he&#8217;d once asked her
Am I your first lover? and she&#8217;d
said, Could be. Your face looks
familiar. It&#8217;s the same type of

generative error. The grammar
of the spoken word wall flip, let alone

the written, until something new is
in us, and in our conversation."

Jennifer Michael Hecht


----------



## midcan5

'Raking'

"Anna Bell and Lane, eighty,
make small leaf piles in the heat,
each pile a great joint effort,
like fifty years of marriage,
sharing chores a rusty dance.
In my own yard, the stacks
are big as children, who scatter them,
dodge and limbo the poke
of my rake. We&#8217;re lucky,
young and straight-boned.
And I feel sorry for the couple,
bent like parentheses
around their brittle little lawn.
I like feeling sorry for them,
the tenderness of it, but only
for a moment: John glides in
like a paper airplane, takes
the children for the weekend,
and I remember,
they&#8217;re the lucky ones&#8212;
shriveled Anna Bell, loving
her crooked Lane."

Tania Rochelle


----------



## midcan5

'What I Learned From My Mother'

"I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewing even if I didn&#8217;t know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another&#8217;s suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch."

Julia Kasdorf


----------



## midcan5

'Sunday Brunch at the Old Country Buffet'

"Here is a genial congregation,
well fed and rosy with health and appetite,
robust children in tow. They have come
and all the generations of them, to be fed,
their old ones too who are eligible now
for a small discount, having lived to a ripe age.
Over the heaped and steaming plates, one by one,
heads bow, eyes close; the blessings are said.

Here there is good will; here peace
on earth, among the leafy greens, among the fruits
of the gardens of America's heartland. Here is abundance,
here is the promised
land of milk and honey, out of which
a flank of the fatted calf, thick still
on its socket and bone, rises like a benediction
over the loaves of bread and the little fishes, belly-up in butter."

Anne Caston


----------



## midcan5

'Section 60'

'Section 60 of Arlington Cemetery in Washington, 
which are buried most of the fallen in Iraq and Afghanistan.' 

"The gravestones rose as nails 
from the frozen land 
trying to pierce the clouds 
in a final attempt to escape 
death. 

The slow shade of the trees 
drown the sound of tears, 
sometimes the wind brings the dreadful 
thunder of war, 
There are moments in the day 
that the secrecy of the leaves 
break the white cadence 
of the horizon scattering  
among the names that are entangled 
in newly planted grass. 

Piece of land where the pain 
woven a subtle fabric of sadness 
where the moments of smiles 
are light escaping between the wings of birds, 
there are no songs of praise 
only we see withered cheeks 
by inconsequential sadness. 

The rows are clean, intact, 
white waiting for the order 
to navigate the fathomless sea 
of spirits seeking a reason 
for the future of their souls."

Leonardo Ibanez


----------



## midcan5

'February 23' 

"Light rain is falling in Central Park
but not on Upper Fifth Avenue or Central Park West
where sun and sky are yellow and blue
Winds are gusting on Washington Square
through the arches and on to LaGuardia Place
but calm is the corner of 8th Street and Second Avenue
which reminds me of something John Ashbery said
about his poem "Crazy Weather" he said
he was in favor of all kinds of weather
just so long as it's genuine weather
which is always unusually bad, unusually
good, or unusually indifferent,
since there isn't really any norm for weather
When he was a boy his mother met a friend
who said, "Isn't this funny weather?"

It was one of his earliest memories."

David Lehman


----------



## midcan5

'The Arrow and the Song'

"I SHOT an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where: 
For so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth I knew not where; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak, 
I found the arrow still unbroke; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend." 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


----------



## midcan5

'The Dead Will Rise' 

"Maybe a sense of history is not important.
After all, the winners write the books,
The official version is handed down, received
And passed from generation to generation.

I would like to hear what the losers think,
The ones who lost their families, their homes,
And had their country taken over.
Or from the shade of the soldier I saw dead

(I do not know or care his nationality)
On the front page of the paper.  Tell me, friend,
Was any of it worth your life? You have a story,
And tonight, it&#8217;s quiet. Let me hear you speak."

Tony Lewis-Jones


----------



## midcan5

'Walking to School, 1964'

"Blurring the window, the snowflakes' numb white lanterns.   
She's brewed her coffee, in the bathroom sprays cologne   
And sets her lipstick upright on the sink.   
The door ajar, I glimpse the yellow slip,   

The rose-colored birthmark on her shoulder.   
Then she's dressed&#8212;the pillbox hat and ersatz fur,   
And I'm dressed too, mummified in stocking cap   
And scarves, and I walk her to the bus stop   

Where she'll leave me for my own walk to school,   
Where she'll board the bus that zigzags to St. Paul   
As I watch her at the window, the paperback   

Romance already open on her lap,   
The bus laboring off into snow, her good-bye kiss   
Still startling my cheek with lipstick trace."

David Wojahn


----------



## midcan5

'If I Were In Charge of the World' 

"If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel oatmeal,
Monday mornings,
Allergy shots, and also Sara Steinberg. 

If I were in charge of the world
There'd be brighter nights lights,
Healthier hamsters, and
Basketball baskets forty eight inches lower.

If I were in charge of the world
You wouldn't have lonely.
You wouldn't have clean.
You wouldn't have bedtimes.
Or "Don't punch your sister."
You wouldn't even have sisters.

If I were in charge of the world
A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts would be a vegetable
All 007 movies would be G,
And a person who sometimes forgot to brush, 
And sometimes forgot to flush,
Would still be allowed to be 
In charge of the world."

Judith Viorst


----------



## midcan5

'Mother Doesn't Want a Dog' 

"Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow,
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.

Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they shed,
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead,
And do disgraceful things on rugs,
And track mud on the floor,
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.

Mother doesn't want a dog.
She's making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think
She will not want this snake."

Judith Viorst


----------



## midcan5

'Caged Bird'

"A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind   
and floats downstream   
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and   
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom."

Maya Angelou


----------



## midcan5

'Crimson Invitation'

"More sex, more books, more cake, more murder--consider the invitation to do it all again, could it be that some might refuse the journey? What does the cruel soul have to look forward to but further cruelty? Why should the shy soul locate itself in one more clumsy body? The suicides, the downcast, the rejected--why should they return if they can remain bodiless, carried aloft as specks of light? What must have happened not to want it again? Never to watch the sun sink into the sea, never to embrace, never to live again. The beggar, would he refuse the journey? The woman who lost her children, the man whose dear love ran off with another? Yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a fistful of ash--so Marcus Aurelius tells us. But consider all that comes between, the fleeting, the sweet, never to be repeated, never to happen again.

I think of skiing through the woods in winter, a few sparrows and chickadees in the branches, sunlight glistening on the snow, rabbit tracks, the whisper of trickling water beneath the ice, the silence rising into the blue bowl of sky. What does it mean never to want it again? I think of the faces of my children, the caress of my wife's fingertips against my cheek. Yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a fistful of ash. Is Marcus Aurelius's dark soul still a point of light carried aloft by currents of wind? I want them all to want to again, not just the happy ones or thoughtless ones or the ones who believed themselves successful. For even one to hang back creates a shard of doubt, a stone in the shoe."

[excerpt] 

Stephen Dobyns


----------



## midcan5

'Stuck on a Deserted Island' 

"If I were stuck 
on a deserted island,
the person I would
most like to be
stuck there with
would be
a master ship builder."

David Fischer


----------



## midcan5

'The Ashes' 

"You were carried here by hands 
and now the wind has you, gritty 
as incense, dark sparkles borne 

in the shape of blowing, 
this great atmospheric bloom, 
spinning under the bridge and expanding&#8212; 

shape of wind and its pattern 
of shattering. Having sloughed off 
the urn's temporary shape, 

there is another of you now&#8212; 
tell me which to speak to: 
the one you were, or are, the one who waited 

in the ashes for this scattering, or the one 
now added to the already haunted woods, 
the woods that sigh and shift their leaves&#8212; 

where your mystery billows, then breathes."

Karin Gottshall


----------



## midcan5

'No Fair'

"Life is indeed grossly unfair
Now I&#8217;m older and still have my wits
I&#8217;ve finally got me head together
And my body is now falling to bits."

Paul Curtis


----------



## midcan5

'Oh Look'

"Oh look
A glimpse of thigh
As her legs cross
Young girls 
Hipster clad
Showing thongs
Fail to titillate
But the young woman
In the lemon dress
Illuminated in the sunlight&#8217;s shaft
Excites the senses
A well-endowed Philly
On an adjacent table
Leans forward suddenly
And her breasts 
Rearrange themselves
Delightfully
I feel no shame
As I view
A curvaceous beauty
A shapely leg
Or well-sculptured ankle
Pert well formed buttocks
Plump or perky breasts
But nothing tarty or vampish
No bare midriffs
Or obscenely short skirts
Less is more
I feel no shame
For letching
Where&#8217;s the sin
In looking
They are god&#8217;s creation
Well packaged 
Why would he
Give us such delicacies
If he intended us not to look
So where&#8217;s the sin
Even if I am the vicar."

Paul Curtis


----------



## midcan5

'442' 

"This is my life Life defines in Metabolism, In reproduction, we make our miniature selves, our look alike In the power of adaptation, like what is in now, What is fashionable, how I blend with all of you How I mimic you, how I become a clown to you, Life in being nice This is my life A short and a merry one This my life In the middle of my own life To life, a life, in the hope of discovering the meaning of my life, My speech my poetry Come to life with me To the life, for the life of one like me, Not taking this life in my own hands, Never, never, To life, this is life As big as life as large as life is large In resiliency, in elasticity Animations, cartooning, animate, I vivify I vilify I quicken I liken The life force in my lifes functions Drawn from life to life drawn Dream to life a life full of dreams This liveliness, this sparkle This effervescence of life, this bubbling life like wine This sprightliness like soft Drink like energy drinks This verve, this vigor this vivacity Of life to life as big as life My life This is my life This me I am life I am energy i am in this poem trying to run away from everything in my life, running in life to life and life, because of life, for life."

Ric S. Bastasa


----------



## Colin

In the Garden of Eden,
As everyone knows,
Lives Adam and Eve,
Without any clothes.

In this garden,
Were two little leaves,
One covered Adam's,
One covered Eve's.

As the story goes on,
Never the less to say,
The wind came along,
And blew the leaves away.

At the sight,
Adam did stare,
There was Eve's treasure,
All covered with hair.

And wonder came,
Under Eve's eyes,
As Adam's thing,
Started to rise.

They found a spot,
That suited them best,
A nice big tree,
Where they began to rest.

Her legs spread wider,
And wider apart,
While thrill after thrill,
Came into her heart.

The head of Adam's thing,
Peeked into the hole,
And filled her with passion,
Beyond her control.

Backward and forward,
His thing did slide,
And Eve's treasure,
Was all wet inside.

The joy was good,
She wouldn't let loose,
Until Adam's thing,
Was all out of juice.

Then down through the years,
People did screw,
And now it is time,
For me and you.

So pull down your pants,
And lay in the grass,
Cause I'm in the mood,
For a piece of that ASS!


----------



## midcan5

'A Felicitous Life'

"His old age fell on years of abundant harvest. 
There were no earthquakes, droughts or floods. 
It seemed as if the turning of the seasons gained in constancy, 
Stars waxed strong and the sun increased its might. 
Even in remote provinces no war was waged. 
Generations grew up friendly to fellow men. 
The rational nature of man was not a subject of derision. 

It was bitter to say farewell to the earth so renewed. 
He was envious and ashamed of his doubt, 
Content that his lacerated memory would vanish with him. 

Two days after his death a hurricane razed the coasts. 
Smoke came from volcanoes inactive for a hundred years. 
Lava sprawled over forests, vineyards, and towns. 
And war began with a battle on the islands."

Czeslaw Milosz


----------



## midcan5

'Fifteen' 

"The boys who fled my father's house in fear 
Of what his wrath would cost them if he found 
Them nibbling slowly at his daughter's ear, 
Would vanish out the back without a sound, 
And glide just like the shadow of a crow, 
To wait beside the elm tree in the snow. 
Something quite deadly rumbled in his voice. 
He sniffed the air as if he knew the scent 
Of teenage boys, and asked, "What was that noise?" 
Then I'd pretend to not know what he meant, 
Stand mutely by, my heart immense with dread, 
As Father set the traps and went to bed."

Leslie Monsour


----------



## midcan5

'My Philosophy of Life'

"Just when I thought there wasn't room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will.  Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?

That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a
kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.
Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom
or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought
for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,
would be affected, or more precisely, inflected
by my new attitude.  I wouldn't be preachy,
or worry about children and old people, except
in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.
Instead I'd sort of let things be what they are
while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate
I thought I'd stumbled into, as a stranger
accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,
revealing a winding staircase with greenish light
somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside
and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.
At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender,
but something in between.  He thinks of cushions, like the one
his uncle's Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him
quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush 
is on.  Not a single idea emerges from it.  It's enough
to disgust you with thought.  But then you remember something
   William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the
   fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
   still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and
   his alone.

It's fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler.  Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they'd do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again.  Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought--
something's blocking it.  Something I'm 
not big enough to see over.  Or maybe I'm frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I'll let
things be what they are, sort of.  In the autumn I'll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won't be embarrassed by my friends' dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that's the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn't even like the idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he's 
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can't always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time.  That would be abusive, and about as much fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don't know.
Still, there's a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That's what they're made for!  Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.
They don't come along every day. Look out!  There's a big one..."

John Ashbery


----------



## Sky Dancer

April Rain Song  

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain. 

Langston Hughes


----------



## Sky Dancer

Do not leave me alone, a helpless woman. 
My strength, my crown, 
I am empty of virtues, 
You, the ocean of them. 
My heart's music, you help me 
In my world-crossing. 
You protected the king of the elephants. 
You dissolve the fear of the terrified. 

Where can I go? Save my honour 
For I have dedicated myself to you 
And now there is no one else for me. 

Mirabai


----------



## Sky Dancer

THE POOL PLAYERS. 
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.



We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon. 

Gwendolyn Brooks


----------



## Sky Dancer

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.

She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.

Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.

When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)

Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house. 

Gwendolyn Brooks


----------



## midcan5

'When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd'	  

1

"When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,   
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,   
I mourn'd&#8212;and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.   

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;   
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.   

2

O powerful, western, fallen star!   
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!   
O great star disappear'd! O the black murk that hides the star!   
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!   

3

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd 
   palings,   
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich
   green,   
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume
   strong I love,   
With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich
   green,   
A sprig, with its flower, I break.   

4

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,   
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.   

Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,   
Sings by himself a song.   

Song of the bleeding throat!   
Death's outlet song of life&#8212;(for well, dear brother, I know   
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)

5

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,   
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep'd
   from the ground, spotting the gray debris; )   
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes&#8212;passing the
   endless grass;   
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the
   dark-brown fields uprising;   
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,   
Night and day journeys a coffin. "  

Walt Whitman 

[excerpt]


----------



## midcan5

'Spring and All' 	  

"By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind.  Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter.  All about them
the cold, familiar wind-

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens:  clarity, outline of leaf


But now the stark dignity of
entrance-Still, the profound change
has come upon them:  rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken."

William Carlos Williams


----------



## Valerie

From T.S. Eliot's *The Wasteland*




*I. The Burial of the Dead*
APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee*          [A lake near Munich]
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten*,                        [A park in Munich]
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.*      ['I am not Russian at all, I am
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,        a German from Lithuania']
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
    Frisch weht der Wind*                  ['fresh blows the wind to the homeland']
    Der heimat zu
    Mein Irisch kind,*                        ['my Irish child, where do you linger?']
    Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
--Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.                        ['waste and empty is the sea']

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"


----------



## Valerie

Valerie said:


> From T.S. Eliot's *The Wasteland*
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *I. The Burial of the Dead*
> APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
> Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
> Memory and desire, stirring
> Dull roots with spring rain.
> Winter kept us warm, covering
> Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
> A little life with dried tubers.
> Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee*          [A lake near Munich]
> With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
> And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten*,                        [A park in Munich]
> And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
> Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.*      ['I am not Russian at all, I am
> And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,        a German from Lithuania']
> My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
> And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
> Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
> In the mountains, there you feel free.
> I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
> 
> What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
> Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
> You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
> A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
> And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
> And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
> There is shadow under this red rock
> (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
> And I will show you something different from either
> Your shadow at morning striding behind you
> Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
> I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
> Frisch weht der Wind*                  ['fresh blows the wind to the homeland']
> Der heimat zu
> Mein Irisch kind,*                        ['my Irish child, where do you linger?']
> Wo weilest du?
> "You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
> "They called me the hyacinth girl."
> --Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
> Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
> Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
> Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
> Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
> Oed' und leer das Meer.                        ['waste and empty is the sea']
> 
> Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
> Has a bad cold, nevertheless
> Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
> With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
> Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
> (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
> Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
> The lady of situations.
> Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
> And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
> Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
> Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
> The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
> I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
> Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
> Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
> One must be so careful these days.
> 
> Unreal City
> Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
> A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
> I had not thought death had undone so many.
> Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
> And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
> Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
> To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
> With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
> There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
> You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
> That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
> Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
> Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
> Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
> Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
> You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"




>





> *II. A Game of Chess*
> 
> The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
> Glowed on the marble, where the glass
> Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
> From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
> (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
> Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
> Reflecting light upon the table as
> The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
> From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
> In vials of ivory and coloured glass
> Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
> Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
> And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
> That freshened from the window, these ascended
> In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
> Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
> Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
> Huge sea-wood fed with copper
> Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
> In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
> Above the antique mantel was displayed
> As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
> The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
> So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
> Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
> And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
> 'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
> And other withered stumps of time
> Were told upon the walls; staring forms
> Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
> Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
> Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
> Spread out in fiery points
> Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
> 'My nerves are bad to-night.  Yes, bad.  Stay with me.
> 'Speak to me.  Why do you never speak.  Speak.
> 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
> 'I never know what you are thinking.  Think.'
> I think we are in rats' alley
> Where the dead men lost their bones.
> 'What it that noise?'
> The wind under the door.
> 'What is that noise now?  What is the wind doing?'
> Nothing again nothing.
> 'Do
> 'You know nothing?  Do you see nothing?  Do you remember
> 'Nothing?'
> I remember
> Those are pearls that were his eyes.
> 'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
> But
> O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -
> It's so elegant
> So intelligent
> 'What shall I do now?  What shall I do?'
> 'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
> 'With my hair down, so.  What shall we do tomorrow?
> 'What shall we ever do?'
> The hot water at ten.
> And if it rains, a closed car at four.
> And we shall play a game of chess, 138
> Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
> When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -
> I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
> He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
> To get herself some teeth.  He did, I was there.
> You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
> He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
> And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
> He's been in the army for four years, he wants a good time,
> And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
> Oh is there, she said.  Something o' that, I said.
> Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
> Others can pick and choose if you can't.
> But if Albert makes off, it won't be for a lack of telling.
> You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
> (And her only thirty-one.)
> I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
> It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
> (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
> The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
> You are a proper fool, I said.
> Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
> What you get married for if you don't want children?
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
> And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> Goonight Bill.  Goonight Lou.  Goonight May.  Goonight.
> Ta ta.  Goonight.  Goonight.


----------



## uscitizen

Here I sit, buns a flexin
Just gave birth to another Texan.


----------



## Valerie

Valerie said:


> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> From T.S. Eliot's *The Wasteland*
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *I. The Burial of the Dead*
> APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
> Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
> Memory and desire, stirring
> Dull roots with spring rain.
> Winter kept us warm, covering
> Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
> A little life with dried tubers.
> Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee*          [A lake near Munich]
> With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
> And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten*,                        [A park in Munich]
> And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
> Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.*      ['I am not Russian at all, I am
> And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,        a German from Lithuania']
> My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
> And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
> Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
> In the mountains, there you feel free.
> I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
> 
> What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
> Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
> You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
> A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
> And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
> And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
> There is shadow under this red rock
> (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
> And I will show you something different from either
> Your shadow at morning striding behind you
> Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
> I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
> Frisch weht der Wind*                  ['fresh blows the wind to the homeland']
> Der heimat zu
> Mein Irisch kind,*                        ['my Irish child, where do you linger?']
> Wo weilest du?
> "You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
> "They called me the hyacinth girl."
> --Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
> Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
> Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
> Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
> Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
> Oed' und leer das Meer.                        ['waste and empty is the sea']
> 
> Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
> Has a bad cold, nevertheless
> Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
> With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
> Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
> (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
> Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
> The lady of situations.
> Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
> And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
> Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
> Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
> The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
> I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
> Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
> Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
> One must be so careful these days.
> 
> Unreal City
> Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
> A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
> I had not thought death had undone so many.
> Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
> And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
> Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
> To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
> With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
> There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
> You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
> That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
> Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
> Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
> Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
> Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
> You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *II. A Game of Chess*
> 
> The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
> Glowed on the marble, where the glass
> Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
> From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
> (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
> Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
> Reflecting light upon the table as
> The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
> From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
> In vials of ivory and coloured glass
> Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
> Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
> And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
> That freshened from the window, these ascended
> In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
> Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
> Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
> Huge sea-wood fed with copper
> Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
> In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
> Above the antique mantel was displayed
> As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
> The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
> So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
> Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
> And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
> 'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
> And other withered stumps of time
> Were told upon the walls; staring forms
> Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
> Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
> Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
> Spread out in fiery points
> Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
> 'My nerves are bad to-night.  Yes, bad.  Stay with me.
> 'Speak to me.  Why do you never speak.  Speak.
> 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
> 'I never know what you are thinking.  Think.'
> I think we are in rats' alley
> Where the dead men lost their bones.
> 'What it that noise?'
> The wind under the door.
> 'What is that noise now?  What is the wind doing?'
> Nothing again nothing.
> 'Do
> 'You know nothing?  Do you see nothing?  Do you remember
> 'Nothing?'
> I remember
> Those are pearls that were his eyes.
> 'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
> But
> O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -
> It's so elegant
> So intelligent
> 'What shall I do now?  What shall I do?'
> 'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
> 'With my hair down, so.  What shall we do tomorrow?
> 'What shall we ever do?'
> The hot water at ten.
> And if it rains, a closed car at four.
> And we shall play a game of chess, 138
> Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
> When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -
> I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
> He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
> To get herself some teeth.  He did, I was there.
> You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
> He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
> And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
> He's been in the army for four years, he wants a good time,
> And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
> Oh is there, she said.  Something o' that, I said.
> Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
> Others can pick and choose if you can't.
> But if Albert makes off, it won't be for a lack of telling.
> You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
> (And her only thirty-one.)
> I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
> It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
> (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
> The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
> You are a proper fool, I said.
> Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
> What you get married for if you don't want children?
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
> And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
> Goonight Bill.  Goonight Lou.  Goonight May.  Goonight.
> Ta ta.  Goonight.  Goonight.
> 
> Click to expand...
Click to expand...



>





> *III. THE FIRE SERMON*
> 
> 
> THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
> Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
> Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
> Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
> The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
> Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
> Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
> And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
> Departed, have left no addresses.
> By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
> Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
> Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
> But at my back in a cold blast I hear
> The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
> 
> A rat crept softly through the vegetation
> Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
> While I was fishing in the dull canal
> On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
> Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
> And on the king my father's death before him.
> White bodies naked on the low damp ground
> And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
> Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
> But at my back from time to time I hear
> The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
> Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
> O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
> And on her daughter
> They wash their feet in soda water
> Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
> 
> Twit twit twit
> Jug jug jug jug jug jug
> So rudely forc'd.
> Tereu
> 
> Unreal City
> Under the brown fog of a winter noon
> Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
> Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
> C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
> Asked me in demotic French
> To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
> Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
> 
> At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
> Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
> Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
> I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
> Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
> At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
> Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
> The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
> Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
> Out of the window perilously spread
> Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
> On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
> Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
> I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
> Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest
> I too awaited the expected guest.
> He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
> A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
> One of the low on whom assurance sits
> As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
> The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
> The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
> Endeavours to engage her in caresses
> Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
> Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
> Exploring hands encounter no defence;
> His vanity requires no response,
> And makes a welcome of indifference.
> (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
> Enacted on this same divan or bed;
> I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
> And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
> Bestows on final patronising kiss,
> And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
> 
> She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
> Hardly aware of her departed lover;
> Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
> 'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
> When lovely woman stoops to folly and
> Paces about her room again, alone,
> She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
> And puts a record on the gramophone.
> 
> 'This music crept by me upon the waters'
> And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
> O City city, I can sometimes hear
> Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
> The pleasant whining of a mandoline
> And a clatter and a chatter from within
> Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
> Of Magnus Martyr hold
> Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
> 
> The river sweats
> Oil and tar
> The barges drift
> With the turning tide
> Red sails
> Wide
> To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
> The barges wash
> Drifting logs
> Down Greenwich reach
> Past the Isle of Dogs.
> Weialala leia
> Wallala leialala
> 
> Elizabeth and Leicester
> Beating oars
> The stern was formed
> A gilded shell
> Red and gold
> The brisk swell
> Rippled both shores
> Southwest wind
> Carried down stream
> The peal of bells
> White towers
> Weialala leia
> Wallala leialala
> 
> 'Trams and dusty trees.
> Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
> Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
> Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'
> 'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
> Under my feet. After the event
> He wept. He promised "a new start".
> I made no comment. What should I resent?'
> 'On Margate Sands.
> I can connect
> Nothing with nothing.
> The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
> My people humble people who expect
> Nothing.'
> 
> To Carthage then I came
> 
> Burning burning burning burning
> O Lord Thou pluckest me out
> O Lord Thou pluckest
> 
> burning


----------



## dilloduck

Nature's first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold. 
Her early leafs a flower; 
But only so an hour. 
Then leaf subsides to leaf. 
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day. 
Nothing gold can stay. 

*Robert Frost*


----------



## Sky Dancer

For all the world we didnt know we held in common
all along

the common woman is as common as the best of bread
and will rise

and will become strongI swear it to you

I swear it to you on my own head

I swear it to you on my common
womans
head

Judy Grahn, The Common Woman 1969


----------



## Sky Dancer

Paris and Helen

by Judy Grahn 

He called her:  golden dawn
She called him:  the wind whistles


He called her:  heart of the sky
She called him:  message bringer


He called her:  mother of pearl
           barley woman, rice provider,
           millet basket, corn maid,
           flax princess, all-maker, weef


She called him:  fawn, roebuck,
           stag, courage, thunderman,
           all-in-green, mountain strider
           keeper of forests, my-love-rides


He called her:  the tree is
She called him:  bird dancing


He called her:  who stands,
           has stood, will always stand
She called him:  arriver


He called her:  the heart and the womb
           are similar
She called him:  arrow in my heart.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Hanging Fire 

by Audre Lorde

I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me
the boy I cannot live without 
still sucks his tumb 
in secret
how come my knees are 
always so ashy
what if I die
before the morning comes
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.

I have to learn how to dance
in time for the next party 
my room is too small for me
suppose I de before graduation
they will sing sad melodies
but finally
tell the truth aout me
There is nothing I want to do 
and too much
that has to be done
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.

Nobody even stops to think
about my side of it
I should have been on Math Team
my marks were better than his
why do I have to be
the one 
wearing braces
I have nothing to wear tomorrow
will I live long enough
to grow up
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.


----------



## Sky Dancer

" For the White Person Who Wants to Know How to Be My Friend"

The first thing you do is to forget that i'm Black.
Second, you must never forget that i'm Black.

You should be able to dig Aretha,
but don't play her every time i come over.
And if you decide to play Beethoven--don't tell
me his life story. They made us take music
appreciation too.

Eat soul food if you like it, but don't expect me
to locate your restaurants
or cook it for you.

And if some Black person insults you,
mugs you, rapes your sister, rapes you,
rips your house, or is just being an ***--
please, do not apologize to me
for wanting to do them bodily harm.
It makes me wonder if you're foolish.

And even if you really believe Blacks are better
lovers than whites--don't tell me. I start thinking
of charging stud fees.

In other words, if you really want to be my
friend--don't make a labor of it. I'm lazy.
Remember.


----------



## midcan5

'The Kiss'

'She pressed her lips to mind.'
	a typo

"How many years I must have yearned
for someones lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things shes missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greeks ear,
speaking sense. Its the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could."

Stephen Dunn


----------



## midcan5

A Bum's life

I wanna be a bum
yea, a real one
imagine the freedom
no bills no chores no timetables
hop a train and go wherever
and the romance 
there are women bums aren't there?
sleeping in the open
fresh air and the wind
covered in cardboard and rags
warm as a bug in a rug
the mind on the now 
snacks from the trash
the delicacy of discards
and profound conversations 
about the view the sky 
the clickety clack of trains
smoking and drinking
no worries about health
but experience 
that great teacher
and a return to a simple past
no need for theories or ideas
this is where we go
when it gets cold
like birds migrating 
no cares no worries 
yep, that's the only free life
a bum's life.


----------



## midcan5

Sales Are Up

I opened a philosophy store
sold ethics and moral thoughts
heavy stuff mostly
customers looked with puzzlement
at answers to questions
they never asked
I tried to sell beauty and honor
and things like reasons
but it just didn't work
so I switched to beer
beer was much better 
all my customers came back
they looked happy and content now
they didn't need answers
to questions so heavy 
they wanted the lighter stuff
and beer fit the bill.


----------



## Valerie

Valerie said:


> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> From T.S. Eliot's *The Wasteland*
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *I. The Burial of the Dead*
> 
> APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
> Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
> Memory and desire, stirring
> Dull roots with spring rain.
> Winter kept us warm, covering
> Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
> A little life with dried tubers.
> Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee*          [A lake near Munich]
> With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
> And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten*,                        [A park in Munich]
> And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
> Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.*      ['I am not Russian at all, I am
> And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,        a German from Lithuania']
> My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
> And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
> Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
> In the mountains, there you feel free.
> I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
> 
> What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
> Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
> You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
> A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
> And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
> And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
> There is shadow under this red rock
> (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
> And I will show you something different from either
> Your shadow at morning striding behind you
> Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
> I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
> Frisch weht der Wind*                  ['fresh blows the wind to the homeland']
> Der heimat zu
> Mein Irisch kind,*                        ['my Irish child, where do you linger?']
> Wo weilest du?
> "You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
> "They called me the hyacinth girl."
> --Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
> Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
> Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
> Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
> Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
> Oed' und leer das Meer.                        ['waste and empty is the sea']
> 
> Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
> Has a bad cold, nevertheless
> Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
> With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
> Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
> (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
> Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
> The lady of situations.
> Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
> And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
> Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
> Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
> The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
> I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
> Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
> Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
> One must be so careful these days.
> 
> Unreal City
> Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
> A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
> I had not thought death had undone so many.
> Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
> And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
> Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
> To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
> With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
> There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
> You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
> That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
> Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
> Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
> Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
> Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
> You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *III. THE FIRE SERMON*
> 
> 
> THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
> Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
> Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
> Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
> The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
> Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
> Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
> And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
> Departed, have left no addresses.
> By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
> Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
> Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
> But at my back in a cold blast I hear
> The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
> 
> A rat crept softly through the vegetation
> Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
> While I was fishing in the dull canal
> On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
> Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
> And on the king my father's death before him.
> White bodies naked on the low damp ground
> And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
> Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
> But at my back from time to time I hear
> The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
> Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
> O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
> And on her daughter
> They wash their feet in soda water
> Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
> 
> Twit twit twit
> Jug jug jug jug jug jug
> So rudely forc'd.
> Tereu
> 
> Unreal City
> Under the brown fog of a winter noon
> Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
> Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
> C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
> Asked me in demotic French
> To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
> Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
> 
> At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
> Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
> Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
> I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
> Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
> At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
> Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
> The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
> Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
> Out of the window perilously spread
> Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
> On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
> Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
> I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
> Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest
> I too awaited the expected guest.
> He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
> A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
> One of the low on whom assurance sits
> As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
> The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
> The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
> Endeavours to engage her in caresses
> Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
> Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
> Exploring hands encounter no defence;
> His vanity requires no response,
> And makes a welcome of indifference.
> (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
> Enacted on this same divan or bed;
> I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
> And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
> Bestows on final patronising kiss,
> And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
> 
> She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
> Hardly aware of her departed lover;
> Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
> 'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
> When lovely woman stoops to folly and
> Paces about her room again, alone,
> She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
> And puts a record on the gramophone.
> 
> 'This music crept by me upon the waters'
> And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
> O City city, I can sometimes hear
> Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
> The pleasant whining of a mandoline
> And a clatter and a chatter from within
> Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
> Of Magnus Martyr hold
> Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
> 
> The river sweats
> Oil and tar
> The barges drift
> With the turning tide
> Red sails
> Wide
> To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
> The barges wash
> Drifting logs
> Down Greenwich reach
> Past the Isle of Dogs.
> Weialala leia
> Wallala leialala
> 
> Elizabeth and Leicester
> Beating oars
> The stern was formed
> A gilded shell
> Red and gold
> The brisk swell
> Rippled both shores
> Southwest wind
> Carried down stream
> The peal of bells
> White towers
> Weialala leia
> Wallala leialala
> 
> 'Trams and dusty trees.
> Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
> Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
> Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'
> 'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
> Under my feet. After the event
> He wept. He promised "a new start".
> I made no comment. What should I resent?'
> 'On Margate Sands.
> I can connect
> Nothing with nothing.
> The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
> My people humble people who expect
> Nothing.'
> 
> To Carthage then I came
> 
> Burning burning burning burning
> O Lord Thou pluckest me out
> O Lord Thou pluckest
> 
> burning
> 
> Click to expand...
Click to expand...





>






> *IV. DEATH BY WATER*
> 
> 
> PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
> Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
> And the profit and loss.
> A current under sea
> Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
> He passed the stages of his age and youth
> Entering the whirlpool.
> Gentile or Jew
> O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
> Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.


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## Valerie

Valerie said:


> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *IV. DEATH BY WATER*
> 
> 
> PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
> Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
> And the profit and loss.
> A current under sea
> Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
> He passed the stages of his age and youth
> Entering the whirlpool.
> Gentile or Jew
> O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
> Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
> 
> Click to expand...
Click to expand...



>





> *
> V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID*
> 
> 
> AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
> After the frosty silence in the gardens
> After the agony in stony places
> The shouting and the crying
> Prison and place and reverberation
> Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
> He who was living is now dead
> We who were living are now dying
> With a little patience
> 
> Here is no water but only rock
> Rock and no water and the sandy road
> The road winding above among the mountains
> Which are mountains of rock without water
> If there were water we should stop and drink
> Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
> Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
> If there were only water amongst the rock
> Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
> Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
> There is not even silence in the mountains
> But dry sterile thunder without rain
> There is not even solitude in the mountains
> But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
> From doors of mudcracked houses
> If there were water
> And no rock
> If there were rock
> And also water
> And water
> A spring
> A pool among the rock
> If there were the sound of water only
> Not the cicada
> And dry grass singing
> But sound of water over a rock
> Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
> Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
> But there is no water
> 
> Who is the third who walks always beside you?
> When I count, there are only you and I together
> But when I look ahead up the white road
> There is always another one walking beside you
> Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
> I do not know whether a man or a woman
> But who is that on the other side of you?
> 
> What is that sound high in the air
> Murmur of maternal lamentation
> Who are those hooded hordes swarming
> Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
> Ringed by the flat horizon only
> What is the city over the mountains
> Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
> Falling towers
> Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
> Vienna London
> Unreal
> 
> A woman drew her long black hair out tight
> And fiddled whisper music on those strings
> And bats with baby faces in the violet light
> Whistled, and beat their wings
> And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
> And upside down in air were towers
> Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
> And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
> 
> In this decayed hole among the mountains
> In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
> Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
> There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
> It has no windows, and the door swings,
> Dry bones can harm no one.
> Only a cock stood on the rooftree
> Co co rico co co rico
> In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
> Bringing rain
> 
> Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
> Waited for rain, while the black clouds
> Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
> The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
> Then spoke the thunder
> D A
> Datta: what have we given?
> My friend, blood shaking my heart
> The awful daring of a moment's surrender
> Which an age of prudence can never retract
> By this, and this only, we have existed	 405
> Which is not to be found in our obituaries
> Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
> Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
> In our empty rooms
> D A
> Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
> Turn in the door once and turn once only
> We think of the key, each in his prison
> Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
> Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
> Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
> D A
> Damyata: The boat responded
> Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
> The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
> Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
> To controlling hands
> 
> I sat upon the shore
> Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
> Shall I at least set my lands in order?
> 
> London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
> 
> Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
> Quando fiam ceu chelidonO swallow swallow
> Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
> These fragments I have shored against my ruins
> Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
> Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
> 
> Shantih shantih shantih


----------



## midcan5

A Terrorist Thinks Twice

I was going to blow myself up today
but it was sunny and nice and I 
thought why kill myself over stuff
that may go on forever
has gone on forever
so instead I unstrapped the bombs
threw them in the river
breathed deeply and long
and thought all those virgins can wait.


----------



## Sky Dancer

The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four Americans are suffering from some form of mental illness. 

Think of your three best friends. If they're okay, then it's you.

Rita Mae Brown


----------



## Sky Dancer

One Inch Tall  

 If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.
The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.
A crumb of cake would be a feast
And last you seven days at least,
A flea would be a frightening beast
If you were one inch tall.

If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,
And it would take about a month to get down to the store.
A bit of fluff would be your bed,
You'd swing upon a spider's thread,
And wear a thimble on your head
If you were one inch tall.

You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.
You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.
You'd run from people's feet in fright,
To move a pen would take all night,
(This poem took fourteen years to write--
'Cause I'm just one inch tall). 

Shel Silverstein


----------



## Sky Dancer

Warning  

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. 

Jenny Joseph


----------



## midcan5

'To a Wedding'

"The city humid, the church rusty and Baroque, and the directions appalling, 
the Miami sky turned gray as a blanket, and soon tropical rain was falling; 
the priest repeatedly invoked the Beast in View, as if he were stalling; 
and in the back a few ushers whipped out their cell phones and started calling. 
What of the palm scrub, through which mildewed creatures came crawling, 
or the two cousins from Chicago, who at the reception couldn't stop brawling? 
All weddings are madness, and except for the sherbet-hued bridesmaids not even a little enthralling. 
But the stooped and aged, what in their moth-eaten hours were they recalling? 
Some first nervous kiss, perhaps, the razor of a touch, and all that "Baby Doll"-ing; 
then the mortgage in Opa-Locka, nine months of waiting, and half a life of squalling."

William Logan


----------



## Sky Dancer

Messy Room
 by Shel Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!


----------



## Bootneck

Some time when you're feeling important
some time when your egos in bloom
some time when you take it for granted
your the most qualified man in the room
Some time when you think that your leaving
will leave an unfillable hole
just follow these simple instructions
and see how it humbles your soul

Take a bucket and fill It with water
put your hand in it up to your wrist
Take it out and the hole that remains there
is the measure of how much your missed

You can splash it around while it's in there
You can stir up the water galore
Yet remove it and then in a moment
The water's the same as before

The moral to this is quit simple
Do the best that you possibly can
Be proud of yourself yet remember
There is no indispensable man


----------



## midcan5

'Welcome'

"If you believe nothing is always what's left
after a while, as I did.
If you believe you have this collection
of ungiven gifts, as I do (right here
behind the silence and the averted eyes)
If you believe an afternoon can collapse
into strange privacies-
how in your backyard, for example,
the shyness of flowers can be suddenly
overwhelming, and in the distance
the clear goddamn of thunder
personal, like a voice,
If you believe there's no correct response
to death, as I do; that even in grief
(where I've sat making plans)
there are small corners of joy
If your body sometimes is a light switch
in a house of insomniacs
If you can feel yourself straining
to be yourself every waking minute
If, as I am, you are almost smiling..."

Stephen Dunn


----------



## George Costanza

Casey at the Bat     
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer  

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.


----------



## George Costanza

The Highwayman 
  by Alfred Lord Noyes

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--riding--riding;
The highwayman came riding, 
Up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doeskin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle, his boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jeweled tinkle, 
His pistol butts a-twinkle, his rapier hilt a-twinkle, 
Under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed, in the dark inn yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn yard, a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay;
But he loved the landlord's daughter, 
The landlord's red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say,

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart. I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight, 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, 
Though hell should bar the way!"

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A redcoat troop came marching--marching--marching;
King George's men came marching, 
Up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead;
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side.
There was death at every window, 
And hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see through her casement the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside here, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say, &#8220;Look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight, 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, 
Though hell should bar the way!&#8221;

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good.
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till now, on the stroke of midnight, 
Cold on the stoke of midnight, 
The tip of one finger touched it!  The trigger at last was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up she stood to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight. 
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear!
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--riding--riding. 
The redcoats looked to their priming!  
She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath.
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 
The musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight, and warned him--with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.
Not til the dawn he heard it, and his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, 
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding--riding--riding;
A highwayman comes riding, 
Up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs, in the dark inn yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there,
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


----------



## George Costanza

The Absinthe Drinkers
by Robert Service

He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,
The little wizend Spanish man, I see him every day.
He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;
He's staring at the passers with his customary stare,
He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng.
The current cosmopolitan meandering along:
Dark diplomats from Martinique, pale Rastas from Peru,
An Englishman from Bloomsbury, a Yank from Kalamazoo;
A poet from Montmartre's heights, a dapper little Jap,
Exotic citizens of all the countries on the map;

A tourist horde from every land that's underneat the sun -
That little wizened Spanish man, he misses never one.
Oh, foul or fair, he's always there, and many a drink he buys,
And there's a fire of red desire within his hollow eyes.
And sipping of my Pernod, and a-knowing what I know,
Sometimes I want to shriek aloud and give away the show,
I've lost my nerve; he's haunting me; he's like a bird of prey,
That Spanish man that's watching at the Cafe de la Paix.

Say! Listen and I'll tell you all . . the day was growing dim,
And I was with my Pernod at the table next to him;
And he was sitting soberly as if he were asleep,
When suddenly he seemed to tense, like tiger for a leap,
And then he swung around to me, his hand went to his hip,
My heart was beating like a gong - my arm was in his grip;
His eyes were glaring into mine; aye, though I shrank with fear,
His fetid breath was on my face, his voice was in my ear:

Excuse my _brusquerie_, he hissed; "but, sir, do you suppose -
That portly man who passed us had a _wen upon his nose_?

And then a last it dawned on me, the fellow must be mad;
And when I soothingly replied: "I do not think he had,"
The little wizened Spanish man subsided in his chair,
And shrouded in the raven cloak resumed his owlish stare.
But when I tried to slip away he turned and glared at me,
And oh, that fishlike face of his was sinister to see;
"Forgive me if I startled you; of course you think I'm queer;
No doubt you wonder who I am, so solitary here;
You question why the passers-by I piercingly review . . . 
Well, listen, my bibacious friend, I'll tell my tale to you.

"It happened twenty years ago, and in another land;
A maiden young and beautiful, two suitors for her hand.
My rival was the lucky one, I vowed I would repay;
Revenge has mellowed in my heart; it's rotton ripe today.
My happy rival skipped away, vamoosed, he left no trace;
And so I'm waiting, waiting here to meet him face to face;
For has it not been ever said that all the world one day
Will pass in pilgrimage before the Cafe de la Paix?"

"But, sir," I made remonstrance, "if it's twenty years ago,
You'd scarcely recognize him now, he must have altered so."
The little wizened Spanish man he laughed a hideous laugh,
And from his cloak he quickly drew a faded photograph,
"You're right," said he, "but there are traits (oh this you must allow)
That never change; Lopez was fat, he must be fatter now,
His paunch is senatorial, he cannot see his toes,
I'm sure of it; and then, behold! that wen upon his nose.
I'm looking for a man like that.  I'll wait and wait until . . ."

"What will you do?" I sharply cried; he answered me: "Why, kill!
He robbed me of my happiness - nay stranger, do not start;
I'll firmly and politely put - a bullet in his heart."

And then that little Spanish man, with big cigar alight,
Uprose and shook my trembling hand and vanished in the night.

And I went home and thought of him and had a dreadful dream
Of portly men with each a wen, and woke up with a scream.
And sure enough, next morning, as I prowled the Boulevard,
A portly man with wenny nose roamed into my regard;
Then like a flash I rant to him and clutched him by the arm:
"Oh, sir," said I, "I do not wish to see you come to harm;
But if your life you value aught, I beg entreat and pray -
Don't pass before the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix."

That portly man he looked at me with such a startled air,
Then bolted like a rabbit down the rue Michaudiere.
"Ha! ha! I've saved a life," I thought; and laughed in my relief,
And straightway joined the Spanish man o'er his _aperitif_.

And thus each day I dodged about and kept the strictest guard
For portly men with each a wen upon the Boulevard.
And then I hailed my Spanish pal, and sitting in the sun,
We ordered many Pernods and we drank them every one,
And sternly he would stare and stare until my hand would shake,
And grimly he would glare and glare until my heart would quake.
And I would say: "Alphonso, lad, I must expostulate;
Why keep alive for twenty years the furnace of your hate?
Perhaps his wedded life was hell; and you, at least are free . . . "

"That's where you've got it wrong," he snarled, "the fool she took was _me_.
My rival sneaked, threw up the sponge, betrayed himself a churl:
'Twas he who got the happiness, I only got - the girl."
With that, he looked so devil-like he made me creep and shrink,
And there was nothing else to do but buy another drink.

Now yonder like a blot of ink he sits across the way,
Upon the smiling terrace of the Cafe de la Paix;
The little wizened Spanish man, his face is ghastly white,
His eyes are staring, staring like a tiger's in the night.
I know within his evil heart the fires of hate are fanned,
I know his automatic's ready waiting to his hand.
I know a tragedy is near.  I dread.  I have no peace . . . 
Oh, don't you think I ought to go and call upon the police?

Look there . . . he's rising up . . . My God!  He leaps from out his place . . .
Yon millionaire from Argentine . . . the two are face to face . . . 
A shot!  A shriek!  A heavy fall!  A huddled heap!  Oh see . . .
The little wizened Spanish man is dancing in his glee . . .
I'm sick . . . I'm faint . . . I'm going mad . . . Oh please take me away . . .
There's blood upon the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix . . .


----------



## George Costanza

The Female of the Species
by Rudyard Kipling

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, 
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. 
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail. 
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. 

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, 
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can. 
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail. 
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, 
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws. 
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale. 
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, 
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; 
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale&#8212; 
The female of the species is more deadly than the male. 

Man, a bear in most relations&#8212;worm and savage otherwise,&#8212; 
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. 
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact 
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. 

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, 
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. 
Mirth obscene diverts his anger&#8212;Doubt and Pity oft perplex 
Him in dealing with an issue&#8212;to the scandal of The Sex! 

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame 
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; 
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, 
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male. 

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast 
May not deal in doubt or pity&#8212;must not swerve for fact or jest. 
These be purely male diversions&#8212;not in these her honour dwells&#8212; 
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else. 

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great 
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate. 
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim 
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same. 

She is wedded to convictions&#8212;in default of grosser ties; 
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!&#8212; 
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, 
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child. 

Unprovoked and awful charges&#8212;even so the she-bear fights, 
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons&#8212;even so the cobra bites, 
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw 
And the victim writhes in anguish&#8212;like the Jesuit with the squaw! 

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer 
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her 
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands 
To some God of Abstract Justice&#8212;which no woman understands. 

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him 
Must command but may not govern&#8212;shall enthral but not enslave him. 
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, 
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.


----------



## George Costanza

A Poem by Harry Harbord "Breaker" Morant
    Lieutenant, Bushveldt Carbineers 

In prison cell I sadly sit -
A damned crestfallen chappy!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!

It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction-
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
While waiting cru-ci-fixion!

No matteer what 'end' they decide-
Quicklime? or 'b'iling ile? sir!
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice as such men
As come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em,
And if you wish to leave these shores
For pity's sake don't shoot 'em!

And if you'd earn a D.S.O.-
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: 'Ask the Boer to dinner'!

Let's toss a bumper down our throat
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: 'the trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon.'

(Shortly thereafter, he was executed by firing squad.)

From "Breaker Morant," the movie.


----------



## midcan5

'What The Doctor Said'

"He said it doesn't look good 
he said it looks bad in fact real bad 
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before 
I quit counting them 
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know 
about any more being there than that 
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down 
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help 
when you come to a waterfall 
mist blowing against your face and arms 
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments 
I said not yet but I intend to start today 
he said I'm real sorry he said 
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you 
I said Amen and he said something else 
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do 
and not wanting him to have to repeat it 
and me to have to fully digest it 
I just looked at him 
for a minute and he looked back it was then 
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me 
something no one else on earth had ever given me 
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong."

Raymond Carver


----------



## JW Frogen

Carver 

Was a great writer.

A great alcoholic too.

Still a great writer.

And not a bad man.

I love the him on many levels.

Chekov would love him too.

They have the same aesthetic DNA.


----------



## pAr

Admirant Vénus, affublé de tristes yeux,
Nul ne sait s'il était le plus heureux des dieux;
Mais il était celui faisant le plus d'affaires:
Hadès, dieu des enfers!


----------



## midcan5

JW Frogen said:


> Carver
> Was a great writer.
> A great alcoholic too.
> Still a great writer.
> And not a bad man.
> I love the him on many levels.
> Chekov would love him too.
> They have the same aesthetic DNA.



Agreed, here is a favorite that I cannot find on usmb even though I believe I posted it.

'Happiness'

"So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it."    

Raymond Carver




pAr said:


> Admirant Vénus, affublé de tristes yeux,
> Nul ne sait s'il était le plus heureux des dieux;
> Mais il était celui faisant le plus d'affaires:
> Hadès, dieu des enfers!




"Admiring Venus, decked out with sad eyes, 
No one knows if it was the happiest of gods 
But he was the one doing the most business: 
Hades, god of the underworld!"

from google translator -


----------



## pAr

midcan5 said:


> "Admiring Venus, decked out with sad eyes,
> No one knows if it was the happiest of gods
> But he was the one doing the most business:
> Hades, god of the underworld!"
> 
> from google translator -



Thanks for the translation. Let me just make it rhymes a little

Admiring Venus, his eyes filled with sadness,
No one knows if he was the happiest god;
But he was the one doing the most business:
Hades, god of the underworld!


----------



## midcan5

'You Can Have It'


"My brother comes home from work
and climbs the stairs to our room.
I can hear the bed groan and his shoes drop
one by one. You can have it, he says.

The moonlight streams in the window
and his unshaven face is whitened
like the face of the moon. He will sleep
long after noon and waken to find me gone.

Thirty years will pass before I remember
that moment when suddenly I knew each man
has one brother who dies when he sleeps
and sleeps when he rises to face this life,

and that together they are only one man
sharing a heart that always labors, hands
yellowed and cracked, a mouth that gasps
for breath and asks, Am I gonna make it?

All night at the ice plant he had fed
the chute its silvery blocks, and then I
stacked cases of orange soda for the children
of Kentucky, one gray boxcar at a time

with always two more waiting. We were twenty
for such a short time and always in
the wrong clothes, crusted with dirt
and sweat. I think now we were never twenty.

In 1948 the city of Detroit, founded
by de la Mothe Cadillac for the distant purposes
of Henry Ford, no one wakened or died,
no one walked the streets or stoked a furnace,

for there was no such year, and now
that year has fallen off all the old newspapers,
calendars, doctors' appointments, bonds
wedding certificates, drivers licenses.

The city slept. The snow turned to ice.
The ice to standing pools or rivers
racing in the gutters. Then the bright grass rose
between the thousands of cracked squares,

and that grass died. I give you back 1948.
I give you all the years from then
to the coming one. Give me back the moon
with its frail light falling across a face.

Give me back my young brother, hard
and furious, with wide shoulders and a curse
for God and burning eyes that look upon
all creation and say, You can have it."

Philip Levine


----------



## midcan5

'Drinking While Driving' 

"It's August and I have not 
Read a book in six months 
except something called The Retreat from Moscow
by Caulaincourt 
Nevertheless, I am happy 
Riding in a car with my brother 
and drinking from a pint of Old Crow. 
We do not have any place in mind to go, 
we are just driving. 
If I closed my eyes for a minute 
I would be lost, yet 
I could gladly lie down and sleep forever 
beside this road 
My brother nudges me. 
Any minute now, something will happen. "

Raymond Carver


PS   My 225 post in this thread and we actually are over twenty thousand views for poems. Great! Get out there and buy a few books too.


----------



## midcan5

'The Best Time Of The Day' 

"Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.

Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love

these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever." 

Raymond Carver


----------



## midcan5

"if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)
   have
one.    It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

     from "if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have"
     by E. E. Cummings

It's like watching your mother sleep,
minutes after you have been conceived,

and her closed eyes say it's all right
to wake alone....

     from "Harbor Lights" by Mark Doty

My mother would be a falconress, 
and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, 
from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own 
pride, as if her pride
knew no limits, as if her mind 
sought in me flight beyond the horizon. 

     from "My Mother Would Be a Falconress" by Robert Duncan 

Green sap of Spring in the young wood-a-stir
Will celebrate the Mountain Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her

     from "The White Goddess" by Robert Graves

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole...

     from "Mother o' Mine" by Rudyard Kipling

Like those old pear-shaped Russian dolls that open
at the middle to reveal another and another, down
to the pea-sized, irreducible minim,
may we carry our mothers forth in our bellies.

     from "The Envelope" by Maxine Kumin

Oh, if instead she'd left to me
The thing she took into the grave!
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.

     from "The courage that my mother had" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am a tree
Strong limbed and deeply rooted
My fruit is bittersweet
I am your mother

     from "Trees" by Walter Dean Myers

I lie here now as I once lay
in the crook of her arm, her creature,
and I feel her looking down onto me the way the
maker of a sword gazes at his face in the 
steel of the blade

     from "Why My Mother Made Me" by Sharon Olds

The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother"...

     from "To My Mother" by Edgar Allan Poe

I want my conscience to be 
true before you; 
want to describe myself like a picture I observed 
for a long time, one close up, 
like a new word I learned and embraced, 
like the everday jug, 
like my mother's face, 
like a ship that carried me along 
through the deadliest storm. 

     from "I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone"
     by Rainer Maria Rilke

To her whose heart is my hearts quiet home, 
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; 
Whose service is my special dignity, 

     from "Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome"
     by Christina Rossetti

And may you happy live, 
  And long us bless; 
Receiving as you give
  Great happiness. 

     from "To My Mother" by Christina Rossetti

Here is a thing my heart wishes the world had more of:
I heard it in the air of one night when I listened
To a mother singing softly to a child restless and angry in the darkness.

     "Home," from "Poems Done on a Late Night Car"
     by Carl Sandburg

Today I remember
The creator, 
The lion-hearted.

     from "For My Mother" by May Sarton


A woman is her mother
That's the main thing.

     from "Housewife" by Anne Sexton

They touched earth and grain grew.
They were full of sturdiness and singing.
My grandmothers were strong.

     from "Lineage" by Margaret Walker

Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!
My sacred one, my mother.

     from "Delicate Cluster" by Walt Whitman

Unfolded out of the justice of the woman all justice
   is unfolded,
Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all
   sympathy

     from "Unfolded Out of the Folds" by Walt Whitman

Ma, hear me now, tell me your story
again and again.

     from "From a Heart of Rice Straw" by Nellie Wong

My mother dandled me and sang, 
How young it is, how young!' 
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung. 

     from "The Player Queen" by W. B. Yeats

O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.

     from "The Heart of the Woman" by W. B. Yeats"



From Poets.org


----------



## goldcatt

After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and sharing a life.
And you learn that love doesn&#8217;t mean possession,
and company doesn&#8217;t mean security,
and loneliness is universal.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren&#8217;t contracts
and presents aren&#8217;t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open,
with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build your hopes on today
as the future has a way of falling apart in mid-flight
because tomorrow&#8217;s ground can be too uncertain for plans,
yet each step taken in a new direction creates a path
toward the promise of a brighter dawn.
And you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much,
so you plant your own garden and nourish your own soul
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that love, true love,
always has joys and sorrows
seems ever present,
yet is never quite the same
becoming more than love and less than love
so difficult to define.
And you learn that through it all
you really can endure
that you really are strong
that you do have value
and you learn and grow
with every goodbye you learn.

Comes the Dawn by Joy Whitman


----------



## midcan5

'Picking Up' 	  

"During the depression
my mother, teetotaler,
but thrifty to a fault,
surprised my father and me
when she cobbled up a still,
kept it on a shelf behind the kitchen stove,
and salvaged a crate of too-ripe pears
by making brandy, pouring it into Mason jars,
and storing them on the cellar stairs.

When my father found a better job at last,
and movers came one day to move our stuff,
"A shame to have this go to waste," we heard my mother say,
offering them the brandy, which they polished off.
They soon grew happy at their work,
hanging a chamber pot and her Sunday dress
on outside panels of their battered truck
and speeding off into the dusk
before she could protest.

We closed the house, cranked the Model-A, and started out,
following over stony mountain ruts,
but soon were stopping now and then
when headlights showed familiar shapes
lying in the road or ditch: first
the chamber pot and dress; next, 
a chair, a bucket, and a box of sheets.
But drunk with hope, we praised our luck,
sang "Bringing in the Sheaves"
as we collected what the truck had dropped."

Evelyn Duncan


----------



## Colin

She whispered "will it hurt me?" 
"Of course not" answered he 
"It's a very simple process, 
You can rely on me." 

She said "I'm very frightened, 
I've not had this before. 
My friend has had it five times 
And said it can be sore." 

It was growing rather painful 
Tears formed in her eyes 
It was hurting quite a bit now 
It must have been a size. 

"Calm yourself" he whispered 
"His face filled with a grin 
"Try and open wider 
So I can get it in." 

"It's coming now" he whispered 
"I know" she cried in bliss 
Feeling it deep within her now 
She said "I am glad I'm having this." 

And with a final effort 
She gave a frightened shout 
He gripped it in anguish 
And quickly pulled it out. 

She lay back quite contented 
Sighed and gave a smile 
She said "I'm glad I came now 
You made it worth my while." 

Now if you read this carefully 
The dentist you will find 
Is not what you imagined 
It's just your dirty mind!!


----------



## Colin

Last night I held a lovely hand,
A hand so small and neat,

I thought my heart would burst with joy,
So wildly did it beat.

No other hand unto my heart
Could greater pleasure bring

Than the dear one that I held last night--
Four aces and a king.


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Indigo Bunting

I go to the door often.
Night and summer. Crickets
lift their cries.
I know you are out.
You are driving
late through the summer night.

I do not know what will happen.
I have no claim on you.
I am one star
you have as guide; others
love you, the night
so dark over the Azores.

You have been working outdoors,
gone all week. I feel you
in this lamp lit
so late. As I reach for it
I feel myself
driving through the night.

I love a firmness in you
that disdains the trivial
and regains the difficult.
You become part then
of the firmness of night,
the granite holding up walls.

There were women in Egypt who
supported with their firmness the stars
as they revolved,
hardly aware
of the passage from night
to day and back to night.

I love you where you go
through the night, not swerving,
clear as the indigo
bunting in her flight,
passing over two
thousand miles of ocean.

Robert Bly


----------



## Colin

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.


----------



## midcan5

'Green Shade' 	  

[Nara Deer Park]


"With my head on his spotted back

and his head on the grassa little bored

with the quiet motion of life

and a cluster of mosquitoes making

hot black dunes in the airwe slept

with the smell of his fur engulfing us.

It was as if my dominant functions were gazing

and dreaming in a field of semiwild deer.

It was as if I could dream what I wanted,

and what I wanted was to long for nothing

no facts, no reasonsnever to say again,

"I want to be like him," and to lie instead

in the hollow deep grasswithout esteem or riches

gazing into the big, lacquer black eyes of a deer."

Henri Cole


----------



## midcan5

'False Documents'

"They ran the numbers twice for you
giving you the benefit of the doubt
but you knew the computer at the other
end of the officers PDA would not find
your brown number in its little black index.
You drove exactly one mile per hour below the speed
limit. You buckled your baby into his car seat according
to instructions. You signaled for exactly three seconds
before you turned left. You wanted to hide the Subway wrappers,
the empty box of Orbitz gum. Evidence of Big Macs.
You wanted to drink the Mountain Dew before it turned toxic
in the hot Phoenix sun as you asked, doesnt this green
sludge make me American enough? But you didnt
move because you knew the officer would have taken
that for gun-finding or drug-hiding or some other supposed
Mexican sport. You with your hands at ten and two
wondered how long the bus ride the officer would take you
on would last and whether they would provide any water.
You wondered, as the officer put hand to holster,
how dangerous it would be to down that Mountain
Dew then and there, in the wide-open American air."

Nicole Walker


----------



## midcan5

'First Gestures' 	  

"Among the first we learn is good-bye, 
your tiny wrist between Dad's forefinger 
and thumb forced to wave bye-bye to Mom, 
whose hand sails brightly behind a windshield. 
Then it's done to make us follow:
in a crowded mall, a woman waves, "Bye, 
we're leaving," and her son stands firm 
sobbing, until at last he runs after her, 
among shoppers drifting like sharks 
who must drag their great hulks 
underwater, even in sleep, or drown.

Living, we cover vast territories; 
imagine your life drawn on a map-- 
a scribble on the town where you grew up, 
each bus trip traced between school 
and home, or a clean line across the sea 
to a place you flew once. Think of the time 
and things we accumulate, all the while growing 
more conscious of losing and leaving. Aging, 
our bodies collect wrinkles and scars 
for each place the world would not give 
under our weight. Our thoughts get laced 
with strange aches, sweet as the final chord 
that hangs in a guitar's blond torso.

Think how a particular ridge of hills 
from a summer of your childhood grows
in significance, or one hour of light-- 
late afternoon, say, when thick sun flings 
the shadow of Virginia creeper vines 
across the wall of a tiny, white room 
where a girl makes love for the first time. 
Its leaves tremble like small hands 
against the screen while she weeps 
in the arms of her bewildered lover. 
She's too young to see that as we gather 
losses, we may also grow in love; 
as in passion, the body shudders 
and clutches what it must release."

Julia Spicher Kasdorf


----------



## Sky Dancer

Only Breath



Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu

Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion



or cultural system. I am not from the East

or the West, not out of the ocean or up



from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not

composed of elements at all. I do not exist,



am not an entity in this world or in the next,

did not descend from Adam and Eve or any



origin story. My place is placeless, a trace

of the traceless. Neither body or soul.



I belong to the beloved, have seen the two

worlds as one and that one call to and know,



first, last, outer, inner, only that

breath breathing human being.



Rumi


----------



## midcan5

'Affirmation' 	  

"To grow old is to lose everything. 
Aging, everybody knows it. 
Even when we are young, 
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads 
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer 
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters 
into debris on the shore, 
and a friend from school drops 
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us 
past middle age, our wife will die 
at her strongest and most beautiful. 
New women come and go. All go. 
The pretty lover who announces 
that she is temporary
is temporary. The bold woman,
middle-aged against our old age,
sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand. 
Another friend of decades estranges himself 
in words that pollute thirty years. 
Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge 
and affirm that it is fitting
and delicious to lose everything."

Donald Hall


----------



## midcan5

'Take Your Pills'

"Im home now and every thing is supposed to be okay
As hard as I try I still feel so out of place
trapped inside of a world deep within my mind
My thoughts keep rewinding backwards to a distant time
Instead of being a fuzzy picture projected on a screen
I see a high definition massive war machine
We all have demons deep down inside 
Mine just come alive when I close my eyes
I yell and holler and cuss and scream
I cant wake up from my violent dreams
Smoke burns my eyes, I see the face of the dead
The war is still raging inside my head
Paranoia slowly sets in 
Lock the door, check the door, check the door again
Its impossible to fall asleep without a loaded gun
A gun is not a guarantee that sleep will even come
Take a number. Wait your turn. Go to the end of the longest line. 
After a review of your paper work son, we believe that you are just fine.
Take this pill, and every thing will be all right
Dont let your kids piss you off and try not to hit your wife.
There concerns are not for me. Its for every one else around
I try to tell them what is wrong but they never hear a sound
I am not the only one who has these thoughts and dreams 
Our numbers are growing rapidly because of the war machine
With the sound of mortar rounds still ringing in my ears
The intensity of battle will stay with me for years
Im expected to be, a functioning member of society
So I do what I can, to hide who I am, so I can be who they want me to be."

Steve Carlsen


----------



## mystic

I don't want to go to work tomorrow
the wail of the insomniac
for if I go to sleep, 
I will surely have to wake up

so I postpone my dreamtime
with Random Rattling of the Keyboard
splattering my innards 
all over the internet's walls

a soul bouncing around in cyberspace
unhindered by reality
communing with other souls
other Lives being Lived

ever stare out into traffic
and wonder at all the Lives 
passing you by in rapid succession?

this screen is my vehicle
your words are a traffic jam

I want to reach out
and touch the intangible
become smaller than an atom
and land in a glass of water

so I may be drunk by the unknown observer
and examine their soul 
from the inside out

-me


----------



## midcan5

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6W_a2U-bIU]YouTube - Steve Goodman/Penny Evans[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'A Soldiers Demon'

"In the fog of war
Believe me, unfortunately I know...
A lot can happen in an instant
In the instant after clear and present danger reveals itself 
Time then slows down, way down 
You hear bullets and shrapnel whizzing past you in slow motion, 
As if you could reach and pluck them out of thin air... 
It is in this moment that you realize that you may be dead 
Before your next thought is able to collect itself in your conscience. 

Your finger reaches for the trigger...
You start shooting before you even aim... 
As if your entire existence depends on firing your weapon...
You cannot think about anything other than survival...
Not your past, not your family, and not your wife and kids...
All the training means ABSOLUTELY nothing...
No one in your training was willing to die in order to kill you

Now you start to see red. Different shades of red. 
You feel anxious and cosy simultaneously. 
You feel inside of the whirlpool and yet on the outside of it as well...
YOU FEEL PROFOUND AND SHALLOW AT THE SAME INSTANT...
BRAVE AND COWARDLY AT ONCE...
Right and wrong means nothing...only alive and dead are on your mind. 
WITH A WICKED DEMON AS YOUR SOLE COMPANION...
While you wish for an angel in flight to pass by.

As the dust settles you wonder when, how and why
Your mind is dull, yet your body could begin to fly
Is this the end or just another nightmare that will pass by 
No telling apart the screams of the enemy from a friends death cry."

Edward Porter


----------



## midcan5

'Memorial Day' 

"M is for mothers who sent their children off to war 
E is for the everlasting gift of freedom 
M is for the mums that decorate the graves of the soldiers 
O is for the old men that are veterans
[R is for reflection] 
I is for the island off Hawaii where the Japanese bombed Pearl harbor 
A is for America, the home of the brave 
L is for the land of the free."

Anna,  3rd Grader, Academy Elementary School, Madison, Connecticut.

Anna missed the 'R' so I took the liberty to add. 


Classic title for Memorial Day 2010: This Republic of Suffering - CSMonitor.com


----------



## midcan5

'The trouble with terrorists'

"The trouble with terrorists
is
that they have sunk to the level
of their enemies
condemning whole peoples
on the basis
of the actions
of a few
and with almighty arrogance
have assumed the right
to allot punishment 
torturing injuries, trauma and death
almost at random
as if they themselves
are innocents!

Let them forsake their hysteria
stop the rant
state their aims
make their case.

This cuts
both ways."

David Roberts


----------



## midcan5

'Asking for Directions' 	  

"We could have been mistaken for a married couple
riding on the train from Manhattan to Chicago
that last time we were together. I remember
looking out the window and praising the beauty
of the ordinary: the in-between places, the world
with its back turned to us, the small neglected
stations of our history. I slept across your
chest and stomach without asking permission
because they were the last hours. There was
a smell to the sheepskin lining of your new
Chinese vest that I didn't recognize. I felt
it deliberately. I woke early and asked you
to come with me for coffee. You said, sleep more,
and I said we only had one hour and you came.
We didn't say much after that. In the station,
you took your things and handed me the vest,
then left as we had planned. So you would have
ten minutes to meet your family and leave.
I stood by the seat dazed by exhaustion
and the absoluteness of the end, so still I was
aware of myself breathing. I put on the vest
and my coat, got my bag and, turning, saw you
through the dirty window standing outside looking
up at me. We looked at each other without any
expression at all. Invisible, unnoticed, still.
That moment is what I will tell of as proof
that you loved me permanently. After that I was
a woman alone carrying her bag, asking a worker
which direction to walk to find a taxi."

Linda Gregg


----------



## midcan5

'Yard Work'

"My leaf blower lifted the blackbird
wings still spread, weightless,
floating on the loud, electric wind
almost as if it were alive.

Three or four times it flew,
but fell again, sideslipped down
like a kite with no string,
so I gave up. . . I had work to do,

and when the dust I raised
had settled in that other world
under the rose bushes, the ants
came back to finish theirs."

Don Thompson


----------



## Sheldon

I wouldn't be surprised if this one has already been posted in this thread. One of my favorites.

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.  There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

--Rupert Brooke


----------



## midcan5

'Bored'

"All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know."

Margaret Atwood


----------



## midcan5

'A Boy and His Dad'   	  

"A boy [girls too] and his dad on a fishing-trip&#8212;
There is a glorious fellowship!
Father and son and the open sky
And the white clouds lazily drifting by,
And the laughing stream as it runs along
With the clicking reel like a martial song,
And the father teaching the youngster gay
How to land a fish in the sportsman's way.

I fancy I hear them talking there
In an open boat, and the speech is fair.
And the boy is learning the ways of men
From the finest man in his youthful ken.
Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare
With the gentle father who's with him there.
And the greatest mind of the human race
Not for one minute could take his place.

Which is happier, man or boy?
The soul of the father is steeped in joy,
For he's finding out, to his heart's delight,
That his son is fit for the future fight.
He is learning the glorious depths of him,
And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim;
And he shall discover, when night comes on,
How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip&#8212;
Builders of life's companionship!
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer days that I used to know,
When I learned life's truths from my father's lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips."

Edgar Guest


----------



## midcan5

'Summer at Blue Creek, North Carolina' 

"There was no water at my grandfather's
when I was a kid and would go for it
with two zinc buckets. Down the path,
past the cow by the foundation where
the fine people's house was before
they arranged to have it burned down.
To the neighbor's cool well. Would
come back with pails too heavy,
so my mouth pulled out of shape.
I see myself, but from the outside.
I keep trying to feel who I was,
and cannot. Hear clearly the sound
the bucket made hitting the sides
of the stone well going down,
but never the sound of me."

Jack Gilbert


----------



## Woyzeck

If you understand others you are smart.
If you understand yourself you are illuminated.
If you overcome others you are powerful.
If you overcome yourself you have strength.
If you know how to be satisfied you are rich.
If you can act with vigor you have a will.
If you don't lose your objectives you can be long-lasting.

If you die without loss you are eternal.
- from the _Tao Te Ching_, Chapter 33 by Lao Tzu


----------



## midcan5

'Fat Southern Men in Summer Suits' 	  

"Fat Southern men in their summer suits,
Usually with suspenders, love to sweat
Into and even through their coats,

Taking it as a matter of honor to do so,
Especially when the humidity gets as close
As it does each Southern summer.

Some think men could do better
By just going ahead and taking the damned
Coats off, but the summer code stays

Because summer is the time
For many men, no matter what their class,
To be Southern Gentlemen by keeping

Those coats on. So late in life here I am
Down here again, having run to fat
(As Southern men tend), visiting the farm

Where my grandfather deposited
So much of his own working sweat,
Where Granddaddy never bought into any

Of "that Southern Gentleman crap."
Up north where I landed in the urban
Middle class I am seldom caught

Not wearing a coat of some kind. I love
The coats, and though I love them most
In the fall I still enact the summer code,

I suppose, because my father and I did buy
That code, even though I organized students
To strike down any dress code whatsoever

In the high school I attended (it was a matter
Of honor). And it still puts me in good humor
To abide with the many pockets, including

One for a flask. So whether it's New York,
Vermont, or Virginia, the spectacle
Of the summer seersucker proceeds,

Suspenders and all, and I lean into the sweat
(Right down to where the weather really is)
Until it has entirely soaked through my jacket."

Liam Rector


----------



## PatekPhilippe

*Passing Time*
Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
sure beginning

Maya Angelou


----------



## dilloduck

The Two Sided Man

Much I owe to the Lands that grew--
More to the Lives that fed--
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.

Much I reflect on the Good and the True
In the Faiths beneath the sun,
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Sides to my head, not one.

Wesley's following, Calvin's flock,
White or yellow or bronze,
Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok,
Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze--

Here is a health, my brothers, to you,
However your prayers are said,
And praised be Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head!

I would go without shirt or shoe,
Friend, tobacco or bread,
Sooner than lose for a minute the two
Separate sides of my head! 

Rudyard Kipling


----------



## midcan5

'A Lesson for This Sunday'

"The growing idleness of summer grass
With its frail kites of furious butterflies
Requests the lemonade of simple praise
In scansion gentler than my hammock swings
And rituals no more upsetting than a
Black maid shaking linen as she sings
The plain notes of some Protestant hosanna
Since I lie idling from the thought in things

Or so they should, until I hear the cries
Of two small children hunting yellow wings,
Who break my Sabbath with the thought of sin.
Brother and sister, with a common pin,
Frowning like serious lepidopterists.
The little surgeon pierces the thin eyes.
Crouched on plump haunches, as a mantis prays
She shrieks to eviscerate its abdomen.
The lesson is the same. The maid removes
Both prodigies from their interest in science.
The girl, in lemon frock, begins to scream
As the maimed, teetering thing attempts its flight.
She is herself a thing of summery light,
Frail as a flower in this blue August air,
Not marked for some late grief that cannot speak.

The mind swings inward on itself in fear
Swayed towards nausea from each normal sign.
Heredity of cruelty everywhere,
And everywhere the frocks of summer torn,
The long look back to see where choice is born,
As summer grass sways to the scythe's design."

Derek Walcott


----------



## midcan5

'Politics Last Summer' 	  

"The pederasts were pederasting,
The sycophants were sycophanting
and Washington was awash in the slime of politics

when suddenly the three wise monkeys
burst into the committee room
beating on drums and demanding

an end to the teaching of Darwinism or any
theory that related them, even distantly,
to such a debauched creature as man.

Meanwhile, the homeless were trying
to form a union so each of them
could have a pot and a window.
Can you imagine the gall? A pot and a window!"

Richard Shelton


----------



## midcan5

A change of pace today. Goodman was a poet of another sort. 

http://www.chrisbrownmusic.com/img/My-Old-Man.pdf

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GW7xR7WkyTU]YouTube - Steve Goodman-My Old Man[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'A Nation's Strength'

"What makes a nation's pillars high
And its foundations strong?
What makes it might to defy
The foes that round it throng?

It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.

Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor's sake
Stand fast and suffer long."

Ralph Waldo Emerson


----------



## KissMy

[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKZOih8u9dU"]Hero[/ame]
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXaX_YsI_HM&feature=related"]Dollar[/ame]
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSA5dqwizSY&feature=related"]Fuel Field[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'The Star-Spangled Banner' 	  

"O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,   
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?   
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,   
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming;   
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;   
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave   
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?   

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,   
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,   
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?   
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,   
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;   
'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!   

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore   
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion   
A home and a country should leave us no more?   
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,   
From the terror of flight and the gloom of the grave;   
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave   
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!   

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!   
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land,   
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.   
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just.   
And this be our motto "In God is our trust; " 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave   
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave."

Francis Scott Key


----------



## midcan5

'Sexism'  	  

"The happiest moment in a woman's life
Is when she hears the turn of her lover's key
In the lock, and pretends to be asleep
When he enters the room, trying to be
Quiet but clumsy, bumping into things,
And she can smell the liquor on his breath
But forgives him because she has him back
And doesn't have to sleep alone.

The happiest moment in a man's life
Is when he climbs out of bed
With a woman, after an hour's sleep,
After making love, and pulls on
His trousers, and walks outside,
And pees in the bushes, and sees
The high August sky full of stars
And gets in his car and drives home."

David Lehman


----------



## midcan5

'The Hug'   	  

"It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
    Half of the night with our old friend
        Who'd showed us in the end
    To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
        Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug, 
        Suddenly, from behind, 
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
        Your instep to my heel,
    My shoulder-blades against your chest.
    It was not sex, but I could feel
    The whole strength of your body set,
           Or braced, to mine,
        And locking me to you
    As if we were still twenty-two
    When our grand passion had not yet
        Become familial.
    My quick sleep had deleted all 
    Of intervening time and place.
        I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace."

Thom Gunn


----------



## midcan5

'The One Certain Thing'

"A day will come Ill watch you reading this.
Ill look up from these words Im writing now
this line Im standing on, Ill be right here,
alive again. Ill breathe on you this breath.
Touch this word now, that one. Warm, isnt it?

You are the person come to clean my room;
you are whichever of my three children
opens the drawer here where this poem will go
in a few minutes when Ive had my say.

These are the words from immortality.
No one stands between us now except Death:
I enter it entirely writing this.
I have to tell you I am not alone.
Watching you read, Eternitys with me.
We like to watch you read. Read us again."

Peter Cooley


----------



## Sky Dancer

Warning  

   When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. 

Jenny Joseph


----------



## Sky Dancer

"When a country is well governed, poverty and a mean condition 
are things to be ashamed of. When a country is ill governed, 
riches and honor are things to be ashamed of."


----------



## midcan5

'Fishing, His Birthday'

"With adams, caddis, tricos, light cahills,
blue-wing olives, royal coachmen, chartreuse trudes,
green drakes, blue duns, black gnats, Nancy quills,
Joes hoppers, yellow humpies, purple chutes,
prince nymphs, pheasant tails, Eileens hares ears,
telicos, flashbacks, Jennifers muddlers,
Frank bugs, sow bugs, zug bugs, autumn splendors,
woolly worms, black buggers, Kays gold zuddlers,
clippers, tippet, floatant, spools of leader,
tin shot, lead shot, hemostats, needle nose,
rod, reel, vest, net, boots, cap, shades and waders,
gortex shell and one bent Macanudo
I wade in a swirl of May-colored water,
cast a fine gray quill, the last tie of my father."

Michael Sowder


----------



## midcan5

'The World as It is'

"No ladders, no descending angels, no voice
out of the whirlwind, no rending
of the veil, or chariot in the skyonly
water rising and falling in breathing springs
and seeping up through limestone, aquifers filling
and flowing over, russet stands of prairie grass
and dark pupils of black-eyed Susans. Only
the fixed and wandering stars: Orion rising sideways,
Jupiter traversing the southwest like a great firefly,
Venus trembling and faceted in the westand the moon,
appearing suddenly over your shoulder, brimming
and ovoid, ripe with light, lifting slowly, deliberately,
wobbling slightly, while far below, the faithful sea
rises up and follows."

Carolyn Miller


----------



## midcan5

I once took an Oak tree down so our children would have a larger playing field and the house was safe from winds. When I got to the roots I smashed fingers, had aching back, and with a hard old Ukrainian neighbor and hatchets and chisels thought once is enough. 


'How to Uproot a Tree' 	

"Stupidity helps.
Naiveté that your hands will undo
what does perfectly without you.
My husband and I made the decision
not to stop until the task was done,
the small anemic tree made room
for something prettier.
Wed pulled before, pale hand over wide hand,
a marriage of pulling toward us what we wanted,
pushing away what we did not.
We had a shovel which was mostly for show.
It was mostly our fingers tunneling the dirt
toward a tangle of false beginnings.
The roots were branched and bearded,
some had spurs
and one of them was wholly reptilian.
They had been where we had not
and held a knit gravity
that was not in their will to let go.
We bent the trunk to the ground and sat on it,
twisted from all angles.
How like ropes it was,
the sickly thing asserting its will
only now at the end,
blind but beyond
the idea of leaving the earth."

Jennifer K. Sweeney


----------



## saveliberty

Ode to Hellbitch

A Mother's brain has a faulty switch,
Much pain is felt by daughter Hellbitch.
Doing what is best,
Has caused her much need of rest.
With little more than a desire for cash,
The relatives are on her like a rash.

It isn't Mom's money that will make her rich,
But lasting memories that leave you in a stitch.
The failing brain renders Mom little more than a guest,
Kind words and remembering make a daughter blest.
At times Hellbitch has received a bash,
Harsh words can also lash.

Can Hellbitch take it, or will she ditch?
Her love is strong and will overcome this glitch.
Full of energy and caring she will beat this test.
Much of her strength is in her nest.
Remember this disease is not a dash,
It will not be over in a flash.


----------



## midcan5

'Children of Our Era' 	  

"We are children of our era; 
our era is political. 

All affairs, day and night, 
yours, ours, theirs, 
are political affairs. 

Like it or not, 
your genes have a political past, 
your skin a political cast, 
your eyes a political aspect.

What you say has a resonance; 
what you are silent about is telling. 
Either way, it's political. 

Even when you head for the hills 
you're taking political steps 
on political ground. 

Even apolitical poems are political, 
and above us shines the moon, 
by now no longer lunar. 
To be or not to be, that is the question. 
Question? What question? Dear, here's a suggestion: 
a political question. 

You don't even have to be a human being 
to gain political significance. 
Crude oil will do, 
or concentrated feed, or any raw material. 

Or even a conference table whose shape 
was disputed for months: 
should we negotiate life and death 
at a round table or a square one? 

Meanwhile people were dying, 
animals perishing, 
houses burning, 
and fields growing wild,
just as in times most remote 
and less political."


Wislawa Szymborska 
Translated by Joanna Trzeciak


----------



## midcan5

'After the Movie' 	  

"My friend Michael and I are walking home arguing about the movie.
He says that he believes a person can love someone
and still be able to murder that person.

I say, No, that's not love. That's attachment.
Michael says, No, that's love. You can love someone, then come to a day

when you're forced to think "it's him or me"
think "me" and kill him.

I say, Then it's not love anymore.
Michael says, It was love up to then though.

I say, Maybe we mean different things by the same word.
Michael says, Humans are complicated: love can exist even in the
     murderous heart.

I say that what he might mean by love is desire.
Love is not a feeling, I say. And Michael says, Then what is it?

We're walking along West 16th Streeta clear unclouded nightand I hear my voice
repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action, I used to say
     to him.

Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to look at
     someone you want to eat and not eat them.

Janis Joplin says, take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Meister Eckhardt says that as long as we love images we are doomed to
     live in purgatory.

Michael and I stand on the corner of 6th Avenue saying goodnight.
I can't drink enough of the tangerine spritzer I've just bought

again and again I bring the cold can to my mouth and suck the stuff from
the hole the flip top made.

What are you doing tomorrow? Michael says.
But what I think he's saying is "You are too strict. You are
     a nun."

Then I think, Do I love Michael enough to allow him to think these things
     of me even if he's not thinking them?

Above Manhattan, the moon wanes, and the sky turns clearer and colder.
Although the days, after the solstice, have started to lengthen,

we both know the winter has only begun."

Marie Howe


----------



## midcan5

'Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds' 	  

"This is what she says about Russia, in the year 2000, in 
a restaurant on Prince Street, late on a summer night
She says: all the chandeliers were broken and in the winter,
you couldnt get a drink, not even that piss from Finland.
The whole country was going crazy. She thinks she is speaking 
about the days before she left, but I think, actually, that she is 
recounting history. Somebody should be writing all this down

Or not. Perhaps the transition from Communism to a post-Soviet 
federation as seen through the eyes of a woman who was hoping, 
at least, for an influx of French cosmetics is of interest only to me.
And why not? It seems that the fall of a great empirerevolution! 
murder! famine! martial music!has had a personal effect.
Picture an old movie: here is the spinning globe, the dotted line 
moving, dash by dash, from Moscow across the ocean to 
New York and its headed straight for me. Another blonde 
with an accent: the citys full of them. Nostrovya! A toast 
to how often I dont know whats coming at me next.

So here is a list of what she left behind: a husband, an abortion, 
a mathematical education, and a black market career in 
trading currencies. And what she brought: a gray poodle, 
eight dresses and a fearful combination of hope, sarcasm, 
and steel-eyed desire to which I have surrendered. And now 
I know her secrets: she will never give up smoking.
She would have crawled across Eastern Europe and fed 
that dog her own blood if she had to. And her mothers secrets: 
she would have thought, at last, that you were safe with me.
She hated men. Let me, then, acknowledge that last generation 
of the women of the enemy: they are a mystery to me.
They would be a mystery even to my most liberal-minded friends.

Thats not to say that the daughter, this new democrat, cant be 
a handful. And sometimes noisy: One of those girls you see 
now (ice blue manicure, real diamonds and lots of DKNY)
leans over from the next table and says, Cant you ask your wife 
to hold it down? My wife? I suppose I should be insulted, 
but I think its funny. This is a dangerous woman they want 
to quiet here. A woman who could sew gold into the ragged lining
of anybodys coffin. Who knows that money does buy freedom.
Who just this morning has obtained a cell phone with a bonus plan.
She has it with her, and I believe she means to use it.
Soon, she will be calling everyone, just to wake them up."

Eleanor Lerman


----------



## midcan5

'Spring Wind'   Greg Brown

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPso8I_jZXU]YouTube - Greg Brown - Spring Wind[/ame]


----------



## Colin

Last night as I lay sleeping,
    I died .. or so it seemed,
    Then I went to heaven
    But only in my dream

    I was greeted by St. Peter
    Standing at the Pearly Gates.
    He said, 'I must check your record...
    Please stand right here and wait.'

    He turned and said 'Your record
    Is covered with terrible flaws,
    On earth I see you rallied
    For every losing cause.

    'I see that you drank alcohol
    And smoked and partied too,
    Fact is, you've done everything
    A good person should not do.

    'We can't have people like you here...
    Your life was full of sin.'
    Then he read the last line of my record,
    Took my hand and said, 'Come in.'

    He led me to the Lord and said,
    'We'll take him and treat him well,
    He used to work for an airline...
    He's done his time in hell.'


----------



## ekrem

It's not from me and I don't follow it. I heard it in teenager age  

There is no correlation between the cycle of a woman and a man.


----------



## midcan5

'Poem at Thirty' 	  

"The rich little kids across the street
twist their swings in knots. Near me,
on the porch, wasps jazz old nesting tunes
and don't get wild over human sweat.
This is the first summer of my middle life.
I ought to be content. The mindless harsh
process of history; with its diverse murders
and starvations, its whippings, humiliations,
child-tyrants, and beasts, I don't care for
or understand. Nor do I understand
restlessness that sometimes stops my sleep.

Waking, those mornings, is like being thrown from a train.
All you know comes to falling:
the body, in its witless crooning for solidity,
keeps heading for the ground.
There is no air, no sound, nothing
but dumb insistence of body weight
coming down, and there is no thought of love,
or passing time, or don't want to be alone.
Probably one hundred thousand impressions
wrinkle the brain in a moment like this,
but if you could think about it
you'd admit the world goes on in any case,
roars on, in fact, without you, on its endless iron track."

Michael Ryan


----------



## midcan5

'Coming Close' 	  

"Take this quiet woman, she has been
standing before a polishing wheel
for over three hours, and she lacks
twenty minutes before she can take
a lunch break.  Is she a woman?
Consider the arms as they press
the long brass tube against the buffer,
they are striated along the triceps,
the three heads of which clearly show.
Consider the fine dusting of dark down
above the upper lip, and the beads
of sweat that run from under the red
kerchief across the brow and are wiped
away with a blackening wrist band
in one odd motion a child might make
to say No! No! You must come closer
to find out, you must hang your tie
and jacket in one of the lockers
in favor of a black smock, you must
be prepared to spend shift after shift
hauling off the metal trays of stock,
bowing first, knees bent for a purchase, 
then lifting with a gasp, the first word 
of tenderness between the two of you,
then you must bring new trays of dull
unpolished tubes.  You must feed her,
as they say in the language of the place.
Make no mistake, the place has a language,
and if by some luck the power were cut,
the wheel slowed to a stop so that you
suddenly saw it was not a solid object
but so many separate bristles forming
in motion a perfect circle, she would turn
to you and say, "Why?" Not the old why
of why must I spend five nights a week?
Just, "Why?" Even if by some magic 
you knew, you wouldn't dare speak
for fear of her laughter, which now
you have anyway as she places the five
tapering fingers of her filthy hand
on the arm of your white shirt to mark
you for your own, now and forever."

Philip Levine


----------



## midcan5

'Its Like This'

for Peter Parrish

"Each morning the man rises from bed because the invisible
      cord leading from his neck to someplace in the dark,
      the cord that makes him always dissatisfied,
      has been wound tighter and tighter until he wakes.

He greets his family, looking for himself in their eyes,
      but instead he sees shorter or taller men, men with
      different degrees of anger or love, the kind of men
      that people who hardly know him often mistake
      for him, leaving a movie or running to catch a bus.

He has a job that he goes to. It could be at a bank
      or a library or turning a piece of flat land
      into a ditch. All day something that refuses to
      show itself hovers at the corner of his eye,
      like a name he is trying to remember, like
      expecting a touch on the shoulder, as if someone
      were about to embrace him, a woman in a blue dress
      whom he has never met, would never meet again.
      And it seems the purpose of each days labor
      is simply to bring this mystery to focus. He can
      almost describe it, as if it were a figure at the edge
      of a burning field with smoke swirling around it
      like white curtains shot full of wind and light.

When he returns home, he studies the eyes of his family to see
      what person he should be that evening. He wants to say:
      All day I have been listening, all day I have felt
      I stood on the brink of something amazing.
      But he says nothing, and his family walks around him
      as if he were a stick leaning against a wall.

Late in the evening the cord around his neck draws him to bed.
      He is consoled by the coolness of sheets, pressure
      of blankets. He turns to the wall, and as water
      drains from a sink so his daily mind slips from him.
      Then sleep rises before him like a woman in a blue dress,
      and darkness puts its arms around him, embracing him.
      Be true to me, it says, each night you belong to me more,
      until at last I lift you up and wrap you within me."

Stephen Dobyns


----------



## midcan5

'Homework'

'Homage Kenneth Koch'

"If I were doing my Laundry Id wash my dirty Iran
Id throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,
Id wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,   
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,   
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie   
Then Id throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon till it came out clean."

Allen Ginsberg


----------



## midcan5

'The Past' 	  

"It shows up one summer in a greatcoat,
storms through the house confiscating,
says it must be paid and quickly,
says it must take everything.

Your children stare into their cornflakes,
your wife whispers only once to stop it,
because she loves you and she sees it
darken the room suddenly like a stain.

What did you do to deserve it,
ruining breakfast on a balmy day?
Kiss your loved ones. Night is coming.
There was no life without it anyway."

Michael Ryan


----------



## midcan5

'Out of the Blue'

1. 

"All lost.

All lost in the dust.
Lost in the fall and the crush and the dark.
Now all coming back.

2.

Up with the lark, downtown New York.
The sidewalks, the blocks.
Walk.  Don't walk.  Walk.  Don't Walk.

Breakfast to go:
an adrenalin shot
in a Styrofoam cup

Then plucked from the earth,
rocketed skyward,
a fifth a mile
in a minute, if that.
The body arrives
then the soul catches up."


rest here.

Out of the Blue Simon Armitage


----------



## midcan5

'Self-Portrait' 	  

"Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers--but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife's face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow. 
Could I help in this? I don't know.
I'm truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that--so far--
belongs to me."

Adam Zagajewski 

translated by Clare Cavanagh


----------



## midcan5

'Identity Crisis' 	  

"He was urged to prepare for success: "You never can tell,
    he was told over and over; "others have made it;
    one dare not presume to predict. You never can tell.	

Whos Who in America lists the order of cats
    in hunting, fishing, bird-watching, farming,
    domestic service--the dictionary order of cats

who have made it. Those not in the book are beyond the pale.
    Not to succeed in you chosen profession is unthinkable.
    Either you make it or--youre beyond the pale.

Do you understand?"
                   "No," he shakes his head.
    "Are you ready to forage for freedom?"
                                          "No," he adds,
    "I mean, why is a cat always shaking his head?

Because hes thinking: who am I? I am not
    only one-ninth of myself. I always am
    all of the selves I have been and will be but am    not."

"The normal cat," I tell him, "soon adjusts
    to others and to changing circumstances;
    he makes his way the way he soon adjusts."

"I cant," he says, "perhaps because Im blue,
    big-footed, lop-eared, socially awkward, impotent,
    and I drink too much, whether because Im blue

or because I like it, who knows. I want to escape
    at five oclock    into an untouchable world
where the top is the bottom and everyone wants to escape

from the middle, everyone, every day. I mean,
    I have visions of two green eyes rising
    out of the ocean, blinking, knowing what I mean."

"Never mind the picture, repeat after me
    the selfs creed. What he tells you you
    tells me and I repeats. Now, after me:

I love myself, I wish I would live well.
    Your gift of love breaks through my self-defeat.
    All prizes are blue. No cat admits defeat.
The next time that he lives he will live well.""

F. D. Reeve


----------



## midcan5

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic1c_MaAMOI]YouTube - Laurie Halse Anderson - Speak Poem[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'One September Afternoon'

"Home from town
the two of them sit
looking over what they have bought
spread out on the kitchen table
like gifts to themselves.
She holds a card of buttons
against the new dress material
and asks if they match.
The hay is dry enough to rake,
but he watches her
empty the grocery bag.
He reads the label
on a grape jelly glass
and tries on
the new straw hat again."

Leo Dangel


----------



## midcan5

'Rain'

"Toward evening, as the light failed
and the pear tree at my window darkened,
I put down my book and stood at the open door,
the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,
a smell of wet clay in the wind.
Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,
half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain
drummed against our tent, I heard
for the first time a loons sudden wail
drifting across that remote lake
a loneliness like no other,
though what I heard as inconsolable
may have been only the sound of something
untamed and nameless
singing itself to the wilderness around it
and to us until we slept. And thinking of my father
and of good companions gone
into oblivion, I heard the steady sound of rain
and the soft lapping of water, and did not know
whether it was grief or joy or something other
that surged against my heart
and held me listening there so long and late."

Peter Everwine


----------



## midcan5

"Denial' 

"He called it his ranch,
yet each winter day found her beside him
feeding hay to hungry cows.

In summer heat
you would find her in the hayfield
cutting, raking, baling, stacking.

In between she kept the books,
cooked, cleaned
laundered, fed bum lambs.

Garden rows straight,
canned jars of food
lined cellar walls.

Then she died.
I asked him how he would manage.
Just like I always have, he said."

Patricia Frolander


----------



## midcan5

'On Turning 65'    

    From now on it's late.
    Tomas Tranströmer 

"The actor's nightmare:
Opening night, center stage, the big soliloquy,
And he's forgotten his lines.
The professor's nightmare:
First day of classes, two hours late, the wrong room,
And because the teacher is also an actor of sorts,
He's forgotten his lines.
When I retired from teaching six years ago,
That nightmare, I'm happy to say,
Retired with me.
Now there's almost nothing I need to remember.
For 40 years my inamorata
And I have returned to the same place:
Motel on the beach of the central coast.
After this birthday dinner,
We sat on the balcony and lifted glasses of champagne
To toast my Medicare card.
For the third day in a row, a blue whale
And her calf spouted and breached
And held their dripping tail flukes high for us.
They even came shoreward
From the shallows marked by the buoy,
But always at high tide
When there was depth enough for those great bodies
With their elephant-sized tongues,
Hearts as big as Buicks.
Only ten thousand of them left in our hemisphere;
It's hard to know how we deserved this drama.
Maybe it's simple:
We saw them, while others walked the strand
Unaware of those huge blown breaths.
Back home, two days older,
I sit in the grass and read Transtromer,
His poems delicate and quiet as drawn breath,
While a mourning dove coos, loud as an owl.
In the dappled light next to me,
A lime green, iridescent beetle lumbers.
He climbs a blade of grass,
But halfway up gravity drops him on his back.
His legs whip, slowly he rights himself
To climb and fall again.
Ten poems later, he's gained
Less than that in inches.
The metaphor is obvious:
This is the progress of the poet,
This flopping along,
Trying to draw the world
Into a hard shell and then breathe it out
Onto the void of blank paper.
There is only one thing I have to remember:
From now on it's late.
Soon the crickets
Will draw the darkness down to them."

C. G. Hanzlicek


----------



## midcan5

'Bigger'    

"Crouched low in a dank pool
of rage, I waited behind
the wooden fence until she walked
through the gate. She was
bigger than me, but slower,
and I sprang up, slamming
deep into her belly with both fists,
over and over with more force
than I believed my body
could produce. She collapsed, hard
and heavy as a wet pair of jeans
might drop from a clothesline, but she didn't
look angry or afraid. She stared at me
with what seemed like awe
before she stopped falling and began
to cry&#8212;not loudly, as I expected&#8212;
but softly, almost weeping, sitting there
in a pale clump of her mother's
spent daffodils, arms wrapped
around her knees. I could hear
a dog barking in the yard
next door, and someone's car
starting, as if nothing had happened,
and I just stood there, hands hanging
stupidly above her, trembling
with what should have been
shame, wanting her to stand,
to strike back, to make it right."

Corrinne Clegg Hales


----------



## midcan5

'The Rag Rug'    

"In our kitchen was a rag rug
my mother bought for its bright mix of colors.
It was my task on cleaning days
to drape it over the line in the back yard
and, with a tool shaped like the wing
of a giant dragonfly, proceed to whack it
until a cumulus of dust swirled overhead,
earning my mother's approval.
Cleaningwhat she called "redding up"
was both industry and passion for her,
while I, in my arrogance, thought it foolish
and beneath my talents: The dust she chased
from one corner fled to another,
and then she, too, was dust.

Grown old now, I live alone
in a house Time traded me, house for house,
until I learned grief also is a kind of clutter:
Drive one grief out the door,
two others knock, seeking a place within.
And though too late, I ask for her forgiveness,
who hated whatever tarnished or made dim
the light and luster of common things:
lamp, glass vase, the figure in a photograph,
wood grain of table, braiding in a rug
this rag rug I took from memory
and put into a poem, that I might see it, as before,
dancing its tiny fires into the morning's
early slant of light."

Peter Everwine


----------



## midcan5

'Ode To the Butterfly Mind'

"The Parliament of Butterflies
Was racked by deep division
Questions of what to teach the young
Demanded their decision.

It had been known and taught and thought
Since butterfly life began
That butterflies in glory rose
From their creators mighty hand

Now some few who this truth mocked
Had attacked faiths very pillars
All butterflies, these scientists claimed,
Came from caterpillars.

This indecent theory spread
Into butterfly education,
Until this caterpillar cult
Threatened creations revelation.

The faithful sought to restore the truth
About the origins of butterflies;
And to build an absolute moral base,
To stop the metamorphic lies.

Believe you descended from some worm
And wormlike you will be!
Reasoned those who'd seen faith's light
And knew there was nothing left to see.

We see no proof, some butterflies said
That we are all come from cocoons--
Unbelievers who would teach this tale
Are all immoral loons.

Some said the metamorphous lie
Was laid by the enemy, they believed,
Set, like candle flames and windshields,
To destroy all who were deceived.

The matter was at last resolved--
Both theories must be taught--how fine!
Now all youth can simply decide the truth,
Each in their own simple butterfly mind."

Edwin F. Kagin


----------



## midcan5

'Child Development'

"As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.

Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.

They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.

The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants."

Billy Collins


----------



## midcan5

'The Worlds I Know' 

"Don't breathe, I tell my son,
they'll die. We lean over the cold
blue hood of the car, bend close

to watch the first flakes,
small as salt grains,
light and break or stay whole.

I point a numb finger:
Look there, tiny perfect stars,
I say without speaking,

only with my eyes, and he nods,
smiles, shows me one of his
a palace so ephemeral

it floated here. I wish I had
a magnifying glass. I wish
I had another life to give him

the worlds I know, the worlds
I don't, and together we could
enter the church of a diamond.

I'll have to settle for this:
a logging spur two rutted miles
above Rattlesnake Gorge.

Over a broken pine, just visible 
against grey, a red-tailed hawk 
traces lonely ovals.

Flags of green moss cling 
to a bony snag. He's tall, 
nearly as tall as me.

Our lungs give out
and the ghosts inside us rise.
He shivers in bitter air,

says nothing, and I know too
well it's time to move on,
the snow normal now, not strange

lace along the line of hills. 
On the quiet ride down, our hearts 
whisper from their separate cells."

Edward Harkness


----------



## midcan5

'I Leave Her Weeping'

"I leave her weeping in her barred little bed,
her warm hand clutching at my hand,
but she doesnt want a kiss, or to hug the dog goodnight
she keeps crying mommy, uhhh, mommy,
with her lovely crumpled face
like a golden piece of paper I am throwing away.
We have been playing for hours,
and now we need to stop, and she does not want
to. She is counting on me to lower the boom
that is her heavy body, and settle her down.
I rub her ribcage, I arrange the blankets around her hips.
Downstairs are lethal phonecalls I have to answer.
Friends
dying, I need to call.
My daughter may be weeping all my tears,
I only know
that even this young
and lying on her side,
her head uplifted like a cupped tulip,
sometimes she needs to cry."

Liz Rosenberg


----------



## midcan5

'The Writer'

"In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back, 
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish
What I wished you before, but harder."

Richard Wilbur


----------



## midcan5

Another song that approaches poetry, great beat, and interesting words. A world in the past but is it. 

Utah Phillips Ani DiFranco *'Anarchy'*

[ame]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6t6nzLX9gF4[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'Crossroads' 	 

"The second half of my life will be black 
to the white rind of the old and fading moon. 
The second half of my life will be water 
over the cracked floor of these desert years. 
I will land on my feet this time, 
knowing at least two languages and who 
my friends are. I will dress for the 
occasion, and my hair shall be 
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old 
birthday, counting the years as usual, 
but I will count myself new from this 
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift, 
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder, 
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road. 
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed, 
fingers shifting through fine sands, 
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet. 
There will be new dreams every night, 
and the drapes will never be closed. 
I will toss my string of keys into a deep 
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up."

Joyce Sutphen


----------



## midcan5

Even though I lived through these times, going back and reading the history of the sixties still amazes. I recently talked to a women who said at four, her parents took her to protest marches. Unlike today, youth rose up then, there were so many of us, are we today too comfortable and settled to fight the good fight all over again. Or have the old gained so much power, there can be no fight. 

'May 1968'

"When the Dean said we could not cross campus
until the students gave up the buildings,
we lay down, in the street,
we said the cops will enter this gate
over us. Lying back on the cobbles,
I saw the buildings of New York City
from dirt level, they soared up
and stopped, chopped off--above them, the sky,
the night air over the island.
The mounted police moved, near us,
while we sang, and then I began to count,
12, 13, 14, 15,
I counted again, 15, 16, one
month since the day on that deserted beach,
17, 18, my mouth fell open,
my hair on the street,
if my period did not come tonight
I was pregnant. I could see the sole of a cop's
shoe, the gelding's belly, its genitals--
if they took me to Women's Detention and did
the exam on me, the speculum,
the fingers--I gazed into the horse's tail
like a comet-train. All week, I had
thought about getting arrested, half-longed
to give myself away. On the tar--
one brain in my head, another,
in the making, near the base of my tail--
I looked at the steel arc of the horse's
shoe, the curve of its belly, the cop's
nightstick, the buildings streaming up
away from the earth. I knew I should get up
and leave, but I lay there looking at the space
above us, until it turned deep blue and then
ashy, colorless, Give me this one
night, I thought, and I'll give this child
the rest of my life, the horse's heads,
this time, drooping, dipping, until
they slept in a circle around my body and my daughter."

Sharon Olds


----------



## midcan5

'Border Crossing: Corridor, 7:35 p.m.'

"hours after work's close
i stumble from light's drone
from navigating processing information jigsaw
the disappointment of volumes yet to be added
and author name headings still unreconciled

past the cleaning lady in the hall
furrowed over the cart of industrial hygiene
bleach mops cleaners suds powders
soaps toilet paper paper towel
all things familiar yet other on this epic scale

her ankles thickened from long standing
her hands gloveless swollen from scrubbing
her wrists free of ornament
her body wrapped in sack and apron
her hair pulled back in netting

and i remember college jobs of housecleaning
how i relished the solitude the absence of overseer
the peering into the nooks of strangers' secrets
the money for books once even a first edition
the deliverance however fleeting from my father's anguish

and think how different this is for her
these hours days years stretching into endless
of scouring and wiping and rinsing
the waste remnants of these bookish others
of mine this life in not quite shadow

but still the satisfaction or perhaps something like it
the dignity resisting heroic
in task completed
in the sparkle of these 8 p.m. toilets
and the clean of this federal marble

and i wonder about origins
cracked earth crowded rooms
the likelihood of instruction
and the terror of leaving love and language
being nearly buried alive in car trunk

and hope for the kiss of a child
the embrace of a man or woman at dance
cavorting of tiger lily in kitchen window
chorus of cricket on the green
and the cheer of souls clapping in communion

as I sound my evening adieu
and am gladdened by her looking up at me
by her smile suddenly so radiant by her clarity
and think I have been all wrong all wrong maybe
and step on yet unwashed tiles into elevator's arms."

Yermiyahu Ahron Taub


----------



## midcan5

'Hush, Little Baby, Don't Say A Word'

"My mothers older sister calls me three times a year: Christmas, St. Patricks Day, my birthday in July. Always works into the conversation how I should be grateful for the choice my mother made not to abort me, her Catholic pride inflating the link between us. The frothy fervor over my birth is quickly followed with rebuke: stinging stories of my mothers incompetence as a woman, how little she knew about sex, how stupid she was, getting pregnant out of wedlock; and how unfit a mother she was, feeding me raw potatoes as a toddler and letting me run around for hours on end in soggy diapers. My pious aunt wanted to take me away from her, she tells me, to rescue me. But she just couldnt. Her own family duties and all. My mother, the Madonna-whore, dead now some twenty years, and me still here, mascot for the cause, a grown-up fetus with tape over its mouth."

Maureen Kingston


----------



## midcan5

'Father's Song'

"Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.

Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
a child's blood so red
it stops a father's heart.

My daughter cried her tears;
I held some ice
against her lip.
That was the end of it.

Round and round: bow and kiss.
I try to teach her caution;
she tried to teach me risk." 

Gregory Orr


----------



## midcan5

'Heartland M.I.A.'

1
"He won't come out of his apartment,
my friend's brother, where 'Nam
rages every day and night. Our war.
He's cut off most of the family, the ones
who did the intervention, accusing him
of drinking to self-destruction.

The family prays for a miracle.

2
The man lets his younger brother
pick him up for lunch one Sunday afternoon.
The brother is alarmed that the whites of his eyes
have yellowed, his legs now too weak to walk.

Which brother is more fearful of the sense
of death in the air? Which one expects
a miracle?

3
The brother who is ill
opens his door to a total stranger, a friend
a vet, a friend of Bill W'sa man
who's ridden out his need to drink.

The stranger works a miracle.
(What does he say to the brother? Does he
ask to only touch the hem of your garment?)
No matter. The brother who is ill goes with him
to the V.A., agrees to stay (if only for a day).

The family prays for a miracle.

4
Is it a miracle if you are comforted
by a stranger's love? Is it enough
of a miracle if you recognize that another
has suffered as you, before you die?
Is it a miracle if you are touched by love only
for one day?

5
In the evenings, I walk in my neighborhood.
I, also, pray for miracles.
Pray to let go of my anger at the universe
because miracles didn't arrive on demand.
Pray that if one comes, I'll recognize it.
Such faint Scottish faith. July 4th or 5th,
I stop at the day lilies who glow stain-glass
at sundown, much better than fireworks,
along with wild roses, blue bells. The house
where the P.O.W.-M.I.A. flag still flies

6
Pray for the P.O.W.s still lost
in the hospital down the river road,
our war, and the soldiers from the new wars,
their wars, which are also ours."

Roseann Lloyd


----------



## midcan5

'Chemotherapy Lessons' 

Chemo introduces you
to entropy:
the tensions of your hot pursuits
must slacken; passion
must become anathema.

Faces behind
closed eyes, like images in film, 
replay your plot--
you, now, a creature in a time
that's ending, choked 
by tubes that flow with licensed poisons.

Chemotherapy decides
an old debate
mind and body are not two, but you."


"Life and the World Are One"   Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus-Logico Philosophicus

"Dear loving and beloved, though my pace
is growing slow, I ask you not to cry.

As I go forward into dying, the world
is slowing from its fury to a crawl.

A film is forming on the silver moon,
promising the end of tides, romance.

Nothing now can rescue Newton's laws.
When finally my breath ceases, they will lapse.

Now that the world is ending, I can speak
the uttermost of love and not hold back.

I dont expect to speak from another world.
This is my only worlddont wait for word.

As I embraced the world, so it did me.
As it of me, so I of it, will soon be free."

Richard P. Richter


----------



## midcan5

When I was in Alaska zero would sometimes feel warm. I have never found a good thanksgiving poem, after you read lots of history you become aware that Disneyland is more than an amusement park, it becomes a way of thinking, a way to forgive and forget and a way to tell the children good things. Maybe I have a poem here, as Isiah Berlin once wrote, even in the midst of turmoil he had a wonderful life, hope yours is too - happy thanks day.

'The Same Cold'

"In Minnesota the serious cold arrived
like no cold I'd previously experienced,
an in-your-face honesty to it, a clarity
that always took me by surprise.
On blizzardly nights with wires down
or in the dead-battery dawn
the cold made good neighbors of us all,
made us moral because we might need
something moral in return, no hitchhiker
left on the road, not even some frozen
strange looking stranger turned away
from our door.  After a spell of it,
I remember, zero would feel warm-
people out for walks, jackets open,
ice fishermen in the glory
of their shacks moved to Nordic song.
The cold took over our lives,
lived in every conversation, as compelling
as local dirt or local sport.
If bitten by it, stranded somewhere,
a person would want
To lie right down in it and sleep.
Come February, some of us needed
to scream, hurt ourselves, divorce.
Once, on Route 23, thirty below,
My Maverick seized up, and a man
with a blanket and candy bar, a man
for all weather, stopped and drove me home.
It was no big thing to him, the savior.
Just two men, he said, in the same cold."

Stephen Dunn


----------



## PoliticalChic

Tomorrow is the birthday of Lieutenant Colonel John Alexander McCrae (November 30, 1872 &#8211; January 28, 1918) was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist and soldier during World War I and a surgeon during the battle of Ypres. He is best known for writing the famous war memorial poem In Flanders Fields.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


----------



## Meister

HIGH FLIGHT

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward Ive climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,  and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed ofwheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hovring there,
Ive chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
Ive topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew
And, while with silent lifting mind Ive trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee 


John Gillespie Magee, Junior (June 9, 1922  December 11, 1941) was an aviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II.


----------



## midcan5

'The Silence' 	 

for RJ

"You always called late and drunk, 
your voice luxurious with pain,
I, tightly wrapped in dreaming, 
listening as if to a ghost.

Tonight a friend called to say your body 
was found in your apartment, where 
it had lain for days. You'd lost your job, 
stopped writing, saw nobody for weeks. 
Your heart, he said. Drink had destroyed you.

We met in a college town, first teaching jobs, 
poems flowing from a grief we enshrined 
with myth and alcohol. I envied the way 
women looked at you, a bear blunt with rage, 
tearing through an ever-darkening wood.

Once we traded poems like photos of women 
whose beauty tested God's faith. 'Read this one 
about how friendship among the young can't last, 
it will rip your heart out of your chest!'

Once you called to say J was leaving, 
the pain stuck in your throat like a razor blade. 
A woman was calling me back to bed 
so I said I'd call back. But I never did.

The deep forlorn smell of moss and pine 
behind your stone house, you strumming 
and singing Lorca, Vallejo, De Andrade, 
as if each syllable tasted of blood, 
as if you had all the time in the world. . .

You knew your angels loved you 
but you also knew they would leave 
someone they could not save."

Philip Schultz


----------



## midcan5

'Dear Kevin,'

"Remember when we were ten and pricked our index fingers, strangled them, breathless, until they became a bloody Cyclops and sloppily bonded them together? You moved four years later, and I never saw you until the other day, bored at work succumbing to Facebook again. Your shaved head, mosaic skull tattoos, and double birds made it difficult to recognize my friend. I recalled that day in Ms. Barrett's class when we straightened and sharpened staples becoming family: The two-story, built-in pool, white boyThe two bedroom, blow-up pool, Latino "Brothers Forever" However the emblazoned swastika branded on your left wrist, broadcast we lost touch long ago."

                                                                                                   'Your friend,
                                                                                                    Danny'


Daniel Romo


----------



## midcan5

'Monotony of Machines'

"The air is filled with
the smell of rotting fruit.

Men and women hunch over,
backs aching in unison,
their hair stuffed into hairnets,
beneath the plastic, yellow hardhats.

The continuous clanging of cackling machines,
steel snarls sharply at their guarded eardrums.

The rhythms ricochet off the cold
metal walls, like bullets they take a life.

The hands of the clock,
circle round and round, busy hands
move along the conveyor belt.

Stepfather is nowhere to be found.
Mother, who works in the factory,
is more of a man than he is;
the children are hungry, six mouths are waiting.

Her preoccupied hands
shove the peaches into cans.
The hours get longer each year,
until she never sees the sun.

The chemicals, the blood hemorrhaging,
the hospital bed, the bills, the late night visits,
the lawyers won't take the case.

Twenty seven years
and the factory disappears,
retire early and get a new job.

Mama, take the hush money."

Victor Inzunza


----------



## Wicked Jester

The law of the fish.

By the band "The Radiators"

The big ones eat the little ones
the little ones got to be fast
That's the law of the fish now mutha
you gots to move your ass!


----------



## Wicked Jester

Where do they go when the bad people die?
They don't go to heaven where the angels fly
They go to a lake o' fire and fry
That's where they go when the bad people die!


----------



## midcan5

'Failure'

"To pay for my father's funeral
I borrowed money from people
he already owed money to.
One called him a nobody.
No, I said, he was a failure.
You can't remember
a nobody's name, that's why
they're called nobodies.
Failures are unforgettable.
The rabbi who read a stock eulogy
about a man who didn't belong to
or believe in anything
was both a failure and a nobody.
He failed to imagine the son
and wife of the dead man
being shamed by each word.
To understand that not
believing in or belonging to
anything demanded a kind
of faith and buoyancy.
An uncle, counting on his fingers
my father's business failures
a parking lot that raised geese,
a motel that raffled honeymoons,
a bowling alley with roving mariachis
failed to love and honor his brother,
who showed him how to whistle
under covers, steal apples
with his right or left hand. Indeed,
my father was comical.
His watches pinched, he tripped
on his pant cuffs and snored
loudly in movies, where
his weariness overcame him
finally. He didn't believe in:
savings insurance newspapers
vegetables good or evil human
frailty history or God.
Our family avoided us,
fearing boils. I left town
but failed to get away."

Philip Schultz


----------



## Wicked Jester

Obama and his Momma

By Wicked Jester:

Oh Barack Obama
how i'd love to smack yo' momma
for raising such a douchebag
with the mind of a Lama


----------



## midcan5

'The Feast of Lights' 	  

"Kindle the taper like the steadfast star
Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth,
And add each night a lustre till afar
An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth.
Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn;
Chant psalms of victory till the heart takes fire,
The Maccabean spirit leap new-born.

Remember how from wintry dawn till night,
Such songs were sung in Zion, when again
On the high altar flamed the sacred light,
And, purified from every Syrian stain,
The foam-white walls with golden shields were hung,
With crowns and silken spoils, and at the shrine,
Stood, midst their conqueror-tribe, five chieftains sprung
From one heroic stock, one seed divine.

Five branches grown from Mattathias' stem,
The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan,
Simon the fair, the Burst-of Spring, the Gem,
Eleazar, Help of-God; o'er all his clan
Judas the Lion-Prince, the Avenging Rod,
Towered in warrior-beauty, uncrowned king,
Armed with the breastplate and the sword of God,
Whose praise is: "He received the perishing."

They who had camped within the mountain-pass,
Couched on the rock, and tented neath the sky,
Who saw from Mizpah's heights the tangled grass
Choke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lie
Disfigured and polluted--who had flung
Their faces on the stones, and mourned aloud
And rent their garments, wailing with one tongue,
Crushed as a wind-swept bed of reeds is bowed,

Even they by one voice fired, one heart of flame,
Though broken reeds, had risen, and were men,
They rushed upon the spoiler and o'ercame,
Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten.
Now is their mourning into dancing turned,
Their sackcloth doffed for garments of delight,
Week-long the festive torches shall be burned,
Music and revelry wed day with night.

Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm,
The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.
Where is our Judas?  Where our five-branched palm?
Where are the lion-warriors of the Lord?
Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn,
Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire,
The Maccabean spirit leap new-born!"

Emma Lazarus


----------



## editec

_Homage _



> A snowy night in December
> as I remember
> 
> Shall I ponder weak and weary?
> 
> There's tradition.
> There's Poe...
> and
> I know.
> I know.
> 
> It was trick of light I guessed
> that some bricks seemed newer than the rest.
> 
> The demeanor the place
> conjured up his face
> 
> Eyes looking their last look
> as brick is mortared into nook
> 
> Disbelieve
> turned to pleading.
> Pleading
> turned to screams.
> 
> I was reading when the screaming stopped
> I...
> 
> listened at the wall
> but...
> that was all
> 
> That was all.
> 
> It was a snowy night in December
> and I remember...
> 
> Fourteen rooms we're told, this house is very old.


----------



## editec

For those of you who like to listen to poetry (and after all, isn't poetry meant to be heard?) you might be interested to know that yesterday we procured funding to add audio files to the Poetry Ed website we're building.

So in about six months or so, I'll be able to direct ya'll to a site where you'll be able to review and listen to a collection of 550 poems, as well as learn something about the meter and structure of poetry, as well as view the art which I choose to accompany this collection.

As I'm particualrly fond of of landscape impressionism and classical nudes, too, and as finding the right image to accompany a poem is a damned difficult thing to actually do (I know... it sounds so easy, too, doesn't it?) I hope that you will take some time to ask yourselves why I choose _that _image for _that_ poem.

Honestly, folks...so far I think I put more hours into matching images to the poetry than it took us to compile the collection and accompanying data about it.

I'll let you know when it's ready for prime time. 

Probably sometime in June 2011.


----------



## editec

> To understand that not
> believing in or belonging to
> anything demanded a kind
> of faith and buoyancy.


 
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!

Is it poetry?

Beats me.

Maybe all truth is poetic if you have the ears to listen.


----------



## midcan5

While I love both arts I find the visual occupies a place separate from the verbal. My photography and my bad poetry occupy two distinct worlds. But please let us know how we can see the work. 

========Poem 4 the day ==========


'My Father Does Not Appear When Googled'

"Yet throughout the countryside of my youth,
in the Midwest, there are bridges he built
that are still in place, along creeks and rivers.

And there are houses, too, that he constructed,
in his patience, board by board, nail by nail,
that are still standing, still providing shelter.

In that same country town there are sidewalks
made of concrete, that he poured, in front
of the bank, the post office, the Carnegie library.

Those things are far away now, those faces
vanished  all those who walked those streets
in their daily rounds, who crossed those bridges.

In my imagination, it is as though a great wind
has swept through those rooms and buildings,
emptying them, taking the inhabitants away.

In time, the houses too will be carried off,
and the school and the hospital, all diminished
and scattered, until only the bridges remain.

Then even the largest and most enduring
of my fathers works will disappear, lifted
on invisible currents, like elements in a dream.

Yet there are nights when the wind stiffens,
and the dream returns. The streets of the town
come alive once more. Within those shadows

my father strides along an unfinished bridge,
hammer in hand, urging the workers on,
laboring to provide a passage for others."

Jared Carter


----------



## Ropey

I assume he will read it when my day is done.  


I remember when I could do no wrong,
My words heard as a valued song.
His eyes, they shone of cultured pearl,
His love waved akin to the tail of a squirrel.

Now he has grown and sees so clear,
Father can be wrong even if held dear.
His words show perception edgewise and tall,
From a boy who once was so very small.

My love is allowing him to make his stand,
Grow his wisdom from his very own hand.
To share my story and leave it at that,
For he is now the one who is "at bat".

Today I see glimmers of that childish view,
Tendered in thoughts of the adult so true.
Willingly knowing that he shall be so,
If only allowed to blossom and grow.


----------



## midcan5

'Happiness'

"There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine."

 Jane Kenyon


----------



## Ropey

And this one helped me gain my wife 
	

	
	
		
		

		
		
	


	




Without You, What Would I Be?

Landing on a precious thought,
Feelings of course can never be bought.
Gifted to those who tended the line,
With depth and clarity truly sublime.
Sharing through time, space and light,
Embraced by those with inner sight.
My gift is merely translating to word,
You are the treasure indeed that I heard.
Without that treasure to bring to light,
My words would be specious and tight.
Thanks to you for all that you bring,
In allowing my soul the freedom to sing.


----------



## midcan5

'Grandma Climbs' 	 

"Grandma climbs a chair to yell at God for killing
her only husband whose only crime was forgetting
where he put things. Finally, God misplaced him. Everyone
in this house is a razor, a police radio, a bulging vein.
It's too late for any of us, Grandma says to the ceiling. 
She believes we are chosen to be disgraced and perplexed.
She squints at anyone who treats her like a customer, including
the toilet mirror, and twists her mouth into a deadly scheme.
Late at night I run at the mirror until I disappear. The day is over
before it begins, Grandma says, jerking the shade down over
its once rosy eye. She keeps her husband's teeth in a matchbox,
in perfumed paraffin; his silk skullcap (with its orthodox stains)
in the icebox, behind Uncle's Jell-O aquarium of floating lowlifes.
I know what Mrs. Einhorn said Mrs. Edels told Mr. Kook about us:
God save us from having one shirt, one eye, one child. I know
in order to survive. Grandma throws her shawl of exuberant birds
over her bony shoulders and ladles up yet another chicken thigh
out of the steaming broth of the infinite night sky."

Philip Schultz


----------



## editec

I find it so hopeful that even in a place like this I find that people still read and write poetry.

Poetry is to prose as dreams are to waking.
Poetry is speaking in the language we invent
Prose is spoken in the language that we share


No, the above isn't a poem, merely an observation.

Did you guys know that in the 19th century poetry was more popular with the general public than novels?

That well known poets made better money than well know authors of prose?

Times change, eh?

Nowadays the only poets who seem to make any money, do so behind the guise of being singer songwriters.

I guess that's okay, though because just look at this thread.

Obviously things poetic still resonate in our souls.


----------



## mudwhistle

This one always gets me



Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


----------



## Ropey

Dylan always gets me. 

Incarnate Devil

Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And G-d walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.

When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.

We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.

Dylan Thomas


----------



## midcan5

'Alone' 	  

"Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone."

Maya Angelou


----------



## midcan5

'What Do Women Want?' 	 

"I want a red dress. 
I want it flimsy and cheap, 
I want it too tight, I want to wear it 
until someone tears it off me. 
I want it sleeveless and backless, 
this dress, so no one has to guess 
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store 
with all those keys glittering in the window, 
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old 
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers 
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, 
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. 
I want to walk like I'm the only 
woman on earth and I can have my pick. 
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm 
your worst fears about me, 
to show you how little I care about you 
or anything except what 
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment 
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body 
to carry me into this world, through 
the birth-cries and the love-cries too, 
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin, 
it'll be the goddamned 
dress they bury me in."  	 

Kim Addonizio


----------



## midcan5

'At the Office Holiday Party'

"I can now confirm that I am not just fatter
than everyone I work with, but I&#8217;m also fatter
than all their spouses. Even the heavily bearded
bear in accounting has a little otter-like boyfriend.

When my co-workers brightly introduce me
as &#8220;the funny one in the office,&#8221; their spouses
give them a look which translates to, Well, duh,
then they both wait for me to say something funny.

A gaggle of models comes shrieking into the bar
to further punctuate why I sometimes hate living
in this city. They glitter, a shiny gang of scissors.
I don&#8217;t know how to look like I&#8217;m not struggling.

Sometimes on the subway back to Queens,
I can tell who&#8217;s staying on past the Lexington stop
because I have bought their shoes before at Payless.
They are shoes that fool absolutely no one.

Everyone wore their special holiday party outfits.
It wasn&#8217;t until I arrived at the bar that I realized
my special holiday party outfit was exactly the same
as the outfits worn by the restaurant&#8217;s busboys.

While I&#8217;m standing in line for the bathroom,
another patron asks if I&#8217;m there to clean it."

Cristin O&#8217;Keefe Aptowicz


----------



## midcan5

'Christmas Faith'

"Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
To his little sister cried
A bright-eyed boy; there was a pause
Ere the dainty girl replied,--
"Of course I do, for mamma said
Last Christmas he came through
The chimney while we were in bed,
And all she says is true."
"Pshaw! you are nothing but a girl,
That's why you're humbugged so;
They get your small brain in a whirl
With dolls and toys. I know
A thing or two, if you'll keep dark,
I'll tell you: it's such fun
To outwit grown folks--such a lark!
You won't tell, little one?"
"Tell what? I know he's true, because--"
The boy said, "Stuff! Old Smith--
The preacher--calls your Santa Claus
'A dear, delightful myth.'"
"Maybe that's Santa's other name:
Mamma says he has two."
"He's just a humbug all the same,
You little goosy you.
It means-- Now, Jennie, don't you tell;
I got the whopping book
That teaches grown folks how to spell:
Go get it; you may look
For myth--and it means just the same
As nothing. It's all chaff
About the stockings: Santa's name
Is mamma. We can laugh
At grown folks now. What mortal eye
Has seen him wink and nod?"
"No,--and we can't see through the sky,
Yet all believe in God!"
"That's different, but old Santa's feet
Fit square in mamma's shoes;
His voice, like hers, is low and sweet.
Trust in him if you choose;
You are a girl--such nonsense tells
So differently on boys.
Who hears Kristkinkle's silver bells
Or sees his sleigh of toys?"
Then proudly rose the little maid,
And--pointing far away
To the blue heaven above them--
Said, "Christ came on Christmas day.
We trust in all his names, because
He loves us--he is true;
And, though you call old Santa Claus
A myth, I'll trust him, too."

Rosa Vertner Jeffrey


----------



## midcan5

We can discuss what poetry is .... this is powerful stuff.

American character in the words of four Americans. 

Anna Deavere Smith: Four American characters | Video on TED.com


----------



## editec

Ropey said:


> Dylan always gets me.
> 
> Incarnate Devil
> 
> Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
> The central plains of Asia in his garden,
> In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
> In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
> And G-d walked there who was a fiddling warden
> And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
> 
> When we were strangers to the guided seas,
> A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
> The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
> Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
> And when the moon rose windily it was
> Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
> 
> We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
> In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
> And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
> Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
> All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
> A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
> 
> Dylan Thomas


 


> ...I've been Ayn Randed and nearly branded
> A communist
> cause I'm left handed
> And that's the hand I use, well...
> Never mind.
> 
> Man..
> I knew a man whose brain
> was small
> Couldn't think a nothin'
> at all
> He wasn't like
> you and me
> He didn't dig
> poetry
> 
> _Man..._
> _he was so unhep_
> _When you said Dylan_
> _He thought_
> _you was talking bout_
> _Dylan Thomas_
> _(whoever he was!)_
> 
> The man
> Ain't
> Got
> No
> Culture


 
Paul Simon


----------



## hipeter924

A few of mine I wrote recently, noting I am not in a relationship or anything like that. 


> What is love?
> That touch on my cheek from your smooth lips,
> A smile on your face,
> That opens my heart,
> To a starry night,
> With us side to side,
> Together in our thoughts,
> The cinnamon on my cappuccino,
> You are to me,
> Always there to wake me up,
> You are love,
> If you want to be.





> Dark,
> My eyes pierced by sorrow,
> A cascade of tears,
> A beacon to the pain in my heart,
> Like a river it flows,
> Driven by the gravity of failed dreams,
> Betrayal,
> A simple spell,
> To melt my mind,
> And drive my heart,
> To consume me,
> To make me say,
> Where is the light?


----------



## American Horse

chloe said:


> Friendship
> 
> 
> 
> And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship." . . .



Thanking you for this wasn't an option - so, thanks! Profound to say the least


----------



## midcan5

'Christmas Morning'

"My children strip the skin from their gifts,
pull the gaudy insides into the light,
and play with them.
I sit sullen, swallow a pill or two,
and watch the pine tree,
covered with wire and glass,
die slowly.
"There is a history to all of this,"
I tell the dying tree,
the flayed gifts.
"All around us are the bones
of one god
or another."
My children ignore me;
my husband says, "Cass."


So I tell them we need new holidays
for the hot weather coming soon.
We can pray for the rebirth of the snowflake,
we can pretend they hang in the nightsky
waiting, always waiting, and occasionally crying.
We can sit in our loincloths
around the cool florescent lampfire
and listen to the elders tell stories
about ice cubes.
We can pray to the fridge.


My husband has had enough.
He approaches, takes my hand,
leads me away. I wish my dead friend
who is everywhere
a happy birthday."

Jody Azzouni


----------



## midcan5

'The Magic of Christmas'

"Snow is gently falling
The stars are shining bright
People come to worship
On this holiest of night

The voices of the carolers
Of love and praise are singing
While pealing in the distance
Are the sounds of church bells ringing

An air of joy and happiness
Is everywhere in town
As people greet each other
With good wishes all around

What a glorious celebration
On this wintry Christmas Eve
Where so much warmth and caring
Is a wonder to perceive

May the magic of this Christmas
Extend throughout the year
Let's keep on reaching out
And showing that we care

May the blessings of this season
Fill our hearts with joy
Always sharing, always giving
So that others may enjoy."

Virginia Carlson


----------



## midcan5

"Nearing Xmas Eve! I don't know why--since I'm not a believer in the conventional sense--but every year around this time I end up standing here, pausing before this gray, hulking building with so many of its tall, stained glass windows darkened and lit only by floodlights from outside of it, but with twin spires still pointing towards heaven. Tonight I can see only a single light still shining--in a half-open casement window located on the second floor. "Hello, hello," I call out, "Anybody around up there?--anybody home tonight?" Silhouetted at the casement window, a head appears. "Sure, we're open all night tonight all right--but this isn't a church anymore," the head shouts back in a decidedly irritated voice. "Didn't you know?--our entire operation was finally taken over last year--we were shut down for a while and then re-opened again converted to a peanut-brittle factory," "But don't I recognize you, Sir," I call back--"aren't you the former Sexton?" "Yes," the head says, after we were converted the takeover people thought it would be wise for the sake of efficiency to retain some of the same personnel for a while, so together with some of my staff, I agreed to stay on for a bit." "Does that include God, too?" I hear myself calling back to the former Sexton. "Sure it does," the Sexton shouts back, "have a Merry Christmas!"--and his head disappears from the window. Then I see no silhouetted head much less face, and hear a far deeper and far more resonant voice: "My Son, my Son--we've been putting you on, my Son. But you know you should really come up here anyway--you know in your heart that for all He's ever meant to you, Christ might as well have been a part-time worker in a peanut-brittle factory!" Then suddenly the casement window slams shut. "Oh My God!" I hear myself cry out--"Could that have been God Himself up there? And if so, was He genuinely angry with me, personally?" On the way up the stairs to find out--trembling slightly I must confess--I meet an angel. He's coming down the stairs after apparently just knocking off from working on the night-shift somewhere upstairs. He's beaming radiantly; his wings are folded neatly behind him and he's licking his lips; his cheeks are covered up with peanut-butter and candy and look like two big chocolate chip cookies; and there's a big blob of marshmallow on the tip of his nose...."

Michael Benedikt


----------



## midcan5

'The Passing of the Year' 	  

"My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
     My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
     And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
     Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
     With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
     You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter's chime
     Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
     You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
     And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
     Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
     Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
     For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
     What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
     So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
     That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
     What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope?  O Optimist!
     What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
     What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
     What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
     What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
     What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
     The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
     And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
     Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough!  Oh, ring the curtain down!
     Old weary year! it's time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
     My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
     And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that's true,
     For we've been comrades, you and I --
I thank God for each day of you;
     There! bless you now!  Old Year, good-bye!"

Robert W. Service


----------



## American Horse

Old Long Past


And for old long past, my joy (sweetheart),
For old long past,
We will take a cup of kindness yet,
For old long past,

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days of old long past.

And surely you will pay for your pint-vessel!
And surely I will pay for mine!
And we will take a cup of kindness yet,
For old long past.

We two have run about the hillsides
And pulled the wild daisies fine;
But we have wandered many a weary foot
Since old long past.

We two have paddled in the stream,
From morning sun till noon;
But seas between us broad have roared
Since old long past.

And there is a hand, my trusty friend!
And give me a hand of yours!
And we will take a right good-will drink,
For old long past.


(Chorus) For auld lang syne (By Robert Burns - English version)


----------



## midcan5

'Anybody Can Write a Poem' 	  

"I am arguing with an idiot online.
He says anybody can write a poem.
I say some people are afraid to speak.
I say some people are ashamed to speak.
If they said the pronoun "I" 
they would find themselves floating
in the black Atlantic
and a woman would swim by, completely 
dry, in a rose chiffon shirt, 
until the ashamed person says her name
and the woman becomes wet and drowns
and her face turns to flayed ragged pulp,
white in the black water.
He says that he'd still write
even if someone cut off both his hands.
As if it were the hands that make a poem,
I say. I say what if someone cut out
whatever brain or gut or loin or heart
that lets you say hey, over here, listen, 
I have something to tell you all,
I'm different.
As an example I mention my mother
who loved that I write poems
and am such a wonderful genius.
And then I delete the comment
because my mother wanted no part of this or any
argument, because "Who am I 
to say whatever?"
Once on a grade school form
I entered her job as hairwasher.
She saw the form and was embarrassed and mad.
"You should have put receptionist."
But she didn't change it.
The last word she ever said was No.
And now here she is in my poem,
so proud of her idiot son, 
who presumes to speak for a woman
who wants to tell him to shut up, but can't."

Bradley Paul


----------



## midcan5

'The Magic Kingdom'

'And as in the daily casualties of life every man is, as it were, threatened with numberless deaths, so long as it remains uncertain which of them is his fate, I would ask whether it is not better to suffer one and die, than to live in fear of all? St. Augustine, City of God.'


"This morning, I found on a slip of paper tucked into a book
a list of questions Id written down years ago to ask the doctor.
What if it has spread? Is it possible Im crazy? Ive just returned
from Florida, from visiting my mothers last sister, who is eighty
& doing fine. At the airport, my flight grounded by a storm,
I bought a magazine, which fell open to a photograph
of three roseate spoonbills tossing down their elegant shadows
on a chartreuse field of fertilizer-production waste.
Two little girls emptied their Ziplocs of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish
onto the carpet & picked them up, one by one, with great delicacy,
before popping them into their mouths. Their mother, outside
smoking, kept an eye on them through the glass. After my cousin died,
my father died & then my brother. Next, my fathers older brother
& his wife. And, finally, after my mother died, I expected
to die myself. And because this happened very quickly
& because these were, really, almost all the people I knew,
I spent each day smashing dishes with one of my uncles hammers
& gluing them back together in new ways. It was strange work
& dangerous, even though I tried to protect myself
wearing a quilted bathrobe & goggles & leather work gloves
& opening all the windows, even in snow, against the vapors
of the industrial adhesives. Most days now I get up late
& brew coffee & the smell rises from the old enamel pot
Ive had to balance under the dark drip ever since the carafe
that came with the machine shattered in the dishwasher last month.


One morning I found a lump in my breast & my vision narrowed
to a small dot & I began to sweat. My legs & arms felt weak,
& my heart thrashed behind its bars. We were not written
to be safe. In the old tales, the woodcutters daughters path
takes her, each time, through the dark forest. There are new words
for all of this: a shot of panic becomes the rustle of glucocorticoid
signalling the sympathetic nervous system into a response
regulated by the sensitivity of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis.
And, as I go along, these freshly minted charms clatter together
in the tender doeskin of the throat as though the larynx
were nothing if not a sack of amulets tied with a cord & worn
around the neck. But I tell you I sat on the bathroom floor for hours,
trembling. And I can tell you this because the lump was just a lump
& some days now I dont even dread the end although I know
it will arrive. The garage is filled with buckets of broken china.
The girls chased each other & waved their arms, casting spells,
the trim of their matching gingham dresses the electric pink
of the birds wings. They turned each other into princesses
& super-girls & then they pretended to change back.
Oh, no. You forgot to say foreverthey took turns repeating
with dramatic dismay, melting into puddles of themselves,
their sandals & sunburned knees vanishing beneath their hems."

Kathleen Graber


----------



## midcan5

'Life while-you-wait'

"Life while-you-wait,
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play,
I only know it's mine, I can't exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot
just what this play's all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can't conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for hammy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can't take back,
stars you'll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run-
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).

You'd be wrong to think that it's just slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there's no question, this must be the premier.
And whatever I do
Will become forever what I've done."

Wistawa Szymborska


----------



## midcan5

'The Gun'

"Late afternoon light slices through the dormer window
to your place on the floor next to a stack of comics.
Across from you is a boy who at eleven is three years
older.  He is telling you to pull down your pants.
You tell him that you don't want to.  His mother is out
And you are alone  in the house. He has given you a Coke,
let you smoke two of his mother's nonfilter Pall Malls,
and years later you can still picture the red packet
on the dark finish of the phonograph.  You stand up
and say you have to go home.  You live across the street
and only see him in summer when he returns from school.
As you step across the comics toward the stairs,
the boy gives you a shove, sends you stumbling back.
Wait, he says, I want to show you something.
He goes to a drawer and when he turns around
You see he is holding a small gun by the barrel.
You feel you are breathing glass.  You ask if it is
loaded and he says, Sure it is, and you say: Show me.
He removes the clip, takes a bullet from his pocket.
See this, he says, then puts the bullet into the clip,
slides the clip into the butt of the gun with a snap.
The boy sits on the bed and pretends to study the gun.
He has a round fat face and black hair.  Take off
your pants, he says.  Again you say you have to go home.
He stands up and points the gun at your legs. Slowly,
you unhook your cowboy belt, undo the metal buttons
of your jeans.  They slide down past your knees.
Pull down your underwear, he tells you.  You tell him
you don't want to.  He points the gun at your head.
You crouch on the floor, cover your head with your hands.
You don't want him to see you cry.  You feel you are
pulling yourself into yourself and soon you will be
no bigger than a pebble.  You think back to the time
you saw a friend's cocker spaniel hit by a car and you
remember how its stomach was split open and you imagine
your face split open and blood and gray stuff escaping.
You have hardly ever thought of dying, seriously dying,
and as you grow more scared you have to go to the bathroom
more and more badly.  Before you can stop yourself,
you feel yourself pissing into your underwear.
The boy with a gun sees the spreading pool of urine.
You baby, he shouts, you baby, you're disgusting.
You want to apologize, but the words jumble and
choke in your throat.  Get out, the boys shouts.
You drag your pants up over your underwear and
run down the stairs.  As you slam out of his house,
you know you died up there among the comic books
and football pennants, died as sure as your friend's
cocker spaniel, as sure as if the boy had shot your
face off, shot the very piss out of you.  Standing
in the street with urine soaking your pants, you watch
your neighbors pursuing the orderly occupations
of a summer afternoon: mowing the lawn, trimming a hedge.
Where is that sense of the world you woke with
this morning? Now it is smaller. Now it has gone away."

Stephen Dobyns


----------



## saveliberty

Statistically speaking, I'm going to die.
Statistically reasoning, I probably lie.
Statistically cooking, I shouldn't fry.
Statistically counting, no taxes I pay.

I care not the odds.
Against them I'll trod.
Strengthening my bod.
Believing in God.

Entitled I'm not.
Improved what I got.
Refusing to rot.
Accept not my lot.


----------



## midcan5

'What I Am'	  

"Fred Sanford's on at 12
& I'm standing in the express lane (cash only)
about to buy Head & Shoulders
the white people shampoo, no one knows
what I am. My name could be Lamont.
George Clinton wears colors like Toucan Sam,
the Froot Loop pelican. Follow your nose,
he says. But I have no nose, no mouth,
so you tell me what's good, what's god,
what's funky. When I stop
by McDonalds for a cheeseburger, no one
suspects what I am. I smile at Ronald's poster,
perpetual grin behind the pissed-off, fly-girl
cashier I love. Where are my goddamn fries?
Ain't I American? I never say, Niggaz
in my poems. My ancestors didn't
emigrate. Why would anyone leave
their native land? I'm thinking about shooting
some hoop later on. I'll dunk on everyone
of those niggaz. They have no idea
what I am. I might be the next Jordan
god. They don't know if Toni Morrison
is a woman or a man. Michael Jackson
is the biggest name in showbiz. Mamma se 
Mamma sa mamma ku sa, sang the Bushmen 
in Africa. I'll buy a dimebag after the game, 
me & Jody. He says, Fuck them white people 
at work, Man. He was an All-American 
in high school. He's cool, but he don't know 
what I am, & so what. Fred Sanford's on 
in a few & I got the dandruff-free head 
& shoulders of white people & a cheeseburger 
belly & a Thriller CD & Nike high tops 
& slavery's dead & the TV's my daddy-- 
   You big Dummy!
Fred tells Lamont."

Terrance Hayes


----------



## saveliberty

Equality had been won,
no black or white.
In perfect measure
all was shared.
Politics no longer needed,
as fairness governed.
What condition could
arise to cause a fight.

Yet deep within,
uneasiness.
Why did not the gray
and balance leave calm?
No vice or covetness
to display.
We were stripped
of pain and happiness.


----------



## midcan5

'Personals' 	 

"Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth
are small and even. I don't get headaches.
Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench
where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace.
If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas,
I'd meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could
have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft.
Do not lie or lean on me. I'm still trying to find a job
for which a simple machine isn't better suited.
I've seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish
like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs.
Which reminds me of a little known fact:
if we were going the speed of light, this dome
would be shrinking while we were gaining weight.
Isn't the road crooked and steep.
In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I'm not one
among millions who saw Monroe's face
in the moon. I go blank looking at that face.
If I could afford it I'd live in hotels. I won awards
in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago.
Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him
Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there."

C. D. Wright


----------



## midcan5

'When a Woman Loves a Man' 	  

"When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
    is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
    another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
    airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
    she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes."

David Lehman


----------



## midcan5

'A Poem about Intelligence for My Brothers and Sisters'

"A few years back and they told me Black   
means a hole where other folks   
got brain/it was like the cells in the heads   
of Black children was out to every hour on the hour naps   
Scientists called the phenomenon the Notorious   
Jensen Lapse, remember?   
Anyway I was thinking   
about how to devise
a test for the wise
like a Stanford-Binet
for the C.I.A.
you know?
Take Einstein
being the most the unquestionable the outstanding
the maximal mind of the century
right?
And I&#8217;m struggling against this lapse leftover
from my Black childhood to fathom why
anybody should say so:
E=mc squared?
I try that on this old lady live on my block:
She sweeping away Saturday night from the stoop
and mad as can be because some absolute
jackass have left a kingsize mattress where
she have to sweep around it stains and all she
don&#8217;t want to know nothing about in the first place
&#8220;Mrs. Johnson!&#8221; I say, leaning on the gate
between us: &#8220;What you think about somebody come up
with an E equals M C 2?&#8221;
&#8220;How you doin,&#8221; she answer me, sideways, like she don&#8217;t
want to let on she know I ain&#8217;
combed my hair yet and here it is
Sunday morning but still I have the nerve
to be bothering serious work with these crazy
questions about
&#8220;E equals what you say again, dear?&#8221;
Then I tell her, &#8220;Well
also this same guy? I think
he was undisputed Father of the Atom Bomb!&#8221;
&#8220;That right.&#8221; She mumbles or grumbles, not too politely
&#8220;And dint remember to wear socks when he put on
his shoes!&#8221; I add on (getting desperate)
at which point Mrs. Johnson take herself and her broom
a very big step down the stoop away from me
&#8220;And never did nothing for nobody in particular
lessen it was a committee
and
used to say, &#8216;What time is it?&#8217;
and
you&#8217;d say, &#8216;Six o&#8217;clock.&#8217;
and
he&#8217;d say, &#8216;Day or night?&#8217;
and
and he never made nobody a cup a tea
in his whole brilliant life!
and
[my voice rises slightly]
and
he dint never boogie neither: never!&#8221;

&#8220;Well,&#8221; say Mrs. Johnson, &#8220;Well, honey,
I do guess
that&#8217;s genius for you.&#8221;"

June Jordan


----------



## Mr. H.

Don't think I've posted here yet.

Wrote this to my daughter years ago. 

*Sitting in Flowers*

Take your tiny self,
Innocent enough,
From that high shelf.

You&#8217;re so tough,
Where will you go
All by your self.

You grow. 

I see tomorrow,
You filled with sorrow.
Days pass like the hour.

For mother and me,
Time taught us both
What you soon will see.

We, too, grow. 

But for now
You are ours.
Stand yourself still
A few more hours.

Stay as we saw you
One day on the hill,
Sitting in flowers.


----------



## midcan5

'My Daughters Body'

"If you saw her, you would think she was beautiful.
Strangers stop me on the street to say it.

If they talk to her they see that this beauty
Means nothing. Their sight shifts to pigeons

On the sidewalk. Their eye contact becomes
As poor as hers. They slip away slowly,

With varying degrees of grace. I never know
How much to say to explain the heartbreak.

Sometimes, I tell them. More often,
I remain silent. As her smile sears me, I hold

Her hand all the way home from the swings.
The florist hands her a dying rose and she holds it

Gently without ripping the petals like she does
To the tulips that stare at us with their insipid faces,

Pretending that they can hold my sorrow
In their outstretched cups because I knew them

Before I knew grief. They do not understand that
They are ruined for me now. I planted five hundred

Bulbs as she grew inside of me, her brain already
Formed by strands of our damaged DNA

Or something else the doctors dont understand.
After her bath, she curls up on me for lullabies

The only time during the day that her small body is still.
As I sing, I breathe in her shampooed hair and think

Of the skeletons in the Musée de Préhistoire
In Les Eyzies. The bones of the mother and baby

Lie in a glass case in the same position we are
In now. They were buried in that unusual pose,

Child curled up in the crook of the mothers arm.
The archaeologists are puzzled by the position.

It doesnt surprise me at all. It would be so easy
To die this wayboth of us taking our last breaths

With nursery rhymes on our open lips
And the promise of peaceful sleep."

Jennifer Franklin


----------



## midcan5

'Optimism'

"My friend the pessimist thinks I'm an optimist
because I seem to believe in the next good thing.
But I see rueful shadows almost everywhere.
When the sun rises I think of collisions and AK-47s.
It's my mother's fault, who praised and loved me,
sent me into the dreadful world as if
it would tell me a story I'd understand. The fact is
optimism is the enemy of happiness.
I've learned to live for the next good thing
because lifelong friends write good-bye letters,
because regret follows every timidity.
I'm glad I know that all great romances are fleshed
with failure.  I'll take a day of bitterness and rain
to placate the gods, to get it over with.
My mother told me I could be a great pianist
because I had long fingers. My fingers are small.
It's my mother's fault, every undeserved sweetness."

Stephen Dunn


----------



## midcan5

'Mankind Loosed'

"I have died in Viet Nam but I have walked the face of the moon.
I have befouled the waters and tainted the air of a magnificent land but I have made it safe from disease.
I have flown through the sky faster than the sun but I have idled in streets made ugly with traffic.
I have littered the land with garbage but I have built upon it 100 million homes.
I have divided schools with my prejudice but I have sent armies to unite them.
I have beat down my enemies with clubs but I have built courtrooms to keep them free.
I have built a bomb to destroy the world but I have used it to light a light.
I have outraged my brothers in the alleys of the ghettos but I have transplanted a human heart.
I have scribbled out filth and pornography but I have elevated the philosophy of man.
I have watched children starve from my golden towers but I have fed half the earth.
I was raised in a grotesque slum but I am surfeited by the silver spoon of opulence.
I live in the greatest country in the world in the greatest time in history but I scorn the ground I stand upon.
I am ashamed but I am proud. I am an American."

Author Unknown


----------



## midcan5

'Father'

"Laid out on the sidewalk, in a shiny navy suit,
hands folded on his belly-neither dead nor alive.

I pick up a stick thick as a baseball bat,
big enough to whack

an apology out of him. Get up,
I'm taking you to court for child abuse.

Whack. Whack. Whack.
Clouds of dust billow out of him

like that sudden amorphous rising
when you beat an old rug on the clothes line.

remember that Fourth of July you
kicked the dog 27 times at the barbecue

at Minnehaha Falls? What about the time
you took my brother apart in the back yard?

Well, take this, prick. I take out my gramma's
old farm gun, unload it into his groin. No blood

spurts out of the holes, only fumes.
Then that gray residue of fireworks oozes

itself forth. Snakes along the sidewalk.
I walk over to him and bend down close.

Lift his face by the chin. Look at me
when I'm talking to you. His face crumbles,

a puffball disintegrating.
The wind comes up, flings

the fruitful bodies across green fields.

There's nothing left in my hands."

Roseann Lloyd


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

Mmmm, I love poetry.. this is a wonderful place  I adore Rumi.. Here's but a small yet succulent taste of the Master at work:

_Suddenly the drunken sweetheart appeared out of my door.

She drank a cup of ruby wine and sat by my side.

Seeing and holding the lockets of her hair

My face became all eyes, and my eyes all hands.



From Thief of Sleep

by Shahram Shiva_


----------



## midcan5

Another poem song, the old hippie in me still loves Folk. Words make the word go round, now if we could only get all good words.


----------



## FRIKSHUN

My Dad's Pocketknife
He carried it with him every day
Throughout his years of life.
My daddy never left the house
without his pocketknife.
It had a thousand uses,
and he used it every day.
Sharp enough to shave your arm he
tested it that way.
He used it to peel apples,
or pecans, to feed the kids.
He used it to cut fishing lines
or open plastic lids.
When caught out on a camping trip can
opener couldn't be found -
His knife would poke holes in the can top
with a popping sound.
And should you need to borrow it,
he'd loan it with no flak.
But woe unto the one who didn't
give that knife right back.
He may forget clean underwear,
his glasses, or his keys,
he'd lost his wallet several times
and lists of groceries.
He lost his favorite sport coat
at the cleaners for a day.
He even lost the car once
(guess he thought it ran away).
And even with a slew of kids His
own, and others's too -
That knife was in his pocket
when every day was through.
That pocketknife cleaned fingernails,
and sometimes trimmed them too.
It cut holes in dad's fishing hat
so the breeze could whistle through.
Dad's knife cut tape on Christmas gifts,
which saved us time and messes.
It trimmed those "navy pennants"
and cut tags off Easter dresses.
It could, in an emergency
a hammer, or screwdriver be.
He could pick stickers from my hand
that I couldn't even see.
That pocketknife, like Daddy,
could serve a thousand uses.
Just ask his kids about that knife and
the grins that it produces.
My Daddy could do anything,
to hear his family say.
And his knife was just as versatile;
They were alike that way.
When Daddy died at seventy,
He'd pastored fourty years.
And countless folks he'd touched
with his laughter and his tears.
He left six kids, ten grandkids,
and a stubborn minded wife.
And from his pocket, doctors gave
us back his pocketknife.
The only thing of Daddy's
that I kept to be my own
was the pocketknife he carried
and the memories I have known.
Now I carry it in my purse
and use it often, too.
It opens letters quick and neat the
things that knife can do.
And every time I use it,
I picture Daddy there.
And hear him tell me "Keep it sharp
and clean. Treat it with care."
My Daddy was a loving man;
He lead a godly life.
And God used as often
As Dad used that pocketknife.
I pray I'll be as loved someday,
As useful in this life.
I wish I were as versatile
As Daddy's pocketknife.


----------



## FRIKSHUN

To Kill an American

You probably missed it in the rush of news last week, but there was
actually a report that someone in Pakistan had published in a newspaper
an offer of a reward to anyone who killed an American, any American.

So an Australian dentist wrote an editorial the following day to let
everyone know what an American is so they would know when they found
one. (Good one, mate!!!!)

"An American is English, or French, or Italian, Irish, German, Spanish,
Polish, Russian or Greek. An American may also be Canadian, Mexican,
African, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Australian, Iranian, Asian,
or Arab, or Pakistani or Afghan.

An American may also be a Comanche, Cherokee, Osage, Blackfoot, Navaho,
Apache, Seminole or one of the many other tribes known as native
Americans.

An American is Christian, or he could be Jewish, or Buddhist, or Muslim.

In fact, there are more Muslims in America than in Afghanistan. The only difference is! that in America they are free to worship as each of them chooses.

An American is also free to believe in no religion. For that he will
answer only to God, not to the government, or to armed thugs claiming to speak for the government and for God.

An American lives in the most prosperous land in the history of the
world.

The root of that prosperity can be found in the Declaration of
Independence, which recognizes the God given right of each person to the pursuit of happiness.

An American is generous. Americans have helped out just about every
other nation in the world in their time of need, never asking a thing in return.

When Afghanistan was over-run by the Soviet army 20 years ago, Americans
came with arms and supplies to enable the people to win back their
country!

As of the morning of September 11, Americans had given more than any
other nation to the poor in Afghanistan. Americans welcome the best of
everything...the best products, the best books, the best music, the best food, the best services. But they also welcome the least.

The national symbol of America, The Statue of Liberty, welcomes your
tired and your poor, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores, the
homeless, tempest tossed. These in fact are the people who built
America.

Some of them were working in the Twin Towers the morning of September
11, 2001 earning a better life for their families. It's been told that
the World Trade Center victims were from at least 30 different
countries, cultures, and first languages, including those that aided and abetted the terrorists.

So you can try to kill an American if you must. Hitler did. So did
General Tojo, and Stalin, and Mao Tse-Tung, and other blood-thirsty
tyrants in the world. But, in doing so you would just be killing
yourself. Because Americans are not a particular people from a
particular place. They are the embodiment of the human spirit of
freedom. Everyone who holds to that spirit, everywhere, is an American.

http://www.snopes.com/rumors/america2.asp


----------



## midcan5

'Mysterious Neighbors' 

"Country people rise early
as their distant lights testify.
They dont hold water in common. Each house
has a personal source, like a bank account,
a stone vault. Some share eggs,
some share expertise,
and some wont even wave.
A walk for the mail elevates the heart rate.
Last November I saw a woman down the road
walk out to her mailbox dressed in blaze orange
cap to boot, a cautious soul.
Bullets cant read her No Trespassing sign.
Strange to think theyre in the air
like lead bees with a fatal sting.
Our neighbor across the road sits in his kitchen
with his rifle handy and the window open.
You never know when. Once
he shot a trophy with his barrel resting on the sill.
Hes in his seventies, born here, joined the Navy,
came back. Hard work never hurt a man
until suddenly he was another broken tool.
His silhouette against the dawn
droops as though drought-stricken, each step
deliberate, down the driveway to his black mailbox,
prying it open. Checking a trap."

Connie Wanek


----------



## maatsmom843

the gods. . . .

mourning.
i thank the gods for a new chance at life 
but i'm lying 
cause my spirit is broken
i'm constantly crying
for this world is theirs and we're falling like flies
in their webs in our heads 
slay our souls from inside out 
thus we cannot evade their omniscient designs
but if we would only meekly follow they gladly would guide us 
to bliss--Paradis, to drink Heaven's sweet mists
where we'll nevermore see a world evil as this. . . .
they promise us pleasures which delight our senses
and swaddled therein, we divert our attentions
without, are devout, and we live for their glory
penning a most sublime end to their story
to reap the reward for our pious decorum
or
roast in the
eternal flames
of their Hell. . . . . .


----------



## maatsmom843

part II. . . .

sleep now, and take your rest
pay no attention to The Man
behind the curtain
stringing your limbs like a puppet to his whims
as you dance to the bitter melody of his song
make no haste as you wander, secure in your slumber
meandering through the intricate labyrinth
whose ultimate end is your complete consumption
by those powers that be only slightly above
but you would never dare to look about 
or lift your gaze to the heavens. . . .

no, submit to this dream world
created for Us
yield to its intoxicating influence
like the sweetest narcotic
displacing our blood and dulling our vision
lulling our souls to slumber, to bed
like so many infants, soothed by their mother's
gentle rocking, calming us
so that we will never rock the boat
and instead remain safely on board 
indifferent to the tortured souls drowing beneath us
sentenced to a liquid tomb for
the crimes of refusing to drink the sleeping draught
an attempting to rouse us from the abyss of our abysmal slumber


----------



## midcan5

'Reductive'

"In days of caves and communal songs, in days of old,
There was no morphine. The humans brains
Were just as quick and big as in 2010,
But there were no bookstores or even any libraries,
So when a situation came up which seemed new
There was little guidance, only the oral history bullshit.
In unendurable pain from just about anything,
Cancer, diabetes, eye infections, gangrene, hunting bites,
Severed limbs, a widespread deadly arthritis to die from
That hurt more than our arthritis now,
A decayed tooth, all the forms of cancer I should have
Mentioned specifically instead of it generically, since there was no morphine
And no books, they thought about the beginning, the very
Beginning, the person who was in unendurable pain and those bedside
Thought and thought and suspected that if they came up
With the answer, how it all began, they could have a say
In how it was turning out or how it was structured,
And get at the pain that way. They thought (remember,
Their brains were as capable as ours) of the
Big bang and of the it-was-always-here idea
And once thought of the it-would-always-be-here idea
Applying the latter as the non-end of the bang and the non-never-end
Of the always here. None of that helped of
Course. What, did you think Id tell you it helped? Or
That they found out by thinking what the correct answer was?
So they invented morphine and books, took a while. These have solved
A lot of problems, but not the big ones.
I know you suspect they must have had their
Albert Einstein and their Stephen Hawking. Hawking
Has just said yesterday that we are doomed
Unless we go into space far and often. Their Hawking in days of old?
Said the same thing, dont ask me how I know, I know.
Our Einstein said six decades ago that the bees
Better not disappear or we will disappear four years from then. He
Maintained it was his most important discovery (ok,
So he didnt think it was the most important, so what) and now
Half of the bees disappeared last year, no shit. Their Einstein
In days of old said the same thing about the bees, but
He studied nothing else, was not a mathematician or physicist, just
The bees, which were all around him, as were the plants. (Do
You really want to ask me how I know, come on, use
Your common sense, its not in the books and it is in the books.) Also
The artist is the main figure in the landscape
No matter the year and thats me. Think of it
That way and see if it doesnt make you feel better."

Arthur Vogelsang


----------



## midcan5

'The Aunts' 

"I like it when they get together
and talk in voices that sound
like apple trees and grape vines,

and some of them wear hats
and go to Arizona in the winter,
and they all like to play cards.

They will always be the ones
who say It is time to go now,
even as we linger at the door,

or stand by the waiting cars, they
remember someonean uncle we
never knewand sigh, all

of them together, like wind
in the oak trees behind the farm
where they grew upa place

I rememberespecially
the hen house and the soft
clucking that filled the sunlit yard."

Joyce Sutphen


----------



## midcan5

Not exactly a poem, something I wrote long ago, must have been reading Beckett at the time. 

Time

Did you say something?  Yes, I was talking to you, didn't you hear me?  No, what was it you said?  Nothing important, actually I think I'll start now.  Huh?  Start talking now, what I said is in the past, don't you agree?  That is true, go on.  Yes, go on, that is true too, we always go on, there is no stopping the thing is there? What thing? Life, it goes on and on, we grow old, my bones, how they ache.  Is that what you wanted to talk about? No, not at all, funny isn't it, time has moved this whole time we have been talking.  Yes, how true, once again you have caught on to something, go on. Yes, there's no stopping it, do you remember when you were a child? Vaguely, I remember wanting to grow up, that's my only memory of that time.  Up, yes, isn't it funny how words stand in for time? Up, our future. Yes, you're right, but now we are up as you put it so well, what is left? Or right. Oh right, direction again, but time you can't move in time can we? It has control. Yes, most certainly time is all there is. An odd thought, what do you mean? Mean, meaning has nothing to do with it, we are caught, you and I, caught by our birth to exist in time, no way to get around it, no way to deceive it. Suppose we break all clocks to revenge this fate? No, that would hardly do, clocks only stand in for time, time itself is nowhere or maybe everywhere. It is god then. Yes, one could say that. Shouldn't we then worship it? What good would that do, like all gods it never listens. I will shout then 'time'...'time'... Listens. No answer. See, I told you so. Maybe we should offer some sacrifice? No, that would not do either. Does time ever listen? No, never. You are certain of that, huh? Yes, certain. Why? I have watched man try for ages to get his attention, but never a word or sign he hears. A he huh? Who knows. Never a word? Yes, never, but don't you see this is all imaginary, we have made it up, you and I, only to occupy time. That is true, go on. Yes, I will, isn't this enjoyable, this passing of time? But is that all there is? Starts singing, 'is that all there is'... funny, but look it is getting dark, night is coming, see it is working. What is working? This passing of time. I am growing tired. Not up? No, only tired. Me too, it is fun this passing of time. Isn't it, good night. Good night. Tomorrow's another day. Another time. Another day to pass time. I am beginning to enjoy time. See you tomorrow. I can hardly wait. Maybe then we will get a chance to talk. Will it be like today? Yes, of course, just like today.


----------



## midcan5

'Last Night We Saw South Pacific' 	 

"I wake to see a cardinal in our white
          crape myrtle. My eye aches. Bees celebrate
morning come with their dynamo-hum
                    around a froth of bloom.

Though presently its paradise for the bees,
          noon will reach ninety-nine degrees.
Le vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd hui *
                    will stultify hope in ennui.

I watched Raging Planet on TV.
          Earths orbit around the sun appears
to alter every hundred thousand years.
                    Each thirty million years,

mass extinctions attend Earths
          traverse of the galactic plane.
The asteroid rain that cratered the moon
                    returns, brings species deaths.

In the Hudson Bay region of Quebec,
          the Laurentide ice sheet
only a geological eye-blink
                    ago lay two miles thick.

Disasters preceded us, like violent parents.
          Pangaeas fragmenting land mass
drowned origins like lost Atlantis:
                    an enigma for consciousness.

These continents will re-collide
          in their rock-bending tectonic dance,
as once before Tyrannosaurus died.
                    So change continues by chance,

as if meaninglessgranite to sand,
          sand to sandstone, sandstone to sand.
In five billion years, the sun will expand,
                    to Venus and Mars, then end

planet Earth. The hydrangea blooms
          its dry blue, burns a brown lavender.
Earth whirls in space and August comes
                    this slanted light my calendar.

As I water the pink phlox, I wonder
          what use there is for a world of matter
why the universe exploding into being invents
                    night and star-incandesence?

We are the part of it that feels it,
          thinks it, seeing this time in its slant
on bloom with our physical brains that
                    change it as they sense it.

We become. We hum a story as tune,
          in sonata form that runes this sphinx-
riddle sequence as notes that the pharynx
                    fluctuates, to mean.

So This Nearly Was Mine assuages,
          braced against old loss and war.
Emile de Becque sounds rich with knowledge
                    of children and love, before."

James Applewhite 


* 'The virgin, vivid and beautiful today'
Mallarme's Le vierge


----------



## midcan5

'Home Again, Home Again' 

"The children are back, the children are back
Theyve come to take refuge, exhale and unpack;
The marriage has faltered, the job has gone bad,
Come open the door for them, Mother and Dad.

The city apartment is leaky and cold,
The landlord lascivious, greedy and old
The mattress is lumpy, the ovens encrusted,
The freezer, the fan, and the toilet have rusted.

The company caved, the boss went broke,
The job and the love affair, all up in smoke.
The anguish of loneliness comes as a shock
O heart in the doldrums, O heart in hock.

And so they return with their piles of possessions,
Their terrified cats and their mournful expressions,
Reclaiming the bedrooms they had in their teens,
Clean towels, warm comforter, glass figurines.

Downstairs in the kitchen the father and mother
Dont say a word, but they look at each other
As down from the hill comes Jill, comes Jack.
The children are back. The children are back."

Marilyn L. Taylor

Poet Laureate of Wisconsin, Oh, the irony!


----------



## midcan5

'In View of the Fact' 	 

"The people of my time are passing away: my
wife is baking for a funeral, a 60-year-old who

died suddenly, when the phone rings, and it's
Ruth we care so much about in intensive care:

it was once weddings that came so thick and
fast, and then, first babies, such a hullabaloo:

now, it's this that and the other and somebody
else gone or on the brink: well, we never

thought we would live forever (although we did)
and now it looks like we won't: some of us

are losing a leg to diabetes, some don't know
what they went downstairs for, some know that

a hired watchful person is around, some like
to touch the cane tip into something steady,

so nice: we have already lost so many,
brushed the loss of ourselves ourselves: our

address books for so long a slow scramble now
are palimpsests, scribbles and scratches: our

index cards for Christmases, birthdays,
Halloweens drop clean away into sympathies:

at the same time we are getting used to so
many leaving, we are hanging on with a grip

to the ones left: we are not giving up on the
congestive heart failure or brain tumors, on

the nice old men left in empty houses or on
the widows who decide to travel a lot: we

think the sun may shine someday when we'll
drink wine together and think of what used to

be: until we die we will remember every
single thing, recall every word, love every

loss: then we will, as we must, leave it to
others to love, love that can grow brighter

and deeper till the very end, gaining strength
and getting more precious all the way. . . ."

A. R. Ammons


----------



## midcan5

'Life Cycle of Common Man' 

"Roughly figured, this man of moderate habits,
This average consumer of the middle class, 
Consumed in the course of his average life span 
Just under half a million cigarettes, 
Four thousand fifths of gin and about 
A quarter as much vermouth; he drank 
Maybe a hundred thousand cups of coffee, 
And counting his parents' share it cost 
Something like half a million dollars 
To put him through life. How many beasts 
Died to provide him with meat, belt and shoes 
Cannot be certainly said. 

			But anyhow, 
It is in this way that a man travels through time,
Leaving behind him a lengthening trail 
Of empty bottles and bones, of broken shoes, 
Frayed collars and worn out or outgrown 
Diapers and dinnerjackets, silk ties and slickers. 

Given the energy and security thus achieved, 
He did....? What? The usual things, of course, 
The eating, dreaming, drinking and begetting, 
And he worked for the money which was to pay 
For the eating, et cetera, which were necessary 
If he were to go on working for the money, et cetera, 
But chiefly he talked. As the bottles and bones 
Accumulated behind him, the words proceeded 
Steadily from the front of his face as he 
Advanced into the silence and made it verbal. 
who can tally the tale of his words? A lifetime 
Would barely suffice for their repetition: 
If you merely printed all his commas the result 
Would be a very large volume, and the number of times
He said "thank you" or "very little sugar, please," 
Would stagger the imagination. There were also 
Witticisms, platitudes, and statements beginning 
"It seems to me" or "As I always say." 
Consider the courage in all that, and behold the man 
Walking into deep silence, with the ectoplastic 
Cartoon's balloon of speech proceeding 
Steadily out of the front of his face, the words 
Borne along on the breath which is his spirit 
Telling the numberless tale of his untold Word 
Which makes the world his apple, and forces him to eat." 

Howard Nemerov


----------



## midcan5

Another change of pace, any Wallace fans out there?  He can beat you up with words but they are often poetic.


----------



## midcan5

'A World Without Picasso's Guernica'

"At the United Nations, blue drapes sheath
a tapestry rendition of Guernica, so speakers can paint
other dreams.  People need to forget the screams
sewn and airedso killing machines can work again.

Who expunged Guernica from the U.N.?
And then, did U.N. walls tremble
down to their foundation in the blood flood
of the colliding twentieth century?

       Is a distended Hitler laughing somewhere
       as phantom Luftwaffen blitzkrieg
       toward a blue-green sunset?

On February 5, 2003, Colin Powell pontificated
from a blue stage
about the rights of man to enforce the law
that triggers war.

Yesterday, today, or tomorrow;
bombs drop and discombobulated body parts
hurl through the air, and brown limbs
burst off horses
and spin past a still-standing bystander,
dumbstruck and still looking,
as infernos smoke and buildings crumble."

Gregg Mosson


----------



## midcan5

'The Romance of Middle Age' 

"Now that Im fifty, let me take my showers 
at night, no light, eyes closed. And let me swim 
in cover-ups. My skins tattooed with hours 
and days and decades, head to foot, and slim 
is just a faded photograph. Its strange 
how people look away who once would look. 
I didnt know Id undergo this change 
and be the unseen cover of a book 
whose plot, though swift, just keeps on getting thicker. 
One reaches for the pleasures of the mind 
and heart to counteract the loss of quicker 
knowledge. One feels old urgencies unwind, 
although I still pluck chin hairs with a tweezer, 
in case I might attract another geezer."

Mary Meriam


----------



## midcan5

'Brief Eden'

"For part of one strange year we lived
in a small house at the edge of a wood.
No neighbors, which suited us. Nobody
to ask questions. Except
for the one big question we went on
asking ourselves.
                         That spring
myriads of birds stopped over
briefly. Birds wed never seen before, drawn
to our leafy quiet and our brook and because,
as we later learned, the place lay beneath
a flyway. Flocks appeared overnightbirds
brilliant or dull, with sharp beaks
or crossed bills, birds small
and enormous, all of them pausing
to gorge at the feeder, to rest their wings,
and disappear. Each flock seemed surer than we
of a destination. By the time wed watched them
wing north in spring, then make
an anxious autumn return,
we too had pulled it together and we too moved
into what seemed to be our lives."

Beebe Hayna


----------



## midcan5

'Barking'

"The moon comes up.
The moon goes down.
This is to inform you
that I didnt die young.
Age swept past me
but I caught up.
Spring has begun here and each day
brings new birds up from Mexico.
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now theres no chain."

Jim Harrison

(post #330 in this thread, definitely have a Poetry book here. lol)


----------



## avos

*
Touched by An Angel*
by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.


----------



## midcan5

'Calmly We Walk through This Aprils Day'

"Calmly we walk through this Aprils day,   
Metropolitan poetry here and there,   
In the park sit pauper and rentier,   
The screaming children, the motor-car   
Fugitive about us, running away,   
Between the worker and the millionaire   
Number provides all distances,   
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,   
Many great dears are taken away,   
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn ...)   
Besides the photo and the memory?
(... that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn ...)   
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days   
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run   
(This is the school in which they learn ...)   
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(... that time is the fire in which they burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,   
But what they were then?
                                     No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,   
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)   
But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,   
The great globe reels in the solar fire,   
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)   
What am I now that I was then?   
May memory restore again and again   
The smallest color of the smallest day:   
Time is the school in which we learn,   
Time is the fire in which we burn."

Delmore Schwartz


----------



## midcan5

'Road Report'

"Driving west through sandstones
red arenas, a rodeo of slow erosion
cleaves these plains, these ravaged cliffs.
This is cowboy country. Desolate. Dull. Except
on weekends, when cafés bloom like cactus
after drought. My rented Mustang bucks
the windIm strapped up, wide-eyed,
busting speed with both heels, a sure grip
on the wheel. Black clouds maneuver
in the distance, but I dont care. Mileage
is my obsession. Im always racing off,
passing through, as though the present
were a dying town Id rather flee.
What matters is the future, its glittering
Hotel. Clouds loom closer, big as Brahmas
in the heavy air. The radio crackles
like a shattered rib. Im in the chute.
I check the gas and set my jaw. Im almost there."

Kurt Brown


----------



## midcan5

'Extenuating Circumstances'

"I don't know how fast I was going
but, even so, that's still
 an intriguing question, officer,
 and deserves a thoughtful response.
 With the radio unfurling
 Beethoven's Ode to Joy, you might
 consider anything under 80 sacrilege.
 Particularly on a parkway as lovely
 as the one you're fortunate enough 
 to patrol and patrol so diligently.
 A loveliness that, if observed
 at an appropriate rate of speed,
 affords the kind of pleasure
 which is in itself a reminder
 of how civilization depends
 on an assurance of order and measure,
 and the devotion of someone
 like yourself to help maintain it.
 Yes, man the measurer!
 The incorrigible measurer.
 And admirably precise measurements
 they are Not, of course, as an end
 in themselves but, lest we 
 forget, a means to propel
 us into the immeasurable,
 where it would be anybody's guess 
 how fast the west wind was blowing 
 when it strummed a rainbow
 and gave birth to Eros.
 If we accept that a parkway
 is a work of art, the faster 
 we go the greater the tribute
 to its power of inspiration,
 a lyrical propulsion that approaches 
 the spiritual and tempts demands
 the more intrepid of us 
 to take it from there.
 That sense of the illimitable, 
 when we feel we are more the glory
 than the jest or riddle of the world
 that's what kicked in, albeit
 briefly, as I approached
 the Croton Reservoir Bridge.
 And on a night like this, starlight
 reignited above a snowfall's last
 flurry, cockeyed headlights scanning 
 the girders overhead, eggshell
 snowcrust flying off the hood,
 hatching me on the wing,
 like a song breaking through prose,
 the kind I usually sing
 through my nose:

So much to love,
 A bit less to scorn
 What have I done?
 To what end was I born?
 To teach and delight.
 Delight . . . or offend.
 Luck's been no lady,
 Truth a sneaky friend.

 Got the heater on full blast,
 Window jammed down,
 Odometer busted,
 Speedometer dead wrong:
 Can't tell how fast I'm going,
 Don't care how far I've gone."

Paul Violi


----------



## midcan5

'Doubting Thomas'

"Call me Infidel, or just call me Tom.
Call me handsome, call me cold, call me bitter, call me cad

call me No-Better-Than-Judas-Iscariot
call me bachelor, call me saint, call me numb.

I was abused, I was married, I took pills, I was left,
I was in love, I was a liar, I was a drunk, I was in debt,

I wrote a book, I had some fame, then I was dead,
til I was saved, I slept around, I was too young, I was bereft.

You are good, you are beautiful, you are kind, you forgive,
you are loving, you are smart, youre adored and you are brave.

Theres no one else. It isnt you. Im circumspect. Im full of doubt.
It wouldnt work. Were not alike. I dont know what I want.

Call me weak, call me ingrate, call me once bitten, twice shy.
Call me anything, but please dont say I make you want to die."

Kathryn Maris


----------



## midcan5

'A Hundred Bolts of Satin'

"All you
have to lose
is one
connection
and the mind   
uncouples
all the way back.   
It seems
to have been
a train.
There seems
to have been
a track.
The things
that you
unpack
from the
abandoned cars   
cannot sustain   
life: a crate of   
tractor axles,   
for example,
a dozen dozen   
clasp knives,   
a hundred   
bolts of satin
perhaps you   
specialized   
more than   
you imagined."

Kay Ryan


----------



## midcan5

'Finish These Sentences'

"The qualities I look for in a subordinate are

 A situation in which humor might be most unwelcome is

 After considering which is better, to be wealthy or wise

 My greatest sense of personal fulfillment depends on

 Its one thing to champion a sticky empiricism
 But its another altogether different thing to

 I think of myself as a caring professional who as the days
 And nights tumble by like woozy pandas trying to achieve
 A position conducive to procreation

 She had an accent that turned eyes to ice, heart
 to hard, and transubstantiation to

 From the bloody throats of those dull-colored birds
 That scream at the sun,

 As a patch of grass and wildflowers where lovers lay
 Begins to revive, so too my mind once oppressed by joy


 In that one moment when they begin to flap
 Frantically in their doomed arc, the great books I fling
 Off a high balcony almost

 A complete individual is one who

 Now there are hands, lovely hands that have played
 Rare instruments in the dark and thrown
 Many a burning basket into the wind, and there are eyes

 I like to think my superiors value my ability to

 It is easy for me first thing in the morning to scoff
 At questions like how many angels can dance on a pinhead,
 But such figments, especially when immersed in paradox,
 Oxymora and the like, dont seem so frivolous when we
 Recollect the most intense and memorable experiences of our
 Lives, experiences that in one moment produce a state of
 Devastating superflux, of many simultaneous, powerful and
 Distinct if not contradictory feelings, that when captured
 In words not only allow the closest thing to prayer that the
 Faithless can rely on for solace, but also remind us how
 Figurative speech provides a refined atavistic satisfaction,
 Especially evident in the way deeply imagined metaphor by
 Enlivening objects reawakens the residual susceptibility
 Of the primitive, superstitious mind to fetishism and "

Paul Violi


----------



## freedombecki

ode to yellowstone park

o'er northwest tannish cliffs of old
yon amber sawtooth, yea behold
bubbling spirits boil't on high
escaping earth to seek the sky
making groves of aspens shake
quiv'ring till their shadows quake
bighorns scale orthog'nal walls
enigmas spritz the bride's veil falls
aspiring spruce and lowly sage
turn many a man's soul-weary page
reviving sons and daughters fair
inhaling bracing mountain air
to view the witch's cauldron bowl
we might know need for saving soul
and speaking thus of gratefulness
we mustn't swim old faithfulness
yet we might try two-ocean lake
averting bears with cow bell shake
avoid the bison cute and sweet
or you could quick thy maker meet
and moose abuse will get you grief
stay in the car, to make it brief
mosquitoes there have brutal stakes
as potent as the oil of snakes
yet cool and sleek jenny lake lays
below the peaks where sweet fawn plays
ah, yellowstone thy greatest worth
where tetons tower o'er the earth
is in refreshing, fragrant plant
and awesomeness as geysers rant
04.20.11​


----------



## midcan5

'A Ball Rolls on a Point'

"The whole ball
of who we are
presses into
the green baize
at a single tiny
spot. An aural
track of crackle
betrays our passage
through the
fibrous jungle.
Its hot and
desperate. Insects
spring out of it.
The pressure is
intense, and the
sense that weve
lost proportion.
As though bringing
too much to bear
too locally were
our decision."

Kay Ryan


----------



## freedombecki

sonnet on glacier blue

the glacier cup when held to light doth please
its maker who so honored lake louise
o color blue as my beloved's eye
much truer than the transcendental sky

sweet ringing from a quick flicked fingernail
the azure goblet chimes her dulcet knell
to drink the purest water from high spring
is quaffing goodness garret warblers sing

the mountains climbed by nimble-footed sheep
adorn the cliffs of dreams filling my sleep
by day the sun gleams on new-fallen snow
at night the starlight brings my heart in tow
which swells on thought of vision of my love
for crystal aqua heavens up above

09.14.07​


----------



## midcan5

'I am'

"I am a daughter and a sister.
I wonder when I will die.
I hear the warm weather coming.
I see stars in the day.
I want to learn my whole ballet dance.
I am a daughter and a sister.

I pretend to be a teacher at home.
I feel like I am a teacher.
I touch hands that are growing.
I worry that I will never change.
I cry when something or someone dies.
I am a daughter and a sister.

I understand that teachers work hard for students.
I say that I dont like bullies.
I dream about me not moving while trying really hard to run.
I try to become a good friend.
I hope that there is no more dying or killing.
I am a daughter and a sister."

Ava Schicke 

(Eight-year-old Ava Schicke, who lives in Omaha, Nebraska, tells us just who she is and what she thinks.)


----------



## midcan5

'Mama, Come Back' 	 

"Mama, come back.
Why did you leave
now that I am learning you?
The landlady next door
how she apologizes
for my rough brown skin
to her tenant from Hong Kong
as if I were her daughter,
as if she were you.

How do I say I miss you
your scolding
your presence
your roast loin of pork
more succulent, more tender
than any hotel chef's?

The fur coat you wanted 
making you look like a polar bear
and the mink-trimmed coat
I once surprised you
on Christmas morning.

Mama, how you said "importment"
for important,
your gold tooth flashing
an insecurity you dared not bare,
wanting recognition
simply as eating noodles
and riding in a motor car
to the supermarket
the movie theater
adorned in your gold and jade
as if all your jewelry
confirmed your identity
a Chinese woman in America.

How you said "you better"
always your last words
glazed through your dark eyes
following me fast as you could
one November evening in New York City
how I thought "Hello, Dolly!"
showed you an America 
you never saw.

How your fear of being alone
kept me dutiful in body
resentful in mind.
How my fear of being single
kept me
from moving out.

How I begged your forgiveness
after that one big fight
how I wasn't wrong
but needed you to love me
as warmly as you hugged strangers."

Nellie Wong


----------



## midcan5

'Facing It'	  

"My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears. 
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's 
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair."

Yusef Komunyakaa


----------



## freedombecki

expatiating thunder rips heaven
terrifying craven soul like leaven
sentinel of earth defeating drought plain
bringing desert bare benevolent rain
roaring, shaking rattle of sky's marrow
thrown behind the lightning's blinding arrow
plangent drums routing solace throughout town
filling park and alley with surround sound
wise men run for cover from the deluge
wasting nothing till they find a refuge 
sycophant of dissonance tags along
demanding swift justice for ev'ry wrong
pretending the earth should e'er be mellow
can you say he is a naive fellow
whether you prefer to saunter or rush
thor's cacophony retreats and leaves hush
earth in quietude may ever respond
thor reciprocates by filling fish pond
05.12.11​


----------



## midcan5

Whatever happened to Fire Flies?  We used to see them everywhere. 


'A Beautiful Thing'

"Don't you remember that snowy December when we went to see "Singing in the Rain"? I shouldn't have smuggled in that bottle of gin because after the film, I could barely walk. But, darling don't you know it's only human to want to kill a beautiful thing. When I was seven summer lasted forever. I used to chase fire flies through the woods. Tiny green lights circling warm August nights. I'd catch them inside a washed-out old jar. I dreamed of the stars with the jar by my bed, but each morning my pretty bugs were dead. We should have been dancing like lovers in a movie, but I fell and cut my head in the snow. I wanted to tell you all the ways that I loved you but, instead I got sick on the train."

Rennie Sparks


----------



## midcan5

'Friends' Photos'

"We all looked like goddesses 
and gods, glowing and smooth, sheathed
from head to foot by a golden essence
that glistened and refracted its aura 
of power - the wonderful ichor called youth. 

We moved as easily as dolphins
surging out of the ocean, cleaving
massed tons of transparent water
streaming away in swathes of bubbling
silver like the plasm of life. 

Still potent from those black and white
photos, the palpable electric 
charge between us, like the negative
and positive poles of a battery,
or the fingers of Adam and God. 

We were beautiful, without exception.
I could hardly bear to look at those
old albums, to see the lost glamour
we never noticed when we were
first together - when we were young." 

Ruth Fainlight


----------



## freedombecki

i
saw
today
a hundred
cattle egrets
of African descent
pondering my afternoon clearing
of weeds
on the fence line
at the neighbor's woods.
they well knew what i was doing
they knew fires were raging across the friendship state
they knew i was preventing our house, pond, buildings and fields
from any fires that could start here tomorrow
the caution danger level has been declared "extreme"
if the mowed fire line helps stop embers from falling to one of our trees
we will have safety
but if the winds blow hot and harshly
a fire could roar past my feeble efforts
but the cattle egrets knew what was on my mind
maybe their flights presented them the facts of a million scorched acres
they knew and they didn't fly away like they usually do when they hear
the drumming of a riding mower for four consecutive hours
i thought of my stellar morning sewing sturdy quilted pillows for nursing home residents who need support
not
even
aware
of egrets​
04.22.11


----------



## freedombecki

o dearest kindred carry me
whene'er i die to lone prairie
remote and wild where wind blows free
as i find cheer in reverie

sometimes when feeling so alone
i discoursed god on direct phone
no one else could soften moan
or comfort fibro's constant bone

wandering's best away from fence
ah thinking thus should soften sense
remains rising in spite of rain
the here and now fracas of pain

too often crying from my bed
when hurt was thought to be in head
at least out there, the answers be
where freedom stays the last of me​


----------



## midcan5

'Robin In Flight'

"Lets imagine for a second that the robin
is not a contained entity moving at speed
through space, but that it is a living change,
unmaking and remaking itself over and over
by sheer unconscious will, and that
if we were to slow down the film enough
we would see a flying ball of chaos,
flicking particles like Othello counters,
air turning to beak in front just as tail transforms to air behind,
a living being flinging its changes at a still universe.

This would require infinite alignments. Each molecule
privy to the code of its possible settings,
the capacity of a blade of grass to become
the shadow of a falling apple by pure force
of the trees instinct. Every speck of world with the potential
to become stone, dogs breath, light twisted through glass,
filth under fingernails, the skins bend at the bullets
nudge the moment before impact,
the thought of a robin in flight,
the thought of the thought of a robin in flight."

Paul Adrian


----------



## midcan5

'How You Know'

"How do you know if its love? she asks,
and I think if you have to ask, its not,
but I know this wont help. I want to say
youre too young to worry about it,
as if she has questions about Medicare
or social security, but this wont help either.
Youll just know is a lie, and one truth,
when you still want to be with them
the next morning, would involve too
many follow-up questions. The difficulty
with love, I want to say, is sometimes
you only know afterwards that its arrived
or left. Love is the elephant and we
are the blind mice unable to understand
the whole. I want to say love is this
desire to help even when I know I cant,
just as I couldnt explain electricity, stars,
the color of the sky, baldness, tornadoes,
fingernails, coconuts, or the other things
she has asked about over the years, all
those phenomena whose daily existence
seems miraculous. Instead I shake my head.
I dont even know how to match my socks.
Go ask your mother. She laughs and says,
I did. Mom told me to come and ask you."

Joe Mills


----------



## midcan5

I still remember mom, who is dying, ironing our white shirts for hours because catholic school is where we had to go. She would sprinkle water on them and pull them one by one from her basket.  


'Ironing After Midnight'

"Your mother called it
"doing the pressing,"
and you know now
how right she was.
There is something urgent here.
Not even the hiss
under each button
or the yellow business
ground in at the neck
can make one instant
of this work seem unimportant.
You've been taught
to turn the pocket corners
and pick out the dark lint
that collects there.
You're tempted to leave it,
but the old lessons
go deeper than habits.
Everyone else is asleep.
The odor of sweat rises
when you do
under the armpits,
the owner's particular smell
you can never quite wash out.
You'll stay up.
You'll have your way,
the final stroke
and sharpness
down the long sleeves,
a truly permanent edge."

Marsha Truman Cooper


----------



## smokin_kat

midcan5 said:


> 'How You Know'
> 
> "How do you know if its love? she asks,
> and I think if you have to ask, its not,
> but I know this wont help. I want to say
> youre too young to worry about it,
> as if she has questions about Medicare
> or social security, but this wont help either.
> Youll just know is a lie, and one truth,
> when you still want to be with them
> the next morning, would involve too
> many follow-up questions. The difficulty
> with love, I want to say, is sometimes
> you only know afterwards that its arrived
> or left. Love is the elephant and we
> are the blind mice unable to understand
> the whole. I want to say love is this
> desire to help even when I know I cant,
> just as I couldnt explain electricity, stars,
> the color of the sky, baldness, tornadoes,
> fingernails, coconuts, or the other things
> she has asked about over the years, all
> those phenomena whose daily existence
> seems miraculous. Instead I shake my head.
> I dont even know how to match my socks.
> Go ask your mother. She laughs and says,
> I did. Mom told me to come and ask you."
> 
> Joe Mills




This is fantastic.  I love it.


----------



## midcan5

'Childhood'

"In my aquarium the fish went round
and roundkissing fish and clown fish
and one very blue fish with a mouth grimmer
than Grandfather, whom we could offend
without knowing. Then no amount of running
next door to beg through the locked screen,
what did I do? would help. No amount of
saying sorry, stammering on the first
snakelike S sizzling into frayed rope.

No amount of whistling to our dog Ruff
would make him stay and not race across fields
as if running were breathing to him.
But we wanted to fondle and smooch,
to throw sticks for him to fetch right back.
We chained him up because we loved him.
Grandfather must have felt this way about
whatever was inside his head he never let out,
his long list of reasons to be bitter,

that gene he fattened and passed on
to three generations, which probably was
passed on to him, locked midway in the chain,
since his own father caught an infection
from a horse and died just days after
conceiving him. Plant matter to coal, coal
to diamondthings pressed down long enough
turn hard, then somebody finds them precious
and snarls or hisses when you get close.

I really thought if I stood outside and stared
till I saw the exact moment the streetlight
came on, my dog would speak, my fish would
let me hold his golden fin-flutter to my lips,
and my own dead father would step out from
the vanishing point at the end of our street.
It was winter, so what I got was frostbite
and a weeping mother bathing my hands
in pans of cool water. But what if

we could reel through our memories
to the exact moment before the salt
went into the wound, that moment of pure
perception before the hardening began?
Leaning from her arms to hand an apple
to a horses brown teeth and velvet nose,
laughing at its warm breathLittle Miracle
my grandfather was then, child number ten,
birthed out of his mothers long black clothes."

Betsy Sholl


----------



## midcan5

'Cheerful Defense of the Realm'

"Once I used to be and desperately wanted,
but in the beginning I wondered,
though once upon a time I secretly knew.
At first I declared; then I believed.
After a while I noticed, but not enough.
In the end I still wanted. In the middle
I was lost, very lost. In the meantime
I complained. As a general rule I felt.

When it was over, I gently explained
how I had guessed according to the stars.
Apropos of nothing I apologize.
With hindsight I throw up my hands in praise.
Under the circumstances, Ill take another.
Given a second chance, Id choose the blue."

Helen Wickes


----------



## midcan5

'Memorial Day for the War Dead'	  

"Memorial day for the war dead.  Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you.  Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.

Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.

Memorial day.  Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.

The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.

A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.

A great and royal animal is dying 
all through the night under the jasmine 
tree with a constant stare at the world.

A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."

Yehuda Amichai


Disabled American Veterans


----------



## SFC Ollie

In Honor of Memorial Day




In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


----------



## midcan5

'Memorial Day' 

"M is for mothers who sent their children off to war 
E is for the everlasting gift of freedom 
M is for the mums that decorate the graves of the soldiers 
O is for the old men that are veterans
[R is for a time of reflection] 
I is for the island off Hawaii where the Japanese bombed Pearl harbor 
A is for America, the home of the brave 
L is for the land of the free."

Anna, 3rd Grader, Academy Elementary School, Madison, Connecticut


Memorial Day History


----------



## freedombecki

Need a place to post this verse, which I memorized in or around the 7th grade but have since have mostly forgotten:

Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (18381915). Yale Book of American Verse.  1912.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 18071882

59. The Village Blacksmith

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree	 
  The village smithy stands;	 
The smith, a mighty man is he,	 
  With large and sinewy hands;	 
And the muscles of his brawny arms	         
  Are strong as iron bands.	 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,	 
  His face is like the tan;	 
His brow is wet with honest sweat,	 
  He earns whate'er he can,	  
And looks the whole world in the face,	 
  For he owes not any man.	 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,	 
  You can hear his bellows blow;	 
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
  With measured beat and slow,	 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,	 
  When the evening sun is low.	 

And children coming home from school	 
  Look in at the open door;	  
They love to see the flaming forge,	 
  And hear the bellows roar,	 
And watch the burning sparks that fly	 
  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.	 

He goes on Sunday to the church,	  
  And sits among his boys;	 
He hears the parson pray and preach,	 
  He hears his daughter's voice,	 
Singing in the village choir,	 
  And it makes his heart rejoice.	  

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,	 
  Singing in Paradise!	 
He needs must think of her once more,	 
  How in the grave she lies;	 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes	  
  A tear out of his eyes.	 

Toiling,rejoicing,sorrowing,	 
  Onward through life he goes;	 
Each morning sees some task begin,	 
  Each evening sees it close;	  
Something attempted, something done,	 
  Has earned a night's repose.	 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,	 
  For the lesson thou hast taught!	 
Thus at the flaming forge of life	  
  Our fortunes must be wrought;	 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped	 
  Each burning deed and thought!​


----------



## midcan5

'Man of the Year' 	 

"My father tells the story of his life

and he repeats The most important thing:
          to love your work.
I always loved my work. I was a lucky man.

This man who makes up half of who I am,
         this blusterer
who tricked the rich, outsmarting smarter men,

gave up his Army life insurance plan
          (not thinking of the future
wife and kids) and brokered deals with two-faced

rats who disappeared his cash but later overpaid
         for building sites.
In every tale my father plays outlaw, a Robin Hood

for whom I'm named, a type of yeoman
         refused admission
into certain clubs. For years he joined no guild

no Drapers, Goldsmiths, Skinners, Merchant
         Tailors, Salters, Vintners
but lived on prescience and cleverness.

He was the self-inventing Polish immigrant's
         Son, transformed
By American tools into Errol Flynn.

As he speaks, I remember the phone calls
         during meals
an old woman dead in apartment two-twelve

or burst pipes and water flooding rooms.
         Hatless,
he left the house and my mother's face

assumed the permanent worry she wore,
         forced to watch him
gamble the future of the semi-detached house,

our college funds, and his weekly payroll.
         Manorial halls
of Philadelphia his Nottingham,

my father fashioned his fraternity
         without patronage
or royal charters but a mercantile

swagger, finding his Little John, Tinker,
         and Allen-a-Dale.
Wholesalers, retailers, in time they resembled

the men they set themselves against.
         Each year they roast and toast
one member, a remnant of the Grocer's Feast

held on St. Anthony's Day, when brothers
         communed and dined
on swan, capon, partridges, and wine.

They commission a coat of arms, a song,
         and honor my father
exemplary, self-made, without debt

as Man of the Year, a title he reveres
          for the distinguished
peerage he joins, the lineage of merry men."

Robin Becker


----------



## midcan5

'Silent Manners'

"Before you invest in a book on manners,
Better make sure it contains a chapter
On keeping silent, one to remind you,
When you pull off on the shoulder
Of a country road to ask directions,
Not to ask the elderly man in overalls,
Who crosses the field to greet you,
Why he isn't wearing a hat on a day so sunny.
If the sun has deepened the ruts in his face,
It's too late now to stop it, the chapter reasons,
And why remind him how much he's aged?

And if you notice blood-vessel cobwebs
Beneath his eyesfor you a sure sign of drinking
Over many yearsthe same chapter will warn you
Not to suggest, however gently, that help
Is available if he wants to stop. Who knows
What escape you might have tried
If you'd had his worries:
The flooding and drought and heavy mortgage,
The doctor's bills he'll never see the end of.

Already you owe him something for the reticence
That keeps him from asking, when you tell him
You're on your way to visit an old friend,
Why you've come so seldom you can't recall
If you're anywhere near the turnoff.
"You can't miss it," he simply says, 
"Three miles straight ahead at the stand of sweet gum," 
And when your doubtful look suggests
You can't tell a sweet-gum tree from a hemlock,
He fishes a pencil out of his bib pocket
And sketches its shape so deftly
You're certain you'd know it anywhere,

So deftly you'll need to resist the urge to ask
If he ever considered a career in art.
If he didn't, it's too late now to begin. If he did,
But then decided against it, why finger that wound?
Keep silent and show how grateful you are
For his not asking what work you do
That's so important it's justified letting a friendship
Thin to a shadow of what it was.

Then it's time to thank him and drive off,
Glad you haven't asked him about the beautiful
Sunrises and sunsets he must be able to witness
Above the hills to the east and west.
It's best to avoid a compliment that might remind him
Of the difference between watching a sunset
With the friends who used to watch beside him 
And watching now."

Carl Dennis


----------



## midcan5

'Searchers'

"At dawn Warren is on my bed,
a ragged lump of fur listening
to the birds as if deciding whether or not
to catch one. He has an old mans
mimsy delusion. A rabbit runs across
the yard and he walks after it
thinking he might close the widening distance
just as when I followed a lovely woman
on boulevard Montparnasse but couldnt equal
her rapid pace, the click-click of her shoes
moving into the distance, turning the final
corner, but when I turned the corner
she had disappeared and I looked up
into the trees thinking she might have climbed one.
When I was young a country girl would climb
a tree and throw apples down at my upturned face.
Warren and I are both searchers. Hes looking
for his dead sister Shirley, and Im wondering
about my brother John who left the earth
on this voyage all living creatures take.
Both cat and man are bathed in pleasant
insignificance, their eyes fixed on birds and stars."

Jim Harrison


----------



## midcan5

'Sorting It Out'

"At the table she used to sew at,
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
after theyve leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
used to be kept."

Philip Booth


----------



## midcan5

'What I Believe'

"I believe there is no justice,
but that cottongrass and bunchberry
grow on the mountain.

I believe that a scorpions sting
will kill a man,
but that his wife will remarry.

I believe that, the older we get,
the weaker the body,
but the stronger the soul.

I believe that if you roll over at night
in an empty bed,
the air consoles you.

I believe that no one is spared
the darkness,
and no one gets all of it.

I believe we all drown eventually
in a sea of our making,
but that the land belongs to someone else.

I believe in destiny.
And I believe in free will.

I believe that, when all
the clocks break,
time goes on without them.

And I believe that whatever
pulls us under,
will do so gently.

so as not to disturb anyone,
so as not to interfere
with what we believe in."

Michael Blumenthal


----------



## midcan5

'Fat Is Not a Fairy Tale'

"I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted,
flinging herself down the stairs.

I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.

I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listener not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess."

Jane Yolen


----------



## midcan5

'Lay Back the Darkness' 	 

"My father in the night shuffling from room to room
on an obscure mission through the hallway.

Help me, spirits, to penetrate his dream
and ease his restless passage.

Lay back the darkness for a salesman
who could charm everything but the shadows,

an immigrant who stands on the threshold
of a vast night

without his walker or his cane
and cannot remember what he meant to say,

though his right arm is raised, as if in prophecy,
while his left shakes uselessly in warning.

My father in the night shuffling from room to room
is no longer a father or a husband or a son,

but a boy standing on the edge of a forest
listening to the distant cry of wolves,

to wild dogs,
to primitive wingbeats shuddering in the treetops."

Edward Hirsch


----------



## midcan5

'My Papas Waltz'

"The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mothers countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt."

Theodore Roethke


----------



## midcan5

"Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability."  Sam Keen 

'Uniforms'

"It is very hot92 todayto be wearing
a stocking cap, but the adolescent swaggering
through the grocery store automatic door
doesnt seem to mind; does not even appear
to be perspiring. The tugged-down hat
is part of his carefully orchestrated outfit:
bagging pants, screaming t-shirt, high-topped
shoes. The young woman who yells to her friends
from an open pickup window is attired
for summer season in strapless stretch
tube top, slipping down toward bountiful
cleavage valley. She tugs it up in front
as she races toward the two who have
just passed a cigarette between them
like a baton on a relay team. Her white
chest gleams like burnished treasure
as they giggle loudly there in the corner
and I glance down to see what costume
I have selected to present myself to
the world today. I smile; its my sky blue
shirt with large deliberately faded Peace sign,
smack dab in the middle, plus grey suede
Birkenstocksa message that I lived through
the sixties and am so proud. None of the
young look my way. I round the corner and
walk into Evening descending."

Barbara Schmitz


----------



## midcan5

'Sick'

"I cannot go to school today, 
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
Im going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
Ive counted sixteen chicken pox
And theres one more-thats seventeen,
And dont you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
Im sure that my left leg is broke-
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly buttons caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankles sprained,
My pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbows bent, my spine aint straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?
Whats that? Whats that you say?
You say today isSaturday?
Gbye, Im going out to play!' "

Shel Silverstein


----------



## midcan5

'Beautiful Old Age'

"It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfillment.

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life
lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies
they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins
in their old age.

Soothing, old people should be, like apples
when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft
stillness and satisfaction of autumn.

And a girl should say:
It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! -

And a young man should think: By Jove
my father has faced all weathers, but its been a life!"

David Herbert Lawrence


----------



## midcan5

'Pity the Beautiful'

"Pity the beautiful,
the dolls, and the dishes,
the babes with big daddies
granting their wishes.
Pity the pretty boys,
the hunks, and Apollos,
the golden lads whom
success always follows.
The hotties, the knock-outs,
the tens out of ten,
the drop-dead gorgeous,
the great leading men.
Pity the faded,
the bloated, the blowsy,
the paunchy Adonis
whose lucks gone lousy.
Pity the gods,
no longer divine.
Pity the night
the stars lose their shine."

Dana Gioia


----------



## midcan5

Who Cares

Have you ever been asked what you do 
and thought how should I answer 
I tell my wife to ignore me 
when I am something other than I am
I tell my interlocutor
I am something other 
I want to say something without parameters
I am a mundane question 
looking for work
I am Sisyphus same hill
drudgery defines it
what would they say I wonder
in life I have ceased to care about image
I am unsure why 
It just seems meaningless
on this grain of sand 
a universe of billions of years
the tragedy of life often cut short 
of needless suffering
gives me pause and wonder 
the mind is formed 
by the very universe that holds all things
the mind is formed by life 
something has made me 
not care.


----------



## midcan5

'My Father Remembers Blue Zebras' 	 

"He remembers that he lost his wallet

he knows about the rainshadow
and the string of islands off the coast of Vancouver

oboeru to remember
also means to learn

I try to keep track of what he put where
the small green car we called Cricket
the second time he got drafted
and Aunt Ninas husband, he's a nice guy but hes a fascist

he's asking me again
where do you live
oh, you're in school, what do you study

how far off coast do you have to go
to be sheltered from the rain

that's wonderful Dad says, that's wonderful."

Judy Halebsky


----------



## SFC Ollie

Received in Email today:

Unknown Author....


I watched the flag pass by one day. 
It fluttered in the breeze. 




A young Marine saluted it, 
And then he stood at ease. 


I looked at him in uniform; 
so young, so tall, so proud. 
With hair cut square and eyes alert, 
he'd stand out in any crowd. 


I thought how many men like him 
had fallen through the years. 
How many died on foreign soil; 
how many mothers' tears? 


How many pilots' planes shot down? 
How many died at sea? 
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves? 
 NO, FREEDOM ISN'T FREE !


I heard the sound of Taps one night, 
when everything was still. 
I listened to the bugler play 
And felt a sudden chill. 

I wondered just how many times 
That Taps had meant 'Amen.' 
When a flag had draped a coffin 
of a brother or a friend. 



I thought of all the children, 
of the mothers and the wives, 
of fathers, sons and husbands 
With interrupted lives. 




I thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea. 
Of unmarked graves in  Arlington . 
 NO FREEDOM ISN'T FREE


----------



## midcan5

'APO 96225'

"A young man once went off to war in a far country,
and when he had time, he wrote home and said,
"Dear Mom, sure rains a lot here."

But his mother  reading between the lines as mothers
always do  wrote back,
"Were quite concerned. Tell us what its really like."

And the young man responded,
"Wow! You ought to see the funny monkeys."

To which the mother replied,
"Dont hold back. How is it there?"

And the young man wrote,
"The sunsets here are spectacular!"

In her next letter, the mother pleaded,
"Son, we want you to tell us everything. Everything!"

So the next time he wrote, the young man said,
"Today I killed a man. Yesterday, I helped drop napalm
on women and children."

And the father wrote right back,
"Please dont write such depressing letters. Youre
upsetting your mother."

So, after a while,
the young man wrote,
"Dear Mom, sure rains here a lot."

Larry Rottmann


----------



## midcan5

Don't recall what I posted last 4th but.....

'Independence' 	 

Mussoorie, Uttar Pradesh, India, l947

"When I am nine, the British quit
India.  Headmaster says, "The Great
Mutiny started it."  We repeat,
The Great Mutiny of 1857
in our booming voices.  Even
Akbar was Great, even Catherine,
Great!  We titter over History.  His back
turns: we see his pink spotty neck.

Sorry, the British leaving? we beg.
"This is hardly a joke or a quiz --
sit up and stay alert," he spits.
"It is about the trains and ships
you love and city names.  As for me,
I'm old, I'll end in a library,
I began in trade."  But you must stay,
we tell him.  He lived here as we have lived

but longer.  He says he was alive
in Calcutta in 1890.  He didn't have
a rich father.  A third son, he came with
the Tea Company:  we saw a statement
in his office. The company built
the railroads to take the tea "home
to England" so that Darjeeling and Assam
could be sipped by everyone, us and them.

They sold our southern neighbor Ceylon,
silk, pepper, diamonds, cotton.
We make a trade of course.  In England
there is only wool and salt and
snobs and foggy weather, Shakespeare."

Reetika Vazirani


----------



## SFC Ollie

Paul Revere's Ride
    Listen my children and you shall hear
    Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
    On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
    Hardly a man is now alive
    Who remembers that famous day and year.

    He said to his friend, "If the British march
    By land or sea from the town to-night,
    Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
    Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
    One if by land, and two if by sea;
    And I on the opposite shore will be,
    Ready to ride and spread the alarm
    Through every Middlesex village and farm,
    For the country folk to be up and to arm."

    Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
    Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
    Just as the moon rose over the bay,
    Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
    The Somerset, British man-of-war;
    A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
    Across the moon like a prison bar,
    And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
    By its own reflection in the tide.

    Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
    Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
    Till in the silence around him he hears
    The muster of men at the barrack door,
    The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
    And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
    Marching down to their boats on the shore.

    Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
    By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
    To the belfry chamber overhead,
    And startled the pigeons from their perch
    On the sombre rafters, that round him made
    Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
    By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
    To the highest window in the wall,
    Where he paused to listen and look down
    A moment on the roofs of the town
    And the moonlight flowing over all.

    Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
    In their night encampment on the hill,
    Wrapped in silence so deep and still
    That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
    The watchful night-wind, as it went
    Creeping along from tent to tent,
    And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
    A moment only he feels the spell
    Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
    Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
    For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
    On a shadowy something far away,
    Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
    A line of black that bends and floats
    On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

    Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
    Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
    On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
    Now he patted his horse's side,
    Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
    Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
    And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
    But mostly he watched with eager search
    The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
    As it rose above the graves on the hill,
    Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
    And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
    A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
    He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
    But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
    A second lamp in the belfry burns.

    A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
    A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
    And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
    Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
    That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
    The fate of a nation was riding that night;
    And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
    Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
    He has left the village and mounted the steep,
    And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
    Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
    And under the alders that skirt its edge,
    Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
    Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

    It was twelve by the village clock
    When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
    He heard the crowing of the cock,
    And the barking of the farmer's dog,
    And felt the damp of the river fog,
    That rises after the sun goes down.

    It was one by the village clock,
    When he galloped into Lexington.
    He saw the gilded weathercock
    Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
    And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
    Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
    As if they already stood aghast
    At the bloody work they would look upon.

    It was two by the village clock,
    When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
    He heard the bleating of the flock,
    And the twitter of birds among the trees,
    And felt the breath of the morning breeze
    Blowing over the meadow brown.
    And one was safe and asleep in his bed
    Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
    Who that day would be lying dead,
    Pierced by a British musket ball.

    You know the rest. In the books you have read
    How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
    How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
    From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
    Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
    Then crossing the fields to emerge again
    Under the trees at the turn of the road,
    And only pausing to fire and load.

    So through the night rode Paul Revere;
    And so through the night went his cry of alarm
    To every Middlesex village and farm,---
    A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
    And a word that shall echo for evermore!
    For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
    Through all our history, to the last,
    In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
    The people will waken and listen to hear
    The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
    And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)


----------



## freedombecki

SFC Ollie said:


> Paul Revere's Ride
> Listen my children and you shall hear
> Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
> On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
> Hardly a man is now alive
> Who remembers that famous day and year.
> 
> He said to his friend, "If the British march
> By land or sea from the town to-night,
> Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
> Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
> One if by land, and two if by sea;
> And I on the opposite shore will be,
> Ready to ride and spread the alarm
> Through every Middlesex village and farm,
> For the country folk to be up and to arm."
> 
> Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
> Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
> Just as the moon rose over the bay,
> Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
> The Somerset, British man-of-war;
> A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
> Across the moon like a prison bar,
> And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
> By its own reflection in the tide.
> 
> Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
> Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
> Till in the silence around him he hears
> The muster of men at the barrack door,
> The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
> And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
> Marching down to their boats on the shore.
> 
> Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
> By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
> To the belfry chamber overhead,
> And startled the pigeons from their perch
> On the sombre rafters, that round him made
> Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
> By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
> To the highest window in the wall,
> Where he paused to listen and look down
> A moment on the roofs of the town
> And the moonlight flowing over all.
> 
> Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
> In their night encampment on the hill,
> Wrapped in silence so deep and still
> That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
> The watchful night-wind, as it went
> Creeping along from tent to tent,
> And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
> A moment only he feels the spell
> Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
> Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
> For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
> On a shadowy something far away,
> Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
> A line of black that bends and floats
> On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
> 
> Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
> Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
> On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
> Now he patted his horse's side,
> Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
> Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
> And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
> But mostly he watched with eager search
> The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
> As it rose above the graves on the hill,
> Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
> And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
> A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
> He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
> But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
> A second lamp in the belfry burns.
> 
> A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
> A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
> And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
> Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
> That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
> The fate of a nation was riding that night;
> And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
> Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
> He has left the village and mounted the steep,
> And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
> Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
> And under the alders that skirt its edge,
> Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
> Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
> 
> It was twelve by the village clock
> When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
> He heard the crowing of the cock,
> And the barking of the farmer's dog,
> And felt the damp of the river fog,
> That rises after the sun goes down.
> 
> It was one by the village clock,
> When he galloped into Lexington.
> He saw the gilded weathercock
> Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
> And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
> Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
> As if they already stood aghast
> At the bloody work they would look upon.
> 
> It was two by the village clock,
> When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
> He heard the bleating of the flock,
> And the twitter of birds among the trees,
> And felt the breath of the morning breeze
> Blowing over the meadow brown.
> And one was safe and asleep in his bed
> Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
> Who that day would be lying dead,
> Pierced by a British musket ball.
> 
> You know the rest. In the books you have read
> How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
> How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
> From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
> Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
> Then crossing the fields to emerge again
> Under the trees at the turn of the road,
> And only pausing to fire and load.
> 
> So through the night rode Paul Revere;
> And so through the night went his cry of alarm
> To every Middlesex village and farm,---
> A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
> A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
> And a word that shall echo for evermore!
> For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
> Through all our history, to the last,
> In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
> The people will waken and listen to hear
> The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
> And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
> 
> Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)



SFC Ollie, as I was rereading that, it occurred to me that Paul Revere could've died for doing that. He was an ordinary tradesman, yet the yearn for freedom and his devotion to his fellow Americans caused him to not only look out for the good of his immediate area, but others who were threatened with retaliation for their nerve of requesting representation from a heartless oppressor.


----------



## SFC Ollie

freedombecki said:


> SFC Ollie said:
> 
> 
> 
> Paul Revere's Ride
> Listen my children and you shall hear
> Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
> On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
> Hardly a man is now alive
> Who remembers that famous day and year.
> 
> He said to his friend, "If the British march
> By land or sea from the town to-night,
> Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
> Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
> One if by land, and two if by sea;
> And I on the opposite shore will be,
> Ready to ride and spread the alarm
> Through every Middlesex village and farm,
> For the country folk to be up and to arm."
> 
> Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
> Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
> Just as the moon rose over the bay,
> Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
> The Somerset, British man-of-war;
> A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
> Across the moon like a prison bar,
> And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
> By its own reflection in the tide.
> 
> Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
> Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
> Till in the silence around him he hears
> The muster of men at the barrack door,
> The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
> And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
> Marching down to their boats on the shore.
> 
> Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
> By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
> To the belfry chamber overhead,
> And startled the pigeons from their perch
> On the sombre rafters, that round him made
> Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
> By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
> To the highest window in the wall,
> Where he paused to listen and look down
> A moment on the roofs of the town
> And the moonlight flowing over all.
> 
> Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
> In their night encampment on the hill,
> Wrapped in silence so deep and still
> That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
> The watchful night-wind, as it went
> Creeping along from tent to tent,
> And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
> A moment only he feels the spell
> Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
> Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
> For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
> On a shadowy something far away,
> Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
> A line of black that bends and floats
> On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
> 
> Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
> Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
> On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
> Now he patted his horse's side,
> Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
> Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
> And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
> But mostly he watched with eager search
> The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
> As it rose above the graves on the hill,
> Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
> And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
> A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
> He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
> But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
> A second lamp in the belfry burns.
> 
> A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
> A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
> And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
> Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
> That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
> The fate of a nation was riding that night;
> And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
> Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
> He has left the village and mounted the steep,
> And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
> Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
> And under the alders that skirt its edge,
> Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
> Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
> 
> It was twelve by the village clock
> When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
> He heard the crowing of the cock,
> And the barking of the farmer's dog,
> And felt the damp of the river fog,
> That rises after the sun goes down.
> 
> It was one by the village clock,
> When he galloped into Lexington.
> He saw the gilded weathercock
> Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
> And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
> Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
> As if they already stood aghast
> At the bloody work they would look upon.
> 
> It was two by the village clock,
> When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
> He heard the bleating of the flock,
> And the twitter of birds among the trees,
> And felt the breath of the morning breeze
> Blowing over the meadow brown.
> And one was safe and asleep in his bed
> Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
> Who that day would be lying dead,
> Pierced by a British musket ball.
> 
> You know the rest. In the books you have read
> How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
> How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
> From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
> Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
> Then crossing the fields to emerge again
> Under the trees at the turn of the road,
> And only pausing to fire and load.
> 
> So through the night rode Paul Revere;
> And so through the night went his cry of alarm
> To every Middlesex village and farm,---
> A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
> A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
> And a word that shall echo for evermore!
> For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
> Through all our history, to the last,
> In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
> The people will waken and listen to hear
> The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
> And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
> 
> Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
> 
> 
> 
> 
> SFC Ollie, as I was rereading that, it occurred to me that Paul Revere could've died for doing that. He was an ordinary tradesman, yet the yearn for freedom and his devotion to his fellow Americans caused him to not only look out for the good of his immediate area, but others who were threatened with retaliation for their nerve of requesting representation from a heartless oppressor.
Click to expand...


What so few understand is that Mr Revere was one of our first true patriots. He was in on the organization of and participation in the Boston Tea party. And it was his initial warning of the British making repairs to their landing craft that set up the system for himself and two others to actually make their night time warning rides which prepared the farmers at Lexington and Concord to be prepared for the first battles of the revolution.


----------



## midcan5

'A Story' 	 

"Everyone loves a story. Let's begin with a house.
We can fill it with careful rooms and fill the rooms
with thingstables, chairs, cupboards, drawers
closed to hide tiny beds where children once slept
or big drawers that yawn open to reveal
precisely folded garments washed half to death,
unsoiled, stale, and waiting to be worn out.
There must be a kitchen, and the kitchen
must have a stove, perhaps a big iron one
with a fat black pipe that vanishes into the ceiling
to reach the sky and exhale its smells and collusions.
This was the center of whatever family life
was here, this and the sink gone yellow
around the drain where the water, dirty or pure, 
ran off with no explanation, somehow like the point
of this, the story we promised and may yet deliver.
Make no mistake, a family was here. You see
the path worn into the linoleum where the wood,
gray and certainly pine, shows through.
Father stood there in the middle of his life
to call to the heavens he imagined above the roof
must surely be listening. When no one answered
you can see where his heel came down again
and again, even though he'd been taught
never to demand. Not that life was especially cruel;
they had well water they pumped at first,
a stove that gave heat, a mother who stood
at the sink at all hours and gazed longingly
to where the woods once held the voices
of small bearsthemselves a familyand the songs
of birds long fled once the deep woods surrendered
one tree at a time after the workmen arrived
with jugs of hot coffee. The worn spot on the sill
is where Mother rested her head when no one saw,
those two stained ridges were handholds
she relied on; they never let her down.
Where is she now? You think you have a right
to know everything? The children tiny enough
to inhabit cupboards, large enough to have rooms
of their own and to abandon them, the father
with his right hand raised against the sky?
If those questions are too personal, then tell us,
where are the woods? They had to have been
because the continent was clothed in trees.
We all read that in school and knew it to be true.
Yet all we see are houses, rows and rows
of houses as far as sight, and where sight vanishes
into nothing, into the new world no one has seen,
there has to be more than dust, wind-borne particles
of burning earth, the earth we lost, and nothing else."

Philip Levine


----------



## midcan5

'In the Mushroom Summer'

"Colorado turns Kyoto in a shower,
mist in the pines so thick the crows delight
(or seem to), winging in obscurity.
The ineffectual panic of a squirrel
who chattered at my passing gave me pause
to watch his Ponderosa come and go
long needles scratching cloud. Id summited
but knew it only by the wildflower meadow,
the muted harebells, paintbrush, gentian,
scattered among the locoweed and sage.
Today my grief abated like water soaking
underground, its scar a little path
of twigs and needles winding ahead of me
downhill to the next bend. Today I let
the rain soak through my shirt and was unharmed."

David Mason


----------



## midcan5

'4% Of Everything Or Nothing'

"On the seat of the Humvee, I find this magazine
with an article on dark energy and
I think it will be nice to kill some time as I am
moving in a line of 5 tons and tankers,
across an endless sea of red dirt.

The physicists make it too easy
74% dark energy
22% dark matter
96% of the universe unknown,
possibly unknowable
just out there somewhere
but right here all around us too
as gossamer as ghosts.

That leaves 4%
4%, all the stuff we struggle trying to know
something about but know hardly anything about.
And they say all this darkness may be growing
and the little we barely know is growing smaller
and smaller. Damn scientists.
One can almost hear them snickering,
knowing how the damn romantics will be inclined
to read more into the tea leaves of their data
than can ever be there.
But if they are honest, they know they cant resist
the temptation themselves, 4% hardly known;
96% unknown and possibly unknowable
dark energy pushing things apart, pushing whole worlds
farther and farther apart at faster and faster speeds,
no respect for even light.
Farther and farther apart, colder and colder
into the nothing that is everything.

I am inclined to think that there is no data;
that this theory comes from their own personal miseries:
the divorces, their kids on drugs and resenting them,
the latest heartbreak, every reminder of old age and mortality,
the reasons the grant didnt get funded
96% unknown and possibly unknowable
4% barely known.

Or it may just be science taking another cynical turn
reminding everyone not to be so smug,
not to be so sure of anything,
not to ever underestimate your ignorance,
or your unfathomable smallness in the scheme of things.

But I have that disturbing resonance of a romantics heart,
the irresistible urge to generalize, a pretending to know:
all of human historya 4% of distorted recollections,
96% unknown and possibly unknowable;
the universe of lovea 4% desperately grasped
but the 96% still and always unknowable;
my life, my memories, my only true universe,
I am barely aware of 4%,
the 96% unknown and possibly unknowable;
this moment, the infinite now, I barely see
4% of anything and

Suddenly none of this sounds new.
And of course, possibly there is no connection between any of it.
Perhaps, the dark energy has already pushed things so far apart
that nothing can ever be connected again.
There can only be zeros and ones, tentative conclusions
that are neither dark nor light, simply there drifting
farther and farther from every other idea and feeling
faster and faster from every hope and fear,
everything transforming into a cold dark unknown
surrounding us like spirits.
Maybe, there is no message here at all, just
4% and decreasing every moment, 96% and increasing
every moment, unknown and possibly unknowable.

The helicopter gunships are flying
like crazed giant wasps above us.
I imagine ancient armies crossing this dust,
ancient conquests, the empires as forgotten
as the battles fought for them.
The 4% now is only this Humvee in an ocean of nothing,
my three traveling companions in their Kevlar
and interceptor jackets locked in silence
by the steady drone of the engine.
We are it, trying to make it to another point
all the love there is,
as simple as a thin black line
scratched across a red tablet,
as simple as thinking of home,
that something we can believe we know,
the 4% of everything and nothing."

Ray Emanuel


----------



## midcan5

'What My Father Left Behind' 

"Jam jar of cigarette ends and ashes on his workbench,   
hammer he nailed our address to a stump with,   
balsa wood steamship, half-finished   

is that him, waving from the stern? Well, good luck to him.   
Slur of sunlight filling the backyard, Augusts high wattage,   
white blossoming, its a curve, it comes back.   My mother   

in a patio chair, leaning forward, squinting, threading   
her needle again, her eye lifts to the roof, to my brother,   
who stands and jerks his arm upwardhe might be   

insulting the sky, but hes only letting go   
a bit of green, a molded plastic soldier   
tied to a parachute, thin as a bread bag, it rises, it arcs   

against the bluegood luck to itmy sister and I below,   
heads tilted back as we stand in the grass, good   
luck to all of us, still here, still in love with it."

Chris Forhan


----------



## freedombecki

SFC Ollie said:


> freedombecki said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> SFC Ollie said:
> 
> 
> 
> Paul Revere's Ride
> Listen my children and you shall hear
> Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
> On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
> Hardly a man is now alive
> Who remembers that famous day and year.
> 
> He said to his friend, "If the British march
> By land or sea from the town to-night,
> Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
> Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
> One if by land, and two if by sea;
> And I on the opposite shore will be,
> Ready to ride and spread the alarm
> Through every Middlesex village and farm,
> For the country folk to be up and to arm."
> 
> Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
> Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
> Just as the moon rose over the bay,
> Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
> The Somerset, British man-of-war;
> A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
> Across the moon like a prison bar,
> And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
> By its own reflection in the tide.
> 
> Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
> Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
> Till in the silence around him he hears
> The muster of men at the barrack door,
> The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
> And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
> Marching down to their boats on the shore.
> 
> Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
> By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
> To the belfry chamber overhead,
> And startled the pigeons from their perch
> On the sombre rafters, that round him made
> Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
> By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
> To the highest window in the wall,
> Where he paused to listen and look down
> A moment on the roofs of the town
> And the moonlight flowing over all.
> 
> Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
> In their night encampment on the hill,
> Wrapped in silence so deep and still
> That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
> The watchful night-wind, as it went
> Creeping along from tent to tent,
> And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
> A moment only he feels the spell
> Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
> Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
> For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
> On a shadowy something far away,
> Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
> A line of black that bends and floats
> On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
> 
> Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
> Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
> On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
> Now he patted his horse's side,
> Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
> Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
> And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
> But mostly he watched with eager search
> The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
> As it rose above the graves on the hill,
> Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
> And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
> A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
> He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
> But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
> A second lamp in the belfry burns.
> 
> A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
> A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
> And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
> Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
> That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
> The fate of a nation was riding that night;
> And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
> Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
> He has left the village and mounted the steep,
> And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
> Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
> And under the alders that skirt its edge,
> Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
> Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
> 
> It was twelve by the village clock
> When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
> He heard the crowing of the cock,
> And the barking of the farmer's dog,
> And felt the damp of the river fog,
> That rises after the sun goes down.
> 
> It was one by the village clock,
> When he galloped into Lexington.
> He saw the gilded weathercock
> Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
> And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
> Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
> As if they already stood aghast
> At the bloody work they would look upon.
> 
> It was two by the village clock,
> When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
> He heard the bleating of the flock,
> And the twitter of birds among the trees,
> And felt the breath of the morning breeze
> Blowing over the meadow brown.
> And one was safe and asleep in his bed
> Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
> Who that day would be lying dead,
> Pierced by a British musket ball.
> 
> You know the rest. In the books you have read
> How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
> How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
> From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
> Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
> Then crossing the fields to emerge again
> Under the trees at the turn of the road,
> And only pausing to fire and load.
> 
> So through the night rode Paul Revere;
> And so through the night went his cry of alarm
> To every Middlesex village and farm,---
> A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
> A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
> And a word that shall echo for evermore!
> For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
> Through all our history, to the last,
> In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
> The people will waken and listen to hear
> The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
> And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
> 
> Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
> 
> 
> 
> 
> SFC Ollie, as I was rereading that, it occurred to me that Paul Revere could've died for doing that. He was an ordinary tradesman, yet the yearn for freedom and his devotion to his fellow Americans caused him to not only look out for the good of his immediate area, but others who were threatened with retaliation for their nerve of requesting representation from a heartless oppressor.
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> What so few understand is that Mr Revere was one of our first true patriots. He was in on the organization of and participation in the Boston Tea party. And it was his initial warning of the British making repairs to their landing craft that set up the system for himself and two others to actually make their night time warning rides which prepared the farmers at Lexington and Concord to be prepared for the first battles of the revolution.
Click to expand...

Hmm. so that's how we got the Brits off our backs. Thanks, SFC Ollie.


----------



## midcan5

'Conversation'

"Daddy, what are these?
my three year old daughter asks,
pointing to the car grill
and the dozens of insects
we have smashed
while driving around.

I want to say spots
or nothing or
I dont know.
I want to put off discussions
like this until shes older
or at least with her mother,
but I know I cant.

Bugs, I say, Just bugs.

      Why are they there?

We hit them.

She knows this is bad;
a boy down the street
was hit by a car
and taken away
in an ambulance.

     Should we take them
     to the hospital?

No. Theyre dead.

We carry the bags
into the house
and unload the groceries.
Later, after dinner
and the evening bath,
we work on a puzzle,
and as she tries
to figure out
how the sky
fits together,
she says
without turning around

     They dont want to be dead,
     do they?

No, I say, No, they dont."


Joe Mills


----------



## midcan5

'The Summer I Was Sixteen'

"The turquoise pool rose up to meet us,
its slide a silver afterthought down which
we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles.
We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy.

Shaking water off our limbs, we lifted
up from ladder rungs across the fern-cool
lip of rim. Afternoon. Oiled and sated,
we sunbathed, rose and paraded the concrete,

danced to the low beat of Duke of Earl.
Past cherry colas, hot-dogs, Dreamsicles,
we came to the counter where bees staggered
into root beer cups and drowned. We gobbled

cotton candy torches, sweet as furtive kisses,
shared on benches beneath summer shadows.
Cherry. Elm. Sycamore. We spread our chenille
blankets across grass, pressed radios to our ears,

mouthing the old words, then loosened
thin bikini straps and rubbed baby oil with iodine
across sunburned shoulders, tossing a glance
through the chain link at an improbable world."

Geraldine Connolly


----------



## midcan5

'Arguments About The World'

"The things you said were untrue:
there is not a reality that exists
outside of me. No life somehow
more authentic than this one.
If you know so much about the world

then tell me where to find it.
Was it the world that I touched

each time I touched an oil-soaked metal flange
in the giant industrial warehouse?
It didnt feel real, but maybe
I wasnt paying enough attention.
Was it that my coworkers were racist

and unhappy; that this was the only job
they would ever have, for all the years
of their lives? Or just that there was no heat
in winter, no cooling in summer, making all work
more difficult, pained? And the work itselfmundane and particular:
line up all these metal pieces and count them, or
box up this many pieces and take them
to this factory.

Is suffering the world, or boredom?

And those years spent living downtown
among the poor and crazy, each day
the adventure of leaving the apartment
who would be using our stoop as a resting place,
would they be passed-out
or awake, move aside
so I could wheel my bike by,
or try to say something
in that common, broken language?

The girl there breast-feeding at 6 a.m.
she is not feeding, is merely
bothering her child, who wants to sleep.
Ragged, tranced-out, wild
from sleeping the night
against our porch columnwas she real? Did she think
she was the world? Had I touched her
would I have known what it was like,
what youve been telling me all these years?

* * *

I have to return now to the empty classroom
and teach Roy Redman how to speak English.

I have to atone for my sins.

He stands at my desk and wants to know why
I circled chirren, in red,
a hundred times in 5 pages, his essay
about being a young father, he says
when youre a mom or dad you got chirren.
I spelled out children at the top of the page
and he mouthed the word there, over and over,
another class dragging in, the next teacher
erasing my words from the board behind me.
I gave him nothing and its too late now
to go back. I gave him nothing

and its too late. He dropped out,
came to my office just once, to tell me
fists tremblingthat his papers were As,
not Fs, and that he knows how to talk,
doesnt need anyone helping him.
I can handle my business, he kept saying,
nobody can handle my business but me.

Chirren, children, the vague threat
in my office, tell me quickly: which part of this
was not the world?

* * *

Dear ____________,
How did you learn so much about all of this,
and how did I miss it? How will I know the world
when I see it; by what markings
is it identified?

I confess: it feels real
as I walk through it, even as its terribly beautiful,
and I pass the fountains or sculpture,
it seems like the world. But
this isnt about me, my days; its about you,
and all the things you said. Im trying
to get you to be quiet.
I keep filling up the pages
until youve had enough."

Craig Beaven


----------



## midcan5

'Back from the Fields'

"Until nightfall my son ran in the fields,
looking for God knows what.
Flowers, perhaps. Odd birds on the wing.
Something to fill an empty spot.
Maybe a luminous angel
or a country girl with a secret dark.
He came back empty-handed,
or so I thought.

Now I find them:
thistles, goatheads,
the barbed weeds
all those with hooks or horns
the snaggle-toothed, the grinning ones
those wearing lantern jaws,
old ones in beards, leapers
in silk leggings, the multiple
pocked moons and spiny satellites, all those
with juices and saps
like the fingers of thieves
nation after nation of grasses
that dig in, that burrow, that hug winds
and grab handholds
in whatever lean place.

Its been a good day."

Peter Everwine


----------



## midcan5

I was amazed recently to see this thread has over forty thousand views, now go out and buy some poetry books so we can support an art form that is sometimes neglected in our too busy modern world. 

'Picture Puzzle Piece'

"One picture puzzle piece
Lyin on the sidewalk,
One picture puzzle piece
Soakin in the rain.
It might be a button of blue
On the coat of the woman
Who lived in a shoe.
It might be a magical bean,
Or a fold in the red
Velvet robe of a queen.
It might be the one little bite
Of the apple her stepmother
Gave to Snow White.
It might be the veil of a bride
Or a bottle with some evil genie inside.
It might be a small tuft of hair
On the big bouncy belly
Of Bobo the Bear.
It might be a bit of the cloak
Of the Witch of the West
As she melted to smoke.
It might be a shadowy trace
Of a tear that runs down an angels face.
Nothing has more possibilities
Than one old wet picture puzzle piece."

Shel Silverstein


----------



## midcan5

'The Very Old Man' 

"When he met himself 
beside the road, 
he could not be sure

he'd ever really been the boy 
he was, so happy to be alive 
and nothing more.

He wanted to talk
about what lay ahead,
to warn himself somehow

of the losses
and the griefs
and how the heart grows cold.

But words failed as they always had 
and in the silent room 
he woke:

in the boy-less dark, 
alone with nothing
but his body in his arms."

Patrick Phillips


----------



## freedombecki

starting

in the deepened shades of morning there are glimpses of light
showing mirrored blues and verdance reminiscent of night
as the golden pinks refracting the new day's promised gifts
thoughts of loved ones watching over heal the heart's unruly rifts​
by freedombecki


----------



## freedombecki

Added to chill some of these hot August days...

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost


  Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


----------



## midcan5

'More Lies'

"Sometimes I say Im going to meet my sister at the cafe´
even though I have no sisterjust because its such
a beautiful thing to say. Ive always thought so, ever since

I read a novel in which two sisters were constantly meeting
in cafe´s. Today, for example, I walked alone
on the wet sidewalk, wearing my rain boots, expecting

someone might ask where I was headed. I bought
a steno pad and a watch battery, the store windows
fogged up. Rain in April is a kind of promise, and it costs

nothing. I carried a bag of books to the cafe´ and ordered
tea. I like a place thats lit by lamps. I like a place
where you can hear people talk about small things,

like the difference between azure and cerulean,
and the price of tulips. Its going down. I watched
someone who could be my sister walk in, shaking the rain

from her hair. I thought, even now florists are filling
their coolers with tulips, five dollars a bundle. All over
the city there are sisters. Any one of them could be mine."

Karin Gottshall


----------



## derk

Her soft light skin delicate to touch.
Her firm resolve soon to flinch, as 
her will, slips a bit. She finds it 
hard to let it go and fund the deep 
within her soul.

A word a phrase or some, slight smell 
his musk the leather, who can tell?
This session, as before works to call 
attention to her resolve. Loosed and 
drawn within for now. 

She beckons to call her self to 
task to fall in the place, that 
never shall last. Visiting 
invitations to inward journey's
thru this sense of time.

With feelings wrought in self 
delight and sensual fright.
Rushes of quivers form her skin 
as she is touched again.

Light fond pangs emerge 
abating slowly, as she waits, 
they form like ripples in a pond. 
She delights the awful pain.
Rising to its worst fine place
it stops slightly, only to lose its grace.
Another fell swoop delights and then the
rivers of warmth rush over her again. 

What power she holds over her flesh.
To will it for her erotic self. Falling 
in this place again, pains fine stings 
to burns and then? Awakening her
passion to wonder for pleasure, she 
feels aroused and incensed for more.

The lustful haze feels her mind
Her pain becomes so very fine.
Entranced she hears and feels
not much, but, becomes the 
place where she is touched.
A strangely vague erotic
notion a place a thing,
a feeding motion.

Ecstasies river runs 
deep, with the currents
she now feeds. These 
movements liven 
her sage, and help her to
this other place.

Her torment now proudly worn.
She blossoms like a rose,
whose petals, soft and moist 
a showy gloss now shine.
Unfolding one layer at a time.
Her inner self revealed she&#8217;s
Taken and made to kneel.

Ritualistic passions invade her
every move. Now the," clay of loves 
torturous mold", her souls renewed.
Her lips, some dry, others wet.

Swells begin still yet. Her breathing
labored, while this moment is savored.
Pleasure is as common place in this 
lustful tryst of roles now played.

He the master and she the slave?
Delighting both sub and dom.
A dance of flesh and blissful tones,
their needs are shared and sought as one.
So Give she must. And on an on.


----------



## freedombecki

continued, w.i.p.

starting

in the deepened shades of morning there are glimpses of light
showing mirrored blues and verdance reminiscent of night
golden sunrise pinks refracting the new day's promised gifts
thoughts of loved ones watching over heal heart's unruly rifts

midday

wasps rush above windowsills overlooking rust-gold field
mockingbirds boldly flitting 'round the fence where ivies yield
potent berries merry-wine green periwinkle and white
dragonfly darts by muddied waters hot as midday bright​

​​


----------



## midcan5

money where mouth is: bought 'Beautiful Country' by author below yesterday 

'A Lock of Her Hair'

"As a hoodoo-voodoo, get-you-back-to-me tool,
this hanks thankless task is vast,
a head down to the ground impossibility, possibly,
since what Im thinking of is your toe pad pinknesses too,
your soup hots and round-and-rounds, the fine
and perfect poundage of you on my paws, the very cause
and problem I moan and bemoan
the absence of. For Love, above the head
this reddish coil once lavishly wore, theres an air so far away
its sad for me to even think the same suns rays play
where it was and do to you what I would do
if I were there or you were here. Still, some thrills
remembered do resemble thrills, one hopes, and the ropes
of it that gently fell around me bound me so well
no hell of miles can defile this dream I dream. I mean
the anyway DNA I can find of you. I mean the home
of bones and blood that holds the whole of you
and which this fizzed-up missive means to conjure, missy,
my world in a curl, girl, this man oh man half man I am
when youre gone."

Robert Wrigley


----------



## midcan5

'The Sand Speaks'

"I'm fluid and omnivorous, casual in
my eternity. I'll knock up your oysters. 
I'll eat your diamonds. I'm a mutt, no 
one thing at all, just the size that counts

and if you're animal small enough, come; 
if you're vegetable small enough, come; 
if you're mineral small enough, come. 
Mothers, brush me from the hands

of your children. Lovers, shake me 
from the cuffs of your pants. Draw 
a line, make it my mouth: I'll name 
your country. I'm a Yes man at heart.

Let's play Hide and Go Drown. Let's play 
Pearls for His Eyes. When the men fall 
I like the way their arms touch, their legs 
touch. There are always more men, men

who bring bags big enough to hold
each other. A man who kneels down 
with a smaller bag, cups and pours, cups 
and pours, as if I could prove anything."

Sandra Beasley


----------



## freedombecki

continued, w.i.p.

 
morning

in the deepened shades of morning there are glimpses of light
showing mirrored blues and verdance reminiscent of night
golden sunrise pinks refracting the new day's promised gifts
thoughts of loved ones watching over heal heart's unruly rifts

noon

wasps rush above windowsills overlooking rust-gold field
mockingbirds boldly flitting 'round the fence where ivies yield
potent berries merry-wine green periwinkle and white
dragonfly darts by muddied waters hot as midday bright

night

moonless sky cloud-hidden stars through void yield strangest noises
quaint dialect signals brood alarm or loving soul mate
arthropoid, avian, reptilian, mammalian?
sultry darkness reveals neither shapes nor earth's horizon​


----------



## midcan5

'The Gift Shop'

"When its come to that
The end of my life
The glitzy tunnel
The well-lit exit
Let there be a shop where I can
Browse for just a while
The way Ive always loved to
The best part of any experience
Being its commemoration
A whole life should be no exception
Relive before lights out
A finger on the switch
Relieve me later
Hold on
Just one more thing
Can we stop here? I always
Say after so much Do Not Touch-ing
I want a plastic Tyrannosaurus pressed in my hand
I want to make my own geodes
Polish pieces of coal
From the backyard and save them all
From the pressure of becoming
Diamonds
String Galapagosian shells in a strand around my neck
I want to make sure this has
Really happened
And is not some other thing
Give me proof
There are some items I need to see first, at last
A memento in my pocket
A key chain of my fathers glasses
A postcard of my mothers silver hair
My loves, felt finger puppets in the shape of endangered birds
My friends, each a snow globe
Some astronaut ice cream
To tide me over."

Cate Peebles


----------



## midcan5

'To My Father'

"I walked into the room.
There were objects in the room.  I thought I needed nothing
from them.  They began to speak,
but the words were unintelligible, a painful cacophony. . .
Then I realized they were saying
the name
of the man who had chosen them, owned them,
ordered, arranged them, their deceased cause,
the secret pattern that made these things order.
I strained to hear: but
the sound remained unintelligible. . .
senselessly getting louder, urgent, deafening.

Hands over my ears, at last I knew
they would remain
inarticulate; your name was not in my language."

Frank Bidart


----------



## Stashman

*Eating Crow*

*I'm sorry for the things I've done
And the things to come to pass,
But I can't swim the shit creek I'm in
Cause it's wide and just to vast.

I gave a chance to each and all
To diffuse their dirty bomb,
Now in the end it's me that's left
To right this ugly wrong.

Doing time is nothing to me
Because time passes anyway,
So to those whose hearts are froze
Just remember yesterday.

"I'll never deceive you, but might just mislead you"
Are the words that you have spoken,
So it's no surprise that you'd disguise
The promises you have broken.

You wrote the rules and played the game
And you think that your the winner,
Now my turns here and it's quite clear
That It's crow you'll have for dinner.*​
*Stashman​*


----------



## Stashman

*Life Sucks

When there's nothing left to live for
And no more dreams to dream,
When the hope is gone and the light has dimmed
And problems are extreme.

When the whip comes down to draw more blood
And the lasher doesn't care,
When you wake each day to face it all
And it seems to much to bear.

When you bend your knee's to pray to God
For all the pain to end,
Than realize it will not change
And no angels will descend.

When the cocked and loaded gun
Is placed firmly to your head,
And than you find the guts it takes
You haven't got a shred.

When you take a drink or do a drug
With hopes to numb the pain,
Than sober up to find your life
Is still the fucking same.

Life sucks!

Stashman*​


----------



## Stashman

*Little Red Wagon

I've got a little red wagon with four rubber wheels
That say's radio flyer on the side,
I never need to fuel it
I can push it or I can pull it
When I want to take it out for a ride.

Down hill it goes much faster, But I'm a wagon master
And I always have it under control,
I'm not boasting and I'm not braggin'
But nothing beats my wagon
Except maybe for the highway patrol.

Little red wagon
Giddy up, giddy up
Go.

Stashman​*


----------



## midcan5

How remember milk left at the curb, or the breadman, the farmer with fresh eggs, and the huckster calling out, strawberries, strawberries.... watermelon watermelon... simpler times now past...


'Produce Wagon' 

"The heat shimmer along our street
one midsummer midafternoon,
and wading up through it a horses hooves,
and each shoe raising a tongueless bell
that tolled in the neighborhood,
till the driver drew in the reins
and the horse hung its head and stood.

And something in a basket thin
as shavings (blackberries? or a ghost
of the memory of having tasted them?)
passing into my hands as mother paid,
and the man got up again,
slapping the loop from the reins,
and was off on his trundling wagon."

Roy Scheele


----------



## midcan5

'Aubade In Autumn'

"This morning, from under the floorboards
of the room in which I write,
Lawrence the handyman is singing the blues
in a soft falsetto as he works, the words
unclear, though surely one of them is love,
lugging its shadow of sadness into song.
I dont want to think about sadness;
theres never a lack of it.
I want to sit quietly for a while
and listen to my father making
a joyful sound unto his mirror
as he shavesslap of razor
against the strop, the familiar rasp of his voice
singing his favorite hymn, but faint now,
coming from so far back in time:
Oh, come to the church in the wildwood . . .
my father, who had no faith, but loved
how the long, ascending syllable of wild
echoed from the walls in celebration
as the morning opened around him . . .
as now it opens around me, the light shifting
in the leaf-fall of the pear tree and across
the bedraggled back-yard roses
that I have been careless of
but brighten the air, nevertheless.
Who am I, if not one who listens
for words to stir from the silences they keep?
Love is the ground note; we cannot do
without it or the sorrow of its changes.
Come to the wildwood, love,
Oh, to the wiiildwood as the morning deepens,
and from a branch in the cedar tree a small bird
quickens his song into the blue reaches of heaven
hey sweetie sweetie hey."

Peter Everwine

get a copy of "from the meadow"


----------



## midcan5

'Quiet Desperation'

"While walking down the aisle
of the Long Island Railroad Train
going to the Big Apple for the day,
sitting there straight-backed,
upright in his grey flannel suit
and close corporate haircut,
looking so business-like,
an old happy-go-lucky kid
I used to run and laugh with
years back in high school.
I could tell he wanted to talk
so I just sat back and listened
Hes got his boy and a girl,
who drive him crazy spending
his whole life trying to fulfill
all of their wishes and wants,
his wife even worse
Work keeps him busy, but
brings him no pleasure;
the best time of his day
are the two hours he rides alone
on this train, twice a day
he gets away from it all.
His spirit of boyish tomfoolery
gone, long gone, as I listened
he never looked me in my eyes,
but I could see the blank stare
starring at the seat in front of him;
there was no light to be seen
in those bright blue eyes
that the girls always loved
years back in high school,
now just a smoldering fire that at
any moment could explode,
even worse, extinguish itself;
a heart attack hoping to happen.
When we pulled into Penn Station,
we shook hands goodbye.
I watched him grow smaller
and smaller as we went our
separate ways at the end of the line."

Charles Portolano


----------



## midcan5

'Believing is Seeing'

"in the undergrowth 
of an eastern wood a rabbit
not much bigger than a squirrel believes
there are eaters in the overgrowth
and sees them everywhere

it stops stock-still, 
aware

still as if its 
clock had stopped
no twitch or blink
more stone than hare

believing in suddenness it sees 
in every micro-acre of space
what its cells perceive
what it knows is there
what it must never
dare to unbelieve"

Jim Culleny


----------



## midcan5

'A Sad Child'

"Youre sad because youre sad.
Its psychic. Its the age. Its chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and youre trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are."

Margaret Atwood


----------



## freedombecki

to the peacekeepers
by Elizabeth Beautress Marsh

may beauty surround you 
may God stay and found you 
may peace walk  before you 
may children adore you 
may all kindness warm you 
may no evil  harm you 
may good health be given you 
may justice live in you 
so Satan shall fear you 
when you keep God near you​


----------



## edjax1952

*Count the People*
​Count the people who will not speak
Not because the are shy or meek
But because of ignorance they painfully seek
For a word they do not know

Theyre in the barrooms complaining of life
Theyre in the alleys throwing their dice
Theyre in husbands kitchens cooking their food
Theyre up in the mountains sometimes ugly and crude

I heard a man shot his wife last night
And someone killed someone else with a knife
And only because they couldnt explain
That their mind was in anger 
And their soul was in pain

Count the people who will not speak
Not because they are shy or meek
But because of ignorance they painfully seek 
For a word they do not know

From "Reflections and Impressions" By Ed Taylor


----------



## Unkotare

Any fans of haiku in the house?


----------



## midcan5

Life is Good

There were no really good Labor day poems
so I decided I would write a few thoughts
I have worked so long and yet it seems a short time
if religious I would say I was blessed
WE were blessed we started slow and saved
Eventually we lived the American dream
New car vacations and kids to college
New home no bills everyone's dream
Dinners out and a good bottle of wine large tip 
I used to save weeks $1.50 for an AMC model car
One twenty-fifth the size of the car 
One day I would own, American what else, 
And now my wife's clothing fill the house
We have seen Paris and little town America
The backroads still entice, saner places
Places Rockwell painted.

2011 addendum

This year we visited Rockwell's place in Mass
and sat on a porch from 1773
As Berlin once wrote 
Aside the turmoil
We have had a good life
And when we hear of friends departed
Or separated and in trouble
I wonder at the luck of life
Sometimes you need to work at it
Practice, shut up, listen, and try
A favorite line I try to practice
Though I lack deep patience
'I show up. I listen. I try to laugh*'
Advice on this day of labor.



* Show Up. Listen. Try To Laugh. | Somewhere In The Suburbs


----------



## midcan5

I read Brautigan long, it was the time of hippies and too much pot. 

See here: http://www.usmessageboard.com/writing/183292-richard-brautigan.html#post4083324

'It's Raining In Love'

"I don't know what it is,
  but I distrust myself
  when I start to like a girl
  a lot.

  It makes me nervous.
  I don't say the right things
  or perhaps I start
  to examine,
  evaluate,
 compute
  what I am saying.

  If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
  and she says, "I don't know,"
  I start thinking : Does she really like me? 

  In other words
  I get a little creepy. 

  A friend of mine once said,
  "It's twenty times better to be friends
  with someone
  than it is to be in love with them." 

  I think he's right and besides,
  it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
  and keeping snails happy.
  That's all taken care of.

  BUT 

  if a girl likes me a lot
  and starts getting real nervous
  and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
  and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
  and she says things like,
  "Do you think it's going to rain?"
  and I say, "It beats me,"
  and she says, "Oh,"
  and looks a little sad
  at the clear blue California sky,
  I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
  instead of me."

Richard Brautigan


----------



## Sky Dancer

"Fear is the cheapest room in the house.
I would like to see you living
In better conditions.

Go wants to see
More love and playfulness in your eyes
For that is your greatest witness to Him.

Your soul and my soul
Once sat together in the Beloved's womb
Playing footsie.

Your heart and my heart
Are very, very old
Friends.

Hafiz


----------



## midcan5

'Habit'

"The boxmaybe the baby will play with the box, and she can sit, not carry, not pick him up.

He does. Dreamily opens the plastic lid.He examines the lip of the box, where it clicks shut. He slowly, slowly pulls a piece of paper through a thin slot on top.

At first being alone with the baby and the box is a dim, half-conscious satisfaction, like running your fingertips over the dry skin of your feet. He turns the box over in his arms. She gives him a necklace, it falls through his hands like milk. He licks the metal clasp, and her scalp, filigreed all over, electrifies. She comes a little awake.

When she holds out the box he will bubble and tree and ha and silence, he makes sounds that run over her back like mice, sounds that cause the thinnest pins to vibratethat are the silken, grooved edge of a guitar string not even being touched.

Now she must daily use the baby to feel this feeling: a needle afloat on plain water.

In the world of the box and the necklace there are no words, is no appetite, there is not sex: his sounds take sex away. Is she blameless? Is the box a form of love? If you walked in and saw her, it would be that scene in the movie where the boyfriend opens the door and day has passed into night and he finds her on the floor: dull spoon, burnt match, used up."

Joy Katz


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Marilyn Monroe Poem 

I have come to claim 
Marilyn Monroe's body 
for the sake of my own. 
dig it up, hand it over, 
cram it in this paper sack. 
hubba. hubba. hubba. 
look at those luscious 
long brown bones, that wide and crusty 
pelvis. ha HA, oh she wanted so much to be serious 

but she never stops smiling now. 
Has she lost her mind? 

Marilyn, be serious - they're taking 
your picture, and they're taking the pictures 
of eight young women in New York City 
who murdered themselves for being pretty 
by the same method as you, the very 
next day, after you! 
I have claimed their bodies too, 
they smile up out of my paper sack 
like brainless cinderellas. 

the reporters are furious, they're asking 
me questions 
what right does a woman have 
to Marilyn Monroe's body? and what 
am I doing for lunch? They think I 
mean to eat you. Their teeth are lurid 
and they want to pose me, leaning 
on the shovel, nude. Don't squint. 

But when one of the reporters comes too close 
I beat him, bust his camera 
with your long, smooth thigh 
and with your lovely knucklebone 
I break his eye. 

Long ago you wanted to write poems; 
Be serious, Marilyn 
I am going to take you in this paper sack 
around the world, and 
write on it: - the poems of Marilyn Monroe - 
Dedicated to all princes, 
the male poets who were so sorry to see you go, 
before they had a crack at you. 
They wept for you, and also 
they wanted to stuff you 
while you still had a little meat left 
in useful places; 
but they were too slow. 

Now I shall take them my paper sack 
and we shall act out a poem together: 
"How would you like to see Marilyn Monroe, 
in action, smiling, and without her clothes?" 
We shall wait long enough to see them make familiar faces 
and then I shall beat them with your skull. 
hubba. hubba. hubba. hubba. hubba. 
Marilyn, be serious 
Today I have come to claim your body for my own. 

By Judy Grahn


----------



## Sky Dancer

Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a `Diver' -
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home -
I - a Sparrow - build there
Sweet twigs and twine
My perennial nest. 

Emily Dickenson


----------



## midcan5

'Out of the Blue'  Simon Armitage   ( one of four )  The second is not poetry but it is about the falling Man. 

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yacjArDnRbY]Rufus Sewell reads "9/11: Out Of The Blue" by Simon Armitage - 1/4 - YouTube[/ame]

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nj69WLACry8]Out of the Blue by Simon Armitage read by Rufus Sewell with clips from The Falling Man Documentary - YouTube[/ame]

"All lost.

"All lost in the dust.
Lost in the fall and the crush and the dark.
Now all coming back.
Up with the lark, downtown New York.
The sidewalks, the blocks.
Walk. Don't walk. Walk. Don't Walk.
Breakfast to go:
an adrenalin shot
in a Styrofoam cup
Then plucked from the earth,
rocketed skyward,
a fifth a mile
in a minute, if that.
The body arrives
then the soul catches up."

http://www.usmessageboard.com/writing/64331-poets-corner-32.html#post1506411


----------



## midcan5

'The Inventory Of Goodbye'

"I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides  what a bargain  no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.

Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red."

Anne Sexton


----------



## Sky Dancer

One
Testimony in trials that never got heard.

my lovers teeth are wild geese flying above me
my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands

we were driving home slow
my lover and I, across the long Bay bridge
one February night, when midway
over in the far left lane, I saw a strange scene:

one small young man standing by the rail,
and in the lane itself, parked straight across
as if it could stop anything, a large young man
on a stalled motorcycle, perfectly
relaxed, as if he had stalled at a hamburger stand;
he was wearing a pea coat and levi's, and
he had his head back, roaring, you
could almost hear the laugh, it
was so real.

"Look at that fool, " I said, "in the 
middle of the bridge like that,"  a very
womanly remark.

Then  we heard the meaing of the noise
of metal on a concrete bridge at 50
miles an hour and the far left lane
filled up with a big car that had a 
motorcycle jammed on its front bumper, like
the whole thing would explode, the friction
sparks shot up bright orange for many feet 
into the air, and the racket still sets 
my teeth on edge.

When the car stopped we stopped paralell
and Wendy headed for the callbox while I 
ducked across those six lanes like a mouse 
in a bowling alley.  "Are you hurt?", I said
the middle aged driver had the grayest black face'
"I couldn't stop, I couldn't stop, what happened?"

Then, I remembered.  "Somebody, I said, was on
the motorcycle.  I ran back.
one block? two blocks? the space for walking 
is maybe eighteen inches, whoever 
engineered this arrogance.  in the dark
stiff wind it seemed I would
be pushed over the rail, would fall down
screaming onto the hard surface of
the bay, but I did not, I found the tall young man
who thought he owned the bridge, now lying on
his stomach, head cradled in his broken arm

He had his glasses on, but somewhere he had lost
most of his levis, where were they?
and his shoes.  Two short cuts, on his buttocks,
that was the only mark except his thin white
seminal tubes were all strung out behind; no
child left _in him; and he looked asleep.

I plucked wildly at his wrist, then put it
down; there were two long haired women
holding back the traffic just behind me
with their bare hands, the machines came
down like mad bulls, I was scared, much
more than usual.  I felt easily squished
like the earthworms crawling on a busy
sidewalk after the rain;  I wanted
to leave. And met the driver walking back.

"The guy is dead".  I gripped his hand,
the wind was going to blow us off the bridge.


"Oh, my God,"  he said,  "haven't I had enough
trouble in my life?"  He raised his head,
and for a second, was enraged and yelling,
at the top of the bridge--"I was just driving
home!"  His head fell down, "My God, and 
now I've killed somebody."

I looked down at my own pea coat and levis,
then over at the dead mans friend, who
was bawling and blubbering, what they would
call hysteria in a woman, "It isn't possible",
he wailed, but it was possible, it was
indeed, accomplished and unfeeling, snoring 
in it's peacoat, and without it's levis on.

I had a woman waiting for me,
in her car, in the middle of the bridge,
I'm frightened, I said
I'm frightened, he said
I'm afraid he said, stay with me
please don't go, stay with me be
my witness--No, I'll be your 
witness-- later, and I took his name
and number, but I can't stay with you
I'm too frightened of the bridge, besides
I have a woman waiting
and no license--
and no tail lights--
So I left--
as I have left so many of my lovers.

we drove home
shaking, Wendy's face grayer 
than any white person's I have ever seen
maybe he beat his wife, maybe he once
drove taxi and raped a lover
of mine--how to know these things?
we do each other in, that's a fact.

who will be my witness"
death wastes our time with drunkenness 
and depression
death, who keeps us from our lovers,
he had a woman waiting for him,
I found out when I called the number
days later

"Where is he?" she said, "he's disappeared."
"He'll be alright, I said, we could have
hit the guy, as easy as anybody, it wasn't
anybody's fault, they'll know that."
women so often say dumb things like that,
they teach us to be sweet and reassuring,
and say ignorant things, because we don't
invent the crime, the punishment, the bridges.

that same week I looked into the mirror
and nobody was there to testify;
how clear, an unemployed queer woman
makes no witness at all.
nobody at all was there for 
those two questions, what does she do?
who is she married to?

I am the woman who stopped on the bridge
and this is the man who was there
our lovers teeth are white geese flying
above us, but we ourselves
are easily squished.

Keep the women small and weak,
and off the street, and off the 
bridges, that's the way, brother
one day I will leave you there,
as I have left you there before,
working for death.

we found out later
what we left him to
Six big policemen all answered the call,
all white, and no child in them.
They put the driver up against his car
and beat the hell out of him.
What did you kill that poor kid for,
you mother fucking ******
and that's a fact.

Death only uses violence
when there is any kind of resistance,
the rest of the time a slow 
wear down will do.

They took him to 4 different hospitals
till they got a drunk test report to fit their
case, and held him 5 days in jail
without a phone call
How many lovers do we have left?

There are as many contradictions to the game,
as there are players,
a woman is talking to death,
though talk is cheap, and life takes a long time
 to make
right.  He got a cheesy lawyer
who had him cop a plea, 15 to 20 
instead of life
Did I say life?

the arrogant young man who thought he 
owned  the bridge and fell asleep on it
he died laughing.  That's a fact.
the driver sits out his time
off the street somewhere
does he have the most vacant of 
eyes, will he die laughing?


----------



## Sky Dancer

Two
They don't have to lynch the women anymore

death sits on my doorstep
cleaning his revolver
death cripples my feet and sends me out
to wait for the bus alone,
then comes by driving a taxi.

the woman on our block with 6 young children
has the most vacant of eyes
death sits in her bedroom, loading
his revolver

they don't have to lynch the women
very often anymore, although
they used tothe lord and his men
went through the villages at night, beating &
killing every woman caught
outdoors.
the European witch trials took away
the independent people; two different villages
after the trials were through that year
had left in them, each
one living woman:
one

What were those other women up to? had they
run over someone? stopped on the wrong bridge?
did they have teeth like
any kind of geese, or children
in them?

Three
This woman is a lesbian be careful

In the military hospital where I worked
as a nurse's aide, the walls of the halls
were lined with howling women
waiting to deliver
or to have some parts removed.
One of the big private rooms contained
the general's wife, who needed
a wart taken off her nose.
we were instructed to give her special attention
not because of her wart or her nose
but because of her husband, the general.

as many women as men die, and that's a fact.

At work there was one friendly patient, already
claimed, a young woman burnt apart with X-ray,
she had long white tubes instead of openings;
rectum, bladder, vaginaI combed her hair, it
was my job, but she took care of me as if
nobody's touch could spoil her.

ho ho death, ho death
have you seen the twinkle in the dead woman's eye?

when you are a nurse's aide
someone suddenly notices you
and yells about the patient's bed,
and tears the sheets apart so you
can do it over, and over
while the patient waits
doubled over in her pain
for you to make the bed again
and no one ever looks at you,
only at what you do not do
Here, general, hold this soldier's bed pan
for a moment, hold it for a year
then we'll promote you to making his bed.
we believe you wouldn't make such messes
if you had to clean up after them.

that's a fantasy.
this woman is a lesbian, be careful.

When I was arrested and being thrown out
of the military, the order went out: dont anybody
speak to this woman, and for those three
long months, almost nobody did; the dayroom, when
I entered it, fell silent till I had gone; they
were afraid, they knew the wind would blow
them over the rail, the cops would come,
the water would run into their lungs.
Everything I touched
was spoiled. They were my lovers, those
women, but nobody had taught us to swim.
I drowned, I took 3 or 4 others down
when I signed the confession of what we
had done together.

No one will ever speak to me again.

I read this somewhere; I wasn't there:
in WW II the US army had invented some floating
amphibian tanks, and took them over to
the coast of Europe to unload them,
the landing ships all drawn up in a fleet,
and everybody watching. Each tank had a
crew of 6 and there were 25 tanks.
The first went down the landing planks
and sank, the second, the third, the
fourth, the fifth, the sixth went down
and sank. They weren't supposed
to sink, the engineers had
made a mistake. The crew looked around
wildly for the order to quit,
but none came, and in the sight of
thousands of men, each 6 crewmen
saluted his officers, battened down
his hatch in turn and drove into the
sea, and drowned, until all 25 tanks
were gone. did they have vacant
eyes, die laughing, or what? what
did they talk about, those men,
as the water came in?

was the general their lover?

Four
A Mock Interrogation

Have you ever held hands with a woman?

Yes, many timeswomen about to deliver, women about to
have breasts removed, wombs removed, miscarriages, women
having epileptic fits, having asthma, cancer, women having
breast bone marrow sucked out of them by nervous or
indifferent interns, women with heart condition, who were
vomiting, overdosed, depressed, drunk, lonely to the point
of extinction: women who had been run over, beaten up,
deserted, starved. women who had been bitten by rats; and
women who were happy, who were celebrating, who were
dancing with me in large circles or alone, women who were
climbing mountains or up and down walls, or trucks or roofs
and needed a boost up, or I did; women who simply wanted
to hold my hand because they liked me, some women who
wanted to hold my hand because they liked me better than
anyone.

These were many women?

Yes. many.

What about kissing? Have you kissed any women?

I have kissed many women.

When was the first woman you kissed with serious feeling?

The first woman I ever kissed was Josie, who I had loved at
such a distance for months. Josie was not only beautiful,
she was tough and handsome too. Josie had black hair and
white teeth and strong brown muscles. Then she dropped
out of school unexplained. When she came back she came
back for one day only, to finish the term, and there was a
child in her. She was all shame, pain, and defiance. Her eyes
were dark as the water under a bridge and no one would
talk to her, they laughed and threw things at her. In the
afternoon I walked across the front of the class and look-
ed deep into Josie's eyes and I picked up her chin with my
hand, because I loved her, because nothing like her trouble
would ever happen to me, because I hated it that she was
pregnant and unhappy, and an outcast. We were thirteen.

You didn't kiss her?

How does it feel to be thirteen and having a baby?

You didn't actually kiss her?

Not in fact.

You have kissed other women?

Yes, many, some of the finest women I know, I have kissed.
women who were lonely, women I didn't know and didn't
want to, but kissed because that was a way to say yes we are
still alive and loveable, though separate, women who recog-
nized a loneliness in me, women who were hurt, I confess to
kissing the top of a 55 year old woman's head in the snow in
boston, who was hurt more deeply than I have ever been
hurt, and I wanted her as a very few people have wanted
meI wanted her and me to own and control and run the
city we lived in, to staff the hospital I knew would mistreat
her, to drive the transportation system that had betrayed
her, to patrol the streets controlling the men who would
murder or disfigure or disrupt us, not accidentally with machines, but
on purpose, because we are not allowed out
on the street alone

Have you ever committed any indecent acts with women?

Yes, many. I am guilty of allowing suicidal women to die
before my eyes or in my ears or under my hands because I
thought I could do nothing, I am guilty of leaving a prosti-
tute who held a knife to my friend's throat to keep us from
leaving, because we would not sleep with her, we thought
she was old and fat and ugly; I am guilty of not loving her
who needed me; I regret all the women I have not slept with
or comforted, who pulled themselves away from me for lack
of something I had not the courage to fight for, for us, our
life, our planet, our city, our meat and potatoes, our love.
These are indecent acts, lacking courage, lacking a certain
fire behind the eyes, which is the symbol, the raised fist, the
sharing of resources, the resistance that tells death he will
starve for lack of the fat of us, our extra. Yes I have com-
mitted acts of indecency with women and most of them were
acts of omission. I regret them bitterly.

Five
Bless this day oh cat our house

"I was allowed to go
3 places, growing up," she said
"3 places, no more.
there was a straight line from my house
to school, a straight line from my house
to church, a straight line from my house
to the corner store."
her parents thought something might happen to her.
but nothing ever did.

my lovers teeth are white geese flying above me
my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands
we are the river of life and the fat of the land
death, do you tell me I cannot touch this woman?
if we use each other up
on each other
that's a little bit less for you
a little bit less for you, ho
death, ho ho death

Bless this day oh cat our house
help me be not such a mouse
death tells the woman to stay home
and then breaks in the window.

I read this somewhere, I wasn't there:
In feudal Europe, if a woman committed adultery
her husband would sometimes tie her
down, catch a mouse and trap it
under a cup on her bare belly, until
it gnawed itself out, now are you
afraid of mice?

Six
Dressed as I am, a young man once called
me names in Spanish

a woman who talks to death
is a dirty traitor

inside a hamburger joint and
dressed as I am, a young man once called me
names in Spanish
then he called me queer and slugged me.
first I thought the ceiling had fallen down
but there was the counterman making a ham
sandwich, and there was I spread out on his
counter.

For God's sake I said when
I could talk, this guy is beating me up
can't you call the police or something,
can't you stop him? he looked up from
working on his sandwich, which was my
sandwich, I had ordered it. He liked
the way I looked. "There's a pay phone
right across the street" he said.

I couldn't listen to the Spanish language
for weeks afterward, without feeling the
most murderous of urges, the simple
association of one thing to another,
so damned simple.

The next day I went to the police station
to become an outraged citizen
Six big policemen stood in the hall,
all white and dressed as they do
they were well pleased with my story, pleased
at what had gotten beat out of me, so
I left them laughing, went home fast
and locked my door.
For several nights I fantasized the scene
again, this time grabbing a chair
and smashing it over the bastard's head,
killing him. I called him a ****, and
killed him. My face healed, his didn't.
no child in me.

now when I remember I think:
maybe he was Josie's baby.
all the chickens come home to roost,
all of them.

Seven
Death and disfiguration

One Christmas eve my lovers and I
we left the bar, driving home slow
there was a woman lying in the snow
by the side of the road. she was wearing
a bathrobe and no shoes, where were
her shoes? she had turned the snow
pink, under her feet. she was an Asian
woman, didn't speak much English, but
she said a taxi driver beat her up
and raped her, throwing her out of his
car.
what on earth was she doing there
on a street she helped to pay for
but doesn't own?
doesn't she know to stay home?

I am a pervert, therefore I've learned
to keep my hands to myself in public
but I was so drunk that night,
I actually did something loving
I took her in my arms, this woman,
until she could breathe right, and
my friends who are perverts too
they touched her too
we all touched her
"You're going to be all right"
we lied. She started to cry
"I'm 55 years old" she said
and that said everything.

Six big policemen answered the call
no child in them.
they seemed afraid to touch her,
then grabbed her like a corpse and heaved her
on their metal stretcher into the van,
crashing and clumsy.
She was more frightened than before.
they were cold and bored.
'don't leave me' she said.
'she'll be all right' they said.
we left, as we have left all of our lovers
as all lovers leave all lovers
much too soon to get the real loving done.

Eight
a mock interrogation

Why did you get into the cab with him, dressed as you are?

I wanted to go somewhere.

Did you know what the cab driver might do
if you got into the cab with him?

I just wanted to go somewhere.

How many times did you
get into the cab with him?

I don't remember.

If you don't remember, how do you know it happened to you?


Nine
Hey you death

ho and ho poor death
our lovers teeth are white geese flying above us
our lovers hands are rope ladders under our hands
even though no women yet go down to the sea in ships
except in their dreams.

only the arrogant invent a quick and meaningful end
for themselves, of their own choosing.
everyone else knows how very slow it happens
how the woman's existence bleeds out her years,
how the child shoots up at ten and is arrested and old
how the man carries a murderous shell within him
and passes it on.

we are the fat of our land, and
we all have our list of casualties
to my lovers I bequeath
the rest of my life

I want nothing left of me for you, ho death
except some fertilizer
for the next batch of us
who do not hold hands with you
who do not embrace you
who do not try to work for you
or sacrifice themselves or trust
or believe you, ho ignorant
death, how do you know
we happened to you?

wherever our meat hangs on our own bones
for our own use
your pot is so empty
death, ho death
you shall be poor



Judy Grahn, 1974


----------



## Sky Dancer

North American Time 

I 

When my dreams showed signs 
of becoming 
politically correct 
no unruly images 
escaping beyond borders 
when walking in the street I found my 
themes cut out for me 
knew what I would not report 
for fear of enemies' usage 
then I began to wonder 

II 

Everything we write 
will be used against us 
or against those we love. 
These are the terms, 
take them or leave them. 
Poetry never stood a chance 
of standing outside history. 
One line typed twenty years ago 
can be blazed on a wall in spraypaint 
to glorify art as detachment 
or torture of those we 
did not love but also 
did not want to kill. 

We move but our words stand 
become responsibly 
for more than we intended 

and this is verbal privilege 

VII 

I am thinking this in a country 
where words are stolen out of mouths 
as bread is stolen out of mouths 
where poets don't go to jail 
for being poets, but for being 
dark-skinned, female, poor. 
I am writing this in a time 
when anything we write 
can be used against those we love 
where the context is never given 
though we try to explain, over and over 
For the sake of poetry at least 
I need to know these things 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## syrenn

Mighty and proud
The semblance of stone
Gives way to fate
In perfect time
Reaching for the stars
Jagged rubble
Softest sand
Sleeping in the ocean.​


----------



## Sky Dancer

"Change happens very slow and very sudden." 
 Dorothy Bryant (The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You)


----------



## Sky Dancer

View from Vanilla Pudding Bowl 

by skydancer




Just milky, thick

Off-white.

Muted sweetness.

Nothing to get too excited about.

All smooth, no hard edges.

Anywhere.

Just sitting here

Waiting for you to taste me.

Why run?

When you can walk?

Why walk?

When you can stand?

Why stand?

When you can sit.

Why sit?

When you can

Be.​


----------



## Sky Dancer

Tapdance

by 

Sky Dancer


Strangely satisfying

To swing these legs

And tap these feet in place.

Feet that walk without going.

Anywhere

Everywhere

Nowhere.

Such sweet relief

To touch cold, hard linoleum

After suffering warm plush carpet

All day.​


----------



## Sky Dancer

Tip the barmaid in tight jeans.
She's my friend.
Been to hell and back again.
I've been there too.

Girlfriend, I believe in Gandhi.
But some nights nothing says it 
quite precise like a lone star
cracked on someone's head.

Last week in this same bar,
kicked a cowboy in the butt
who made a grab for Terry's ass.
How do I explain, it was all
of Texas I was kicking,
and all of our asses on the line.

At Tacoland, Cat flamencoing crazy
circles round the pool
player with the furry tongue.
A warpath of sorts for every
wrong ever wronged us.

And Terry here has her own history,
A bar don't the street she can't.


----------



## Sky Dancer

By Etheridge Knight

Hard rock/ was/ "known to take no shit
From nobody," and he had the scars to prove it:
His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut
Across his temple and plowed through a thick
Canopy of kinky hair.

The WORD/ was/ that Hard Rock wasn't a mean ******
Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head,
Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity
Through the rest.  When they brought Hard Rock back,
Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose,
Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status.
and we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep,
To see if the WORD was true.

As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak
Of his exploits: "Man, the last time, it took eight
Screws to put him in the Hole."  "Yeah, remember when he 
Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?"  he set
the record for time in the Hole-67 straight days!
"Ol Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy ******."
And then the jrewl of a myth that hard Rock had once bit
A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphillic spit.

The testing came to see if Hard Rock was really tame.
A hillbilly called him a black son of bitch
And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock
From before shook him down and barked in his face
And Hard Rock did nothing.  Just grinned and looked silly.
His empty eyes like knot holes in a fence.
And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock 
Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his name
we told ourselves that he had just wised up,
Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long.
And we turned away, our eyes on the ground.  Crushed.

He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things
We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do.
The fears of years like a biting whip,
Had cut deep bloody grooves
Across our backs.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Death by Poetry


by Sky Dancer


Let's read yet another turn of phrase.

Beautiful sounding words,

Don't make them mean what they say.

Has to be hidden.

Requires a map.

A compass.

A pompous ass.

A fictionary.

An encyclopedia of myth and illogistry.

A thesaurus.

A brontosaurus of vague, ambiguous

Soliloquy.

Synonyms/Antonyms

Make me work for it, baby

Analyze me

Paralyze me

Synthesize me

Kill me with hidden meaning.

Scrabble my rabble

Burn out my brain.​


----------



## Sky Dancer

I'm not a girl
I'm a hatchet
I'm not a hole
I'm a whole mountain
I'm not a fool
I'm a survivor
I'm not a pearl
I'm the Atlantic Ocean
I'm not a good lay
I'm a straight razor
Look at me as if you had never seen a woman before
I have red, red hands and much bitterness.

Judy Grahn


----------



## Sky Dancer

the photograph: a lynching


is it the cut glass
of their eyes
looking up toward
the new gnarled branch
of the black man
hanging from a tree?

is the the white milk pleated 
collar of the woman 
smiling toward the camera,
her fingers loose around
a christian cross drooping
against her breast?

is it all of us
captured by history into an
accurate album?  will we be
required to view it together
under a gathering sky?

Lucille Clifton


----------



## Sky Dancer

rain hurt you, blackbirds
brood over the sky trees
burn down everywhere brown
rabbits run under 
car wheels. should your
body cry?  to feel such
blue and empty bed dont
bother.  If you lose your
lover comb hair go here
or there get another

Judy Grahn


----------



## Sky Dancer

Her words pour out as if her throat were a broken
artery and her mind were cut-glass, carelessly handled.
You imagine her in a huge velvet hat with great 
dangling black feathers,
but she shaves her head instead
and goes for three-day midnight walks.
Sometimes she goes down to the dock and dances
off the end of it, simply to prove her belief
that people who cannot walk on water
are phonies, or dead.
When she is cruel, she is very, very
cool and when she is kind she is lavish.
Fishermen think perhaps she's a fish, but they're all
fools.  She figured out that the only way
to keep from being frozen was to 
stay in motion, and long ago converted
most of her flesh into liquid.  Now when she smells 
danger, she spills herself all over,
like gasoline, and lights it.
She leaves the taste of salt and iron
under your tongue, but you don't mind.
The common woman is as common
as the reddest wine.

Judy Grahn


----------



## Sky Dancer

Balances  


  in life
one is always
balancing

like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers

or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average) 

3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street

and lately i've begun wondering
if you're trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night
and do things alone together

and i've begun

(as a reaction to a feeling) 
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you 



Niki Giovanni


----------



## Sky Dancer

History

Everything's a metaphor, some wise 
guy said, and his woman nodded, 
wisely. 

Why was this such a discovery 
to him? Why did history happen 
only on the outside? 


She'd watched an embryo track 
an arc across her swollen belly from 
the inside and knew she'd best 
think knee, not tumor or burrowing mole, 
lest it emerge a monster. 


Each craving marks the soul: 
splashed white upon a temple the dish 
of ice cream, coveted, broken 
in a wink, or the pickle duplicated 
just behind the ear. 


Every wish will find its symbol, 
the woman thinks. 


Written by Rita Dove


----------



## midcan5

'Girls&#8217; Middle School Orchestra'

"They&#8217;re all dressed up in carmine
floor-length velvet gowns, their upswirled hair
festooned with matching ribbons:
their fresh hopes and our fond hopes for them
infuse this sort-of-music as if happiness could actually be
each-plays-her-part-and-all-will-take-care-of-itself.
Their hearts unscarred under quartz lights
beam through the darkness in which we sit
to show us why we endured at home
the squeaking and squawking and botched notes
that now in concert are almost beautiful,
almost rendering this heartrending music
composed for an archduke who loved it so much
he spent his fortune for the musicians
who could bring it brilliantly to life."

Michael Ryan


----------



## Dragon

*Yuletide*

Light fades to dark, day into gray, warmth is a memory
Lost in a flurry of snow, a crust of ice on the ground.
Was summer real? Did we walk naked, sweat in the sun?
Did we seek shade, gulp ice water, squint in the glare,
Bother ourselves with color of skin or tint of tan,
Or power of flowers or equal relations of woman and man?
How right it all seemed in the summer sun, in the humid heat
Of summer&#8217;s passion, and we forgot that winter would come.
The flowers are buried under the snow, and the passion dies
With the dying sun, as the animals dig through the frozen ground,
Not for a treat but just for the means to survive the day,
And for us as for them, merely to live has become the task,
The grand crusades all left behind like fast food wrappers,
Even the litter hidden from sight by the settled snow.

 And even so . . .

 We don't forget, who love the Earth and dance to Her song,
That the shortest day, the longest night, and the depths of cold
Are also the point when the promise is kept and the Sun returns.
When all is bleakest, we burn the fire and sing the songs
And drink wassail and give the gifts and the languid kiss
'Neath the mistletoe and eat the feast, because we know
That this is the turning, the end of winter in winter's peak.
From this day forth, the sun will grow, the night retreat,
The ice will melt and the waters run and the snow withdraw,
The flowers burst and the new shoots joy, in the ancient riddle
Of life's beginning in the arms of death, of love's triumph
At the peak of hate, of liberty springing from tyranny's grip.
Take comfort in this: the victory's won when all seems lost.
So says the promise of Spring that's made in Winter's heart.


----------



## Dragon

*Resonance*

A crystal, split in two, sings harmony each half with each.
A note upon the one, by silver hammer fairy-struck,
Evokes the chord its sundered twin sings, too
And both sweet mineral voices lift in tune
In one place, their distance charmed to none.
Are we a pair of stones? What chisel split us, then,
That sundered not just miles but also years,
And made you part of me before you were?

A dolphin's water song is more than sound.
It reaches soulwise half around the world
To kiss the ears and heart of her lost twin
Who answers with a cry of painful joy,
Recognizing one he never knew, and always.
What voice, more heart than throat, has borne me up
And made me see the light again, who plumbed
The melancholy comfort of the sea's dark vault?

A particle once sundered from its mate
By subatomic edicts of divorce
Thumbs its nose at Albert and ignores
The distances between them, always knowing
The dance-steps faster than the speed of light.
Is this the link we share, a gluon of the soul
Binding the hearts nucleus together
In defiance of the atomizing force
Of space and time
Through music and rhyme
Weaving song and poem in a 4D tapestry
Binding then and later into now?


----------



## Dragon

*The Tree of Me*

Were I a tree, what tree would I be?
Scrub pine, redwood, Joshua tree?
Scrawny mesquite with dagger-long thorns?
Yggdrasil world tree watered by norns?
Dragon tree, maybe, home to my guide,
Juniper tree where the bird-boy died,
Tree of the Hesperides (dragon there, too!),
Long-lived, friendly big bamboo,
Birthplace of man in the Philippine tale,
Or the parables willow that bows to the gale,
But perhaps I am none of these; something unique
With fruit-heavy limbs hanging over a creek
May describe me best  its a heady wine
I offer the birds on which to dine
And drunk on my spirits they sing and dance
And follow the oracle, choice or chance
To distant lands, where the seeds go plop!
Beside distant creeks into fertile slop
And they sprout from the mud in novel forms
None like the others, outside the norms,
Each one displaying a type of me
That isnt displayed in this old tree.
For here is the truth that every tree knows:
The bends of the branches as they grow
Fix us fast to the choices made,
This-not-that, a song thats played
Instead of another: but in the heart
Are all the infinite ways of art
And the roots go down to the planets core
While the limbs stretch millions of miles and more
And I cant be named as just one tree
But only as every tree that could be.

&#65279;


----------



## midcan5

'Old Men Playing Basketball'

"The heavy bodies lunge, the broken language
of fake and drive, glamorous jump shot
slowed to a stutter. Their gestures, in love
again with the pure geometry of curves,
rise toward the ball, falter, and fall away.
On the boards their hands and fingertips
tremble in tense little prayers of reach
and balance. Then, the grind of bone
and socket, the caught breath, the sigh,
the grunt of the body laboring to give
birth to itself. In their toiling and grand
sweeps, I wonder, do they still make love
to their wives, kissing the undersides
of their wrists, dancing the old soft-shoe
of desire? And on the long walk home
from the VFW, do they still sing
to the drunken moon? Stands full, clock
moving, the one in army fatigues
and houseshoes says to himself, pick and roll,
and the phrase sounds musical as ever,
radio crooning songs of love after the game,
the girl leaning back in the Chevys front seat
as her raven hair flames in the shuddering
light of the outdoor movie, and now he drives,
gliding toward the net. A glass wand
of autumn light breaks over the backboard.
Boys rise up in old men, wings begin to sprout
at their backs. The ball turns in the darkening air."

B. H. Fairchild


----------



## midcan5

'This Time We&#8217;ll Go To Kentucky Fried Chicken'

for Tom

"You were the one with the body
that could balance on a skateboard,
dive into a pool, the water
closing behind you.
And you could hold your breath
at the bottom, watch the sunlight shatter
on the tile.
Your eye marked where to send a ball
and it would hit
the backboard, the mitt&#8212;
you could chart a trajectory
from the boy in the doorframe
who stood next to me and looked at our mother
not getting out of bed
after our father died,
his bed made, all the stripes pulled up vertical
under the pillow
where his head would never leave
another dent.
You said, If she dies too,
we&#8217;ll go to Kentucky Fried Chicken
not Wendy&#8217;s
where we went after the funeral
which you spent driving your matchbox cars
up and down the lines of wood
in the pews, steering the small wheels
around the knots underneath
the soft polish.
You tried to be quiet, but I could hear you
making your car noises
in your throat."

Laura Read


----------



## midcan5

'The Niagara River' 	 

"As though
the river were
a floor, we position
our table and chairs
upon it, eat, and 
have conversation.
As it moves along,
we noticeas
calmly as though
dining room paintings 
were being replaced
the changing scenes 
along the shore. We
do know, we do 
know this is the
Niagara River, but 
it is hard to remember
what that means."

Kay Ryan


----------



## graywolf

Joseph Campisi 

GRANDFATHER'S CHRISTMAS

BY JOE CAMPISI
It's Christmas in the 90's and
things just aren't the same,
I don't hear the laughter of Old
Saint Nick........and some won't 
even call his name.

Jesus and Mary with wise men and
all, this year, had to be moved from
the lawn at City Hall.

So we talked to the children, the 
old and the young, as the family
gathered......the story begun.

The story of Christ and how baby
Jesus was born.....and the good things
in life we all adorn.

I knew everything was alright
as I held my grandchildren so
very tight, they said Merry
Christmas Grandpa.....we love you,


----------



## midcan5

'I Cant Sleep So Ill Tell You A Story'

"Every cricket chirping sounds, to me,
like my sons garage band must sound
to the neighbor who calls, twice a week,
and threatens to call the cops, but never does.
You cant call the cops on crickets.
You cant even call their parents.
I can hear a train in the distance.
In the distance, people are making
even more distance
between themselves and this place.
Years ago, when I was teaching poetry
at a prison, miles away
from the nearest bus stop,
I used to hitchhike right in front of the prison.
I was always surprised when anyone stopped.
I wondered if my thumb screamed
not the thumb of an escaped convict!
Once a blonde picked me up
on her way back from visiting her husband.
She was beautiful like a sunset, if a sunset
had been raised in a trailer park.
Her husband had burned down their house
with her in it, her and her mother.
Change of heart, he rushed back in
for her, but left his mother-in-law to the flames.
The blonde shrugged that he still excited her,
said he asked her to wear skirts with no panties
on visits. I dont know what my face said,
but she flipped her skirt up, just for a second,
said Now you believe me. My face
said I was embarrassed, and she laughed.
I lie here thinking of all the places
people are going where I havent been,
thinking of the place where that prisoner had been,
a place where I gawked at the doorway,
but didnt knock, and never mind the moon,
never mind the stars, I lie here
in the noisy darkness, thinking
of all the places it could take a person."

Tom C. Hunley


----------



## midcan5

'Lines Depicting Simple Happiness'

"The shine on her buckle took precedence in sun
Her shine, I should say, could take me anywhere
It feels right to be up this close in tight wind
It feels right to notice all the shiny things about you
About you there is nothing I wouldnt want to know
With you nothing is simple yet nothing is simpler
About you many good things come into relation
I think of proofs and grammar, vowel sounds, like
A is for knee socks, E for panties
I is for buttondown, O the blouse you wear
U is for hair clip, and Y your tight skirt
The music picks up again, I am the man I hope to be
The bright air hangs freely near your newly cut hair
It is so easy now to see gravity at work in your face
Easy to understand time, that dark process
To accept it as a beautiful process, your face"

Peter Gizzi


----------



## midcan5

'In Every Language'

"Remind me (again) how beautiful you are.
Remind my words how to dance.
Yes, teach them poetry. Let my words
look into your eyes and taste your lips.
This is what I remember when you walk
away (again). The streets so empty
without your arms."

E. Ethelbert Miller


----------



## midcan5

'For Good'

"Were going to the country for good
I told my kindergarten teacher.
It was 1929. I wasnt thinking forever

for good meant the country was a good
place, life there would be good.
I couldnt know my father would take

a bus, a train and a ferry to work
leaving in the dark, coming home
in the dark, chain-smoking his way

to a heart attack, or that my mother
in the darkness of another winter
would die of pneumonia. The day

we moved to the country
my mother played Fox and Geese
with my brother and me. We lay down

and made angel wings with our arms.
We danced in a circle to keep warm.
She played with us all day in the snow

and no one could have told me it wasnt for good."

Joan Stern


----------



## midcan5

'Dont Ask Me Any Questions'

"I used to know all the answers
but I dont anymore
possess the assurance, bravado
of foolish youth.

The more ancient I get
the less I know.
My faltering footsteps,
seek secure ground.

Dont ask me any questions.
I have no answers.

Where is the wisdom
that arrives with age?
Another fairytale for the young."

Nan Sherman


----------



## ZiemanZnzoru

give me some sun shine ,give me some rain ,give me another chance i wanna grow up once again ,
when your life become out of control , put your tongue roll.
make round your lips and make whrisel  and say ....
all is well....oh brother all is well .......


----------



## midcan5

'After a Death'

"Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales."

Tomas Tranströmer	
translated by Robert Bly

http://www.haaretz.com/culture/arts-leisure/a-victory-for-poetry-1.389270


----------



## midcan5

'The Lesson'

"In that second grade classroom, Mrs. Circle said
each of us carries an ocean inside
bigger than we are, like happiness, and full of
fish that live nowhere else in the world
and tides that are pulled by our heartbeats, and low tide
sand bars to wade far out in the bright sun.
She taught us we can learn to swim there by jumping
out into the water where the water is still
and shallow, holding our breath and moving
our arms and legs gently, gentlytry
for yourself she suggested, and we all closed our eyes
sitting there at our desks, while the snow fell outside
and the radiator whispered. I could hear the clock tick
as we held our breath and swam without really
moving our bodies, like jellyfish, across
the beds of coral that were filled with many-colored fish
whose names didnt matter, Mrs. Circle said,
as long as you let them come to you
they are like angelsand nibble the tiny
air bubbles that cling to the hairs along your legs and arms.
Feel how they tickle, she said, Take a deep breath,
dive down underwater as far as you can.
Do you see your shadow down there on the sand,
following your body? Thats another form of you,
a kind of memory, swimming down below
your only solid body. Dont forget it. Then she clapped her hands
and we all looked up, happy to be sitting there
with our young teacher in that drafty classroom
in the age of extinctions and nuclear bombs
we hadnt been taught about yet."

Michael Hettich


----------



## midcan5

'When Our Parents Fight'

            -for my brothers-

"Never before had it wronged into silence,
            had the screaming and tears
given way to a stillness, this government

hush even the house could feel.
            Generally, when our parents fought,
they&#8217;d tell one another

exactly where it hurt; which anniversary
            forgotten, evenings destroyed.
Like crows, they would peck and peck

at the dead until all we longed for
            was a normal divorce: the luxury of
hating one&#8217;s lover from afar.

But they didn&#8217;t hate each other
            and so it got worse&#8212;
our mother in the kitchen taking scissors

to coupons. Dad at his desktop
            pretending to fly&#8212;
both of them quiet now as though they&#8217;d run

out of ways to bring the other down.
            This, we knew,
was a new kind of fighting,

and the three of us tightened to endure its blow."

Jared Harel

=============================================

After reading this again I thought of my own version.  repost.

My Wife and I  #3

We are married too long 
we don't fight
instead we call each other names
joke or just say you are crazy,
we deflect and realize no reason
exists to carry on too far,
today I say when 
she drives me mad,
i'm going to whip 
the bean soup outta you
just as soon as
I work up the energy,
She laughs.


----------



## midcan5

'Geography'

"My four year old daughter comes home from school with a map of the world. This is Africa she tells me. This is where we come from. Daddy watch me color the rest of the world. I watch her color Europe red and all of the Atlantic. I try to encourage the use of blues and greens but she refuses. She sees the world with her own brown eyes. My daughter stops coloring and prints her name at the top of her map. Jasmine - she says like a young Columbus. Her mouth round with wonder."

E. Ethelbert Miller


----------



## midcan5

'Lets Meet Yesterday'

"Puzzling over his date book,
our chairman says: The next meeting
will behmmmm. Yesterday.
That must be wrong, dont you think?

Not at all. Id love to meet yesterday.
Id ride in on my red Schwinn,
the one with white rubber mud flaps,
battery-powered horn hidden
in the crossbar, dented fender
where I clobbered the neighbor ladys
parked car. Id bring Midnight, my dog
Pop shot after he caught distemper,
and Calico, my cat who died
after Walter Bongi kicked her. Id sit
on that yellow plastic kitchen chair
I chewed a hole in during a tense
moment listening to Bobby Benson
and the B-Bar-B Riders. Wed drink
Bosco, eat Moon Pies. During the break,
wed argue whether Duke Snider
and the Brooklyn Dodgers are better
than Willie Mays and the New York
Giants. Id jot notes on a lined sheet
of paper made with wood chips
big as my fingernail, then wad
it into the back pocket of my jeans
with the iron-on patches at the knees
and go home to Mom Quigley,
who would feed me cinnamon rolls
and sing The Old Rugged Cross
while she sweeps the floor, never once
mentioning the stroke that put her
in a coma for five years before she died."

David Jordan


Gotta be a bit old for this one or maybe not.


----------



## midcan5

'October'

"I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.

Sooner or later, I thought,
the wind would begin to make sense
if I listened hard
and took notes religiously.
That was spring.

Now Im not so sure:
the cloudless sky has a flat affect
and the fields plowed down after harvest
seem so expressionless,
keeping their own counsel.

This afternoon, nut tree leaves
blow across them
as if autumn had written us a long letter,
changed its mind,
and tore it into little scraps."

Don Thompson


----------



## midcan5

'Potato Soup'

"I set up my computer and webcam in the kitchen
so I can ask my mothers and aunts advice
as I cook soup for the first time alone.
My mother is in Utah. My aunt is in Hungary.
I show the onions to my mother with the webcam.
Cut them smaller, she advises.
You only need a taste.
I chop potatoes as the onions fry in my pan.
When I say I have no paprika to add to the broth,
they argue whether it can be called potato soup.
My mother says it will be white potato soup,
my aunt says potato soup must be red.
When I add sliced peppers, I ask many times
if I should put the water in now,
but they both say to wait until I add the potatoes.
I add Polish sausage because I cant find Hungarian,
and I cook it so long the potatoes fall apart.
Youve made stew, my mother says
when I hold up the whole pot to the camera.
They laugh and say I must get married soon.
I turn off the computer and eat alone."

Daniel Nyikos


----------



## midcan5

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umZIiLYnfzs]Poetry Everywhere: "The Dancing" by Gerald Stern - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'Everything I Wanted I Had'

"a dime to sit through a Fred Astaire movie
twice, kids to play with after school,
parents who loved me, and four sisters.
June, in college, juggling boyfriends, May,

just two years behind, sang
at all the ladies clubs. Eleanor,
way ahead of me too. Thirteen.
I tried imagine being so grownup.

Sure, we quarreled, but sometimes
we had such fun making fudge, dancing
to Glen Millers Boogie Woogie,
in the upstairs hall.

It was my birthday, my first party ever.
We played musical chairs, upset the fruit basket.
And for once, I was the center of attention.
I remember two presents,

a tiny glass vase of jeweled flowers
that shone blue and red on my hand.
The best one, a real diary. It even had
a little gold key to lock up my secrets.

After everyone left, I went up to my room,
closed the door and told my diary,
I cant believe it. At last.
I am ten years old."

Phyllis M. Teplitz


----------



## midcan5

'Twelve Sticks of Dynamite'

"I want a jury of my peers, twelve angry women, who hate housework.

I want you to look into their eyes and tell them how I drive you mad
when I haphazardly toss clothes into draws with disregard
to the system you keep trying to enact. Shirts should be with shirts,
grouped together according to sleeve length, pants with pants, socks with socks.

I want a jury of my peers, twelve angry women, who gave birth.

I want you to tell them how you tried to convince me that I was not going into labor,
even after my water broke. I want you to explain how the nurses wheeled you in a bed,
so you could sleep while I waited hours for an epidural. I want you to tell them about
how two nurses were telling you to sit down, put your head between your legs
and breathe while I pushed our daughter out into this world.

I want a jury of my peers, twelve angry women who were told that breastfeed babies
are proven to be more intelligent and that the torn tip of their nipples
would eventually heal and strengthen. I want you to look at them
and tell them the truth, that I gave up after three days to self-medicate.

I want a jury of my peers, twelve angry women who know I am guilty,

but will exonerate anyway."

Rebecca Schumejda


----------



## midcan5

'The Logic of Centrifugal Force'

"The shopkeeper spun the top-like toy on the counter and waited. The toy made a click sound when she spun it. Clay watched the five-armed star spin, its motion blurring the toys shape. You come in for puzzles all the time, the shopkeeper said. Its a puzzle with a secret answer. The toy stopped and the five metal balls that had to rest in holes at the end of each arm were in place. If you try to get the balls in each hole by themselves, youll never make it. Its got to spin. Clay liked the shopkeeper. She was plump, sprayed her graying hair, and wore an excess of powder beneath her arms. Hed come into her flea market every other week to spend money hed get from bottle returns. Today he had no money and came in to steal. What do you think? the shopkeeper asked as she spun the top again. Clay thought of his mothers slurred speech as she hopped onto the back of Carl Wilsons bike and peeled from their street, air ballooning beneath her windbreaker, of his father two thousand miles away in California, macramé bracelets on his arms, his beard filling in, of his grandparents flat, empty after their move east, paint softly feathering, of the walks through the snow with his sister to spend food stamps on Coke and Little Debbies before the start of Good Times, of the perfectly shaped circle in the living room window where hed heaved the baseball months earlier, wind now rushing in the hole. The top slowed, then stopped, the balls firmly in their separate arms."

C. Vincent Samarco


----------



## midcan5

'Swing'

"Simply by pumping
my thin arms & legs
I could tip the world up
on its lip
like a penny

& rock it

back down
shift the wind so my bangs blew
back. stopped.
washed back
over my eyes.

stopped.

& my house & the trees
& my father & mother
& the sun in the sky
would jump up
& down

at my whim

as I leaned
back & pointed my toes so
my skirt would
bloom wide
as a daylilys red

mouth

then shut like night
& the neighborhood
boys would
cry out,
"I see France!""

Suzume Shi


----------



## midcan5

'Fixing Cars'

"I like the argument that man is alone in the universe,
and ipso facto its most intelligent being.
It proves there is no God, or if there is,
its the god of low SAT scores.

Astronomers debate the dark matter between stars.
I picture a conversational pause with a Bush apologist,
each party wondering, What planet?

If I read the moon right tonight, there is no reading it.
If I tell my kid sister the stars are eyes twinkling,
why do their cold winks give me the shivers?

The smartest kid on our block couldnt jump-start
his engine if he was stuck in the wrong end of town
and his life depended on it. I cant read my tax form.
I fix his cars, he interprets the IRS,
and under Earths starry hood,
we solve the problems of the universe."

Kent Newkirk


----------



## midcan5

'Facing It'	  

"My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears. 
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's 
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair."

Yusef Komunyakaa


----------



## Sky Dancer

As I Grew Older  


 It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun--
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky--
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun! 


Langston Hughes


----------



## midcan5

Over fifty thousand views, amazing, please make sure you support poetry and the poets quoted here. I have over 400 posts in this thread, a record.  

'The Power Of Light'

"can turn a white
dog black
a silhouette

on the horizon
sunlight unfolds
every new leaf

pulls a sumac
sprout through
four inches of asphalt

a red light stops a chain
of fast-moving cars
at an intersection

light you spend
all day every day
at the end of the tunnel

nine missing miners
on the windowsill
nine candles

widows walk
a lantern for
a late boat

the moon
is your proxy
interrogating

the night sky
you can make
mud shine

any student
of the stars
knows the sky

can be any color"

Ken Letko


----------



## Sky Dancer

Late in darkness 
shadows fall 
to cast their gloom 
on every wall 
the foe of light 
its sickness spreads 
it floods my eyes 
and clouds my head 
the blackness stays 
to spread with time 
resolve grows weak 
a clock gives chime 
a flood of ink 
to wash my soul 
abyss of time 
beyond control 
within this space 
no sight to glimpse 
of life before 
or ever since 
falling blind 
assassin&#8217;s breath 
cold and still 
my heart&#8217;s own death

Mark Fisher


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Moon And The Yew Tree 

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary 
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. 
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God 
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility 
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. 
Separated from my house by a row of headstones. 
I simply cannot see where there is to get to. 

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, 
White as a knuckle and terribly upset. 
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet 
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. 
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -- 
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection 
At the end, they soberly bong out their names. 

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. 
The eyes lift after it and find the moon. 
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. 
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. 
How I would like to believe in tenderness - 
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, 
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. 

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering 
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars 
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, 
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, 
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. 
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. 
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence. 

Sylvia Plath


----------



## Sky Dancer

Acquainted with the Night

by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Crossing the Water

by Sylvia Plath

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Burning the Letters

by Sylvia Plath

I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in it's hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.

This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe and the smiles, the smiles
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.

So, I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me--
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say but anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in it's weird blue dreams
Involved in a foetus.
And a name with black edges

Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom--
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like
A read burst and a cry
That splits from it's ripped bag and does not stop
With that dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Implosions 

The world's 
not wanton 
only wild and wavering 

I wanted to choose words that even you 
would have to be changed by 

Take the word 
of my pulse, loving and ordinary 
Send out your signals, hoist 
your dark scribbled flags 
but take 
my hand 

All wars are useless to the dead 

My hands are knotted in the rope 
and I cannot sound the bell 

My hands are frozen to the switch 
and I cannot throw it 

The foot is in the wheel 

When it's finished and we're lying 
in a stubble of blistered flowers 
eyes gaping, mouths staring 
dusted with crushed arterial blues 

I'll have done nothing 
even for you? 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## Sky Dancer

North American Time 

I 

When my dreams showed signs 
of becoming 
politically correct 
no unruly images 
escaping beyond borders 
when walking in the street I found my 
themes cut out for me 
knew what I would not report 
for fear of enemies' usage 
then I began to wonder 

II 

Everything we write 
will be used against us 
or against those we love. 
These are the terms, 
take them or leave them. 
Poetry never stood a chance 
of standing outside history. 
One line typed twenty years ago 
can be blazed on a wall in spraypaint 
to glorify art as detachment 
or torture of those we 
did not love but also 
did not want to kill. 

We move but our words stand 
become responsibly 
for more than we intended 

and this is verbal privilege 

VII 

I am thinking this in a country 
where words are stolen out of mouths 
as bread is stolen out of mouths 
where poets don't go to jail 
for being poets, but for being 
dark-skinned, female, poor. 
I am writing this in a time 
when anything we write 
can be used against those we love 
where the context is never given 
though we try to explain, over and over 
For the sake of poetry at least 
I need to know these things 

Adrienne Rich


----------



## Sky Dancer

Alone  

 Over the fence, the dead settle in 
for a journey. Nine o'clock. 
You are alone for the first time 
today. Boys asleep. Husband out. 

A beer bottle sweats in your hand, 
and sea lavender clogs the air 
with perfume. Think of yourself. 
Your arms rest with nothing to do 

after weeks spent attending to others. 
Your thoughts turn to whether 
butter will last the week, how much 
longer the car can run on its partial tank of gas. 


Deborah Ager


----------



## Sky Dancer

SNOW FILLS IN THE LANDSCAPE

Visibility has traveled down the highway
This is a good reason to stop in the next town
and kill a few hours reading a book 
in the local cafe while the storm blows by
Two hours later the Mounties have decided
to close the highway to Moose Jaw
Outside blue and yellow gas station lights
sizzle in the slanted gloom
Snow dances in the air in the frantic
moth-like trance of soft wings

I hold out my glove, catch a handful
and put it against my lips to taste
the bitterness of winter passage
My footsteps across the parking lot
fill in as fast as I walk away
snowflakes melting in my mouth
leave no trace here or there
Everything pure white and fragile
made of wispy hair and brittle glass bones
winter's smoky fire burns around my body 


Allan Safaryk


----------



## Sky Dancer

Insomniac
by Sylvia Plath

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.


----------



## Sky Dancer

This precious moment

 with you,

like snow on the water.



Lama Drimed


----------



## midcan5

'Any Hack Can Crank Out A Hundred Sonnets'

"Any hack can crank out a hundred sonnets
if he has to; all you have to do
is set up your metronome and start typing,
taking dictation from the day&#8217;s small gifts,
whatever presents itself in the street
or dredges itself up from memory
or dreams itself out of your transcribing hand.
It&#8217;s an insidious form, because it&#8217;s almost
easy, leading you by the wrist through rules
and rhythms as old as the English language
translated down the ages in idioms
transformed by time and driven by dying breaths.
It gives you a false sense of what you meant
when the closing couplet clinches your argument."

Stephen Kessler


----------



## Sky Dancer

It Felt Love


How

Did the rose

Ever open its heart


And give to this world

All its

Beauty?


It felt the encouragement of light

Against its

Being,


Otherwise,

We all remain


Too


Frightened.



Hafiz


----------



## midcan5

'Believe This' 

"All morning, doing the hard, root-wrestling
work of turning a yard from the wild
to a gardeners will, I heard a bird singing
from a hidden, though not distant, perch;
a song of swift, syncopated syllables sounding
like, Can you believe this, believe this, believe?
Can you believe this, believe this, believe?
And all morning, I did believe. All morning,
between break-even bouts with the unwanted,
I wanted to see that bird, and looked up so
I might later recognize it in a guide, and know
and call its name, but even more, I wanted
to join its church. For all morning, and many
a time in my life, I have wondered who, beyond
this plot I work, has called the order of being,
that givers of food are deemed lesser
than are the receivers. All morning,
muscling my will against that of the wild,
to claim a place in the bounty of earth,
seed, root, sun and rain, I offered my labor
as a kind of grace, and gave thanks even
for the aching in my body, which reached
beyond this work and this gift of struggle."

Richard Levine


----------



## midcan5

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8sSfbQk7DxE&]Sarah Kay - For My Daughter (Awesome Spoken Word) - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## Sky Dancer




----------



## midcan5

'Arrangement'

"Put a few words together prettily and its possible
to fall in love.
Move your hand slightly and Im yours. Or gone.
And think of what can be done with flowers
or paint. I take back
what I said in my message yesterday,
the one saying I had printed and folded each message from you
into a boat, and now had a fleet of origami ships on my desk,
all of them sinking, none of them, I said,
seaworthy. That was mean.
If I think of them differentlynot as vessels,
not as anything that might save a life
but as smooth stones or carved chess pieces,
something I might hold to comfort me,
something I might put in my mouth,
then perhaps I can continue to pass the time this way.
The way I want you
just a detail, just a thing that can be carried."

Missy-Marie Montgomery


----------



## George Costanza

chloe said:


> The Wifebeater
> 
> There will be mud on the carpet tonight
> and blood in the gravy as well.
> The wifebeater is out,
> the childbeater is out
> eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup.
> He strides bback and forth
> in front of my study window
> chewing little red pieces of my heart.
> His eyes flash like a birthday cake
> and he makes bread out of rock.
> Yesterday he was walking
> like a man in the world.
> He was upright and conservative
> but somehow evasive, somehow contagious.
> Yesterday he built me a country
> and laid out a shadow where I could sleep
> but today a coffin for the madonna and child,
> today two women in baby clothes will be hamburg.
> With a tongue like a razor he will kiss,
> the mother, the child,
> and we three will color the stars black
> in memory of his mother
> who kept him chained to the food tree
> or turned him on and off like a water faucet
> and made women through all these hazy years
> the enemy with a heart of lies.
> Tonight all the red dogs lie down in fear
> and the wife and daughter knit into each other
> until they are killed.
> 
> Anne Sexton



Boy, your Anne Sexton here is a real barrel of laughs.

Just sayin' . . .


----------



## midcan5

'Dusting'

"Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things.

For algae spores
and fungus spores,
bonded by vital
mutual genetic cooperation,
spreading their
inseparable lives
from equator to pole.

My hand, my arm,
make sweeping circles.
Dust climbs the ladder of light.
For this infernal, endless chore,
for these eternal seeds of rain:
Thank you. For dust."

Marilyn Nelson


----------



## midcan5

'Three Photos Of Jayne Mansfield'

"The first: Mansfield laid out beside the car wreck,
top part of her head missing. A journalist found her blonde wig
at the scene, thought she&#8217;d been decapitated. At 2:25 a.m.,
they hit a curve in the road, when an insecticide truck
came the other way in a fog of chemicals. The impact
sheared off the top of the 1966 Buick Electra.
(Four Chihuahuas in there: just one died.) The second: Mansfield,
beside Sophia Loren at a fancy Hollywood dinner, allows
her breasts to cascade out of her silky dress. Loren is aghast.
Nobody looks very happy in either pic.
The two men beside Loren at the dinner are having
an awful night. Mansfield, however beautiful, is a car wreck.
At the accident, death has brought beauty & perfection.
A friend told me the other day that civilization
is an elaborate design to cover up shit.
I thought of Jayne Mansfield, how the end reveals
what we&#8217;ve known all along. The wig of life is removed
& we see the beast unveiled. We are jealous, having suspected
their ugliness. So when something beautiful ends
we are not surprised or disappointed. Quite the opposite.
We hold the bloody blonde wig in our hands.
We even try it on, & look in the mirror. We preen,
all of us, divas for a moment. This is the third picture:
the same, exactly, as the other two."

John Wall Barger

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GmJpjxG1y...Q/3mB1ynu7QdY/s400/Loren_Mansfield_BHills.jpg

_


----------



## midcan5

'Christmas Tree Lots'

"Christmas trees lined like war refugees,
a fallen army made to stand in their greens.
Cut down at the foot, on their last leg,

they pull themselves up, arms raised.
We drop them like wood;
tied, they are driven through the streets,

dragged through the door, cornered
in a room, given a single blanket,
only water to drink, surrounded by joy.

Forced to wear a gaudy gold star,
to surrender their pride,
they do their best to look alive."

Chris Green


----------



## midcan5

'Course in General Linguistics'

"If Im going to be attacked, let it be by a rare pathogen
not some yokel hurling 
sand ****** at me
from a beat-up Cutlass Sierra at seven a.m.
If Im going to be attacked,
let it be by asteroid or metastasis
not the toothless yahoo of my expectations.
What I cant understand is 
who has the energy to be a xenophobe at seven in the morning.
Not me anyway, though I have energy enough to think of language.
Thud meant the saying 
of sand ******, so a sign is more than a signifier
with its tongue neatly stuck 
in the ear of the signified.
It sometimes slobbers around some.
Anyway, I dont mind being attacked, 
just let it be by precision guidance
or satellite track, a line item in the budget
instead of dead language. Sand ******,
he hollered, hoping for a rim shot maybe, 
or maybe meaning, Go back where you came from.
How could I explain I had nowhere to go, 
no other way to get where I was going,
and I hadnt meant to sully his morning 
and hadnt meant to make him uncomfortable,
but if he thought he was uncomfortable,
I mean the guy howled
Sand ******! at me, 
and there were people around.
I was so embarrassed for them 
looking so uncertainly to me and what I might do,
so I set about explaining 
how hed gotten the country of origin wrong,
how my folks are from green fields 
and there isnt any sand there,
and Im from Chicago, 
and sure Im brown, but Im harmless.   
I mean, I dont even believe in God.
Then I thought of all the people he meant 
when he offered, Sand ******,
and thought of all the people 
he mightve hoisted sand ****** upon
just that morning even, and how even now
hes probably somewhere in his Cutlass Sierra
shouting, Sand ******! Sand ******!
at over-baked socialites strolling out of tanning salons, 
squinting into the sun,
and how all us sand ******* are in this together.
Anyway, he shouted sand ******, 
and the others I told this to all agreed
it was just disgusting the way he shouted that at me,
so the signifier disgusting signified that
which signified sand ****** 
which had meant disgusting all along,
but I could barely blame him,
all that concrete and glass 
having fallen out of blue September,
the god-awful, sand-****** sky,
how it was his sky, and I wanted then to embrace him
and murmur, I understand,
or, Im sorry,
or maybe, I want to stab you in the heart,   
meaning, How easy it is to wound,
how much easier to be the wounded."

Jaswinder Bolina


----------



## Sky Dancer

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2O-0-i_9MyA&feature=related]life doesn&#39;t frighten me by maya angelou - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## BluePhantom

Hmm... ok I will play along and toss one of mine in.  A song I wrote actually about a friend of mine and her newborn baby.  The lyrics are below...song link at the end if you are interested in hearing it musically.

*Sleeplessness and Sunrise*

She lies awake at night wishing that the cries would fade away into the darkness.
She covers up her head, hiding in her bed. 
And though the days are light the night is filled with darkness and pleas of desperation.
She's abandoned all her dreams.  She can't take the screams.

And the redness gathers in her eyes and sleeplessness and sunrise haunt her mind,
With all the worries she can't leave behind.

She wanders through the dark, waiting all alone
And wishing that the air would answer her prayers.

She lies awake at night.  An eerie silence lingers in the air and fills the darkness.
Thoughts of what had been vanish in the wind.
She kissed her child goodnight softly laying flowers in the dirt and gently weeping.
She wants to hear the screams.  She can't take the dreams.

And the redness gathers in her eyes and sleeplessness and sunrise haunt her mind,
With all the worries she can't leave behind.

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUlDJndyJU4]sleeplessness and sunrise - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'December Substitute'

"Our substitute is strange because 
he looks a lot like Santa Claus. 
In fact, the moment he walked in 
we thought that he was Santas twin. 

We wouldnt think it quite so weird, 
if it were just his snowy beard. 
But also he has big black boots 
and wears these fuzzy bright red suits. 

Hes got a rather rounded gut 
thats like a bowl of you-know-what. 
And when he laughs, its deep and low 
and sounds a lot like "Ho! Ho! Ho!" 

He asks us all if weve been good 
and sleeping when we know we should. 
He talks of reindeers, sleighs, and elves 
and tells us to behave ourselves. 

And when its time for us to go 
he dashes out into the snow. 
But yesterday we figured out 
just what our sub is all about. 

We know just why he leaves so quick, 
and why hes dressed like Old Saint Nick 
in hat and coat and boots and all: 
Hes working evenings at the mall."

Kenn Nesbitt


----------



## midcan5

"Nearing Xmas Eve! I don't know why--since I'm not a believer in the conventional sense--but every year around this time I end up standing here, pausing before this gray, hulking building with so many of its tall, stained glass windows darkened and lit only by floodlights from outside of it, but with twin spires still pointing towards heaven. Tonight I can see only a single light still shining--in a half-open casement window located on the second floor. "Hello, hello," I call out, "Anybody around up there?--anybody home tonight?" Silhouetted at the casement window, a head appears. "Sure, we're open all night tonight all right--but this isn't a church anymore," the head shouts back in a decidedly irritated voice. "Didn't you know?--our entire operation was finally taken over last year--we were shut down for a while and then re-opened again converted to a peanut-brittle factory," "But don't I recognize you, Sir," I call back--"aren't you the former Sexton?" "Yes," the head says, after we were converted the takeover people thought it would be wise for the sake of efficiency to retain some of the same personnel for a while, so together with some of my staff, I agreed to stay on for a bit." "Does that include God, too?" I hear myself calling back to the former Sexton. "Sure it does," the Sexton shouts back, "have a Merry Christmas!"--and his head disappears from the window. Then I see no silhouetted head much less face, and hear a far deeper and far more resonant voice: "My Son, my Son--we've been putting you on, my Son. But you know you should really come up here anyway--you know in your heart that for all He's ever meant to you, Christ might as well have been a part-time worker in a peanut-brittle factory!" Then suddenly the casement window slams shut. "Oh My God!" I hear myself cry out--"Could that have been God Himself up there? And if so, was He genuinely angry with me, personally?" On the way up the stairs to find out--trembling slightly I must confess--I meet an angel. He's coming down the stairs after apparently just knocking off from working on the night-shift somewhere upstairs. He's beaming radiantly; his wings are folded neatly behind him and he's licking his lips; his cheeks are covered up with peanut-butter and candy and look like two big chocolate chip cookies; and there's a big blob of marshmallow on the tip of his nose...."

Michael Benedikt


----------



## midcan5

'The Dirigible'

"He tilted back his head to lift his nose,
That looked down on my features shining greeting.
This future in-law to my daughter chose
To use this time for our initial meeting
To flaunt he is a more accomplished man.
A trial lawyer, his wealth and status showed
He rose above me like a mountains span.
So as his cocksure, growing ego crowed,

I watched his form balloon into the sky,
Blot out the daylight like a suns eclipse
And make me wish that somehow I should die,
Till I perceived he looked like those airships,
Whose bulging skin absorbs our every sense,
Yet stands empty except for flatulence."

Kenneth OKeefe


----------



## midcan5

'Burning the Old Year'

"Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   
lists of vegetables, partial poems.   
Orange swirling flame of days,   
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isnt,   
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   
only the things I didnt do   
crackle after the blazing dies."

Naomi Shihab Nye


----------



## midcan5

'To the New Year'

"With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible"

W. S. Merwin


----------



## midcan5

'Winter Sun' 

"How valuable it is in these short days,
threading through empty maple branches,
the lacy-needled sugar pines.

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story
of Deaths brightness, her bitter cold.

We can make do with so little, just the hint
of warmth, the slanted light.

The way we stand there, soaking in it,
mittened fingers reaching.

And how carefully we gather what we can
to offer later, in darkness, one body to another."

Molly Fisk


----------



## midcan5

'Woman Feeding Chickens' 

"Her hand is at the feedbag at her waist,
sunk to the wrist in the rustling grain
that nuzzles her fingertips when laced
around a sifting handful. Its like rain,
like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,
the cracks between the fingers like a sieve,
except that less escapes you through the chinks
when handling grain. She likes to feel it give
beneath her hands slow plummet, and the smell,
so rich a fragrance she has never quite
got used to it, under the seeming spell
of the charm of the commonplace. The white
hens bunch and strut, heads cocked, with tilted eyes,
till her hand sweeps out and the small grain flies."

Roy Scheele


----------



## midcan5

'The Specificity Of Generalities'

"The Year Without a Summer was technically not
a year without summerjust colder than most:
frozen lakes, failed crops, feelings that, foremost,
accompany winterwondering, for example,
if spring, let alone summer, will ever come.
The tiger, in its relentless measured momentum,
releases itself from its cage; but no one notices
its stripes have changed to spots in their calloused
mechanical eyes. The beggar sees his chance
it is not so hard for him to see through earth,
which reduces history to darkened colors.
And history repeats itself in darkened colors.
Why then, the little girl asks, should anyone
embrace the means? Is every year a year
without summer? Is that why birds fly south,
because somewhere it must be summer? Her mother
smiles her maternal smile. She knows it is
possible to be both right and wrong. What does one tell
a mother she should tell her daughter? The wind,
brute strength, and flower, spiritual bravado, will
be at oddsthough, when the time was right, they have been known
to schmooze. Siena was like that. Not everyone belonged there.
And sometimes it takes an apocalypse of nature to remind
us not everything is meant for everyone. Seasons
are just. Think back. The moon. How believable is that?"

Ed Orr


----------



## midcan5

_"...Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness...."_

Martin Luther King


----------



## midcan5

'Mr. D Shops At Faustos Food Palace' 

"For years he lived close enough to smell
chicken and bananas rotting
in the trash bins, to surprise a cashier on break
smoking something suspicious when he walked

out the back gate. Did they have an account?
He cant remember. Probably so, for all the milk
a large family went through, the last-minute
ingredients delivered by a smirking bag boy.

He liked to go himself, the parking lots
radiant heat erased once he got past the sweating
glass door, to troll the icy aisles in his slippers.
This was before high-end labels took over

shelf space, before baloney changed
its name to mortadella, before water
came in flavors, before fish
got flown in from somewhere else."

Candace Black


----------



## midcan5

'Reunion' 

"This is my past where no one knows me.
These are my friends whom I cant name
Here in a field where no one chose me,
The faces older, the voices the same.

Why does this stranger rise to greet me?
What is the joke that makes him smile,
As he calls the children together to meet me,
Bringing them forward in single file?

I nod pretending to recognize them,
Not knowing exactly what I should say.
Why does my presence seem to surprise them?
Who is the woman who turns away?

Is this my home or an illusion?
The bread on the table smells achingly real.
Must I at last solve my confusion,
Or is confusion all I can feel?"

Dana Gioia


----------



## midcan5

'Love Again Blues'

"My life ain't nothin'
But a lot o'Gawd-knows-what.
I say my life ain't nothin'
But a lot o'Gawd-know-what.
Just one thing after 'nother
Added to de trouble that i got.

When I got you I
Thought I had an angel-chile.
When I got you 
Thought I had an angel-chile.
You turned out to be a devil
That mighty ngih drove me wild!

Tell me, tell me,
What makes love such an ache and pain?
Tell me what makes
Love such an ache and pain?
It takes you and it breaks you
But you got to love again."

Langston Hughes


----------



## midcan5

'CODA'

"From the garden rose the sound of bees
that lurched and wobbled through the peonies.
We ate eggs, French toast, drank milk that warmed
in minutes in the sun while fat drones swarmed
and looped like drunkards in the purple field.
On the porch we heard their bodies yield
to wills their fuzzy minds dont understand.
They smelled the stains of syrup on your hand
and one, in gold-encrusted drunken strut,
smeared pollen from its mandibles and gut
along your wrist. That morning you had tied
your hair, and as you rose and ran inside,
it gently bounced, and loosed, and then unfurled.
If the next is better, Ill still miss this world."

Michael Lavers


----------



## midcan5

'Children of Our Era' 	   

"We are children of our era; 
our era is political. 

All affairs, day and night, 
yours, ours, theirs, 
are political affairs. 

Like it or not, 
your genes have a political past, 
your skin a political cast, 
your eyes a political aspect.

What you say has a resonance; 
what you are silent about is telling. 
Either way, it's political. 

Even when you head for the hills 
you're taking political steps 
on political ground. 

Even apolitical poems are political, 
and above us shines the moon, 
by now no longer lunar. 
To be or not to be, that is the question. 
Question? What question? Dear, here's a suggestion: 
a political question. 

You don't even have to be a human being 
to gain political significance. 
Crude oil will do, 
or concentrated feed, or any raw material. 

Or even a conference table whose shape 
was disputed for months: 
should we negotiate life and death 
at a round table or a square one? 

Meanwhile people were dying, 
animals perishing, 
houses burning, 
and fields growing wild,
just as in times most remote 
and less political."

Wislawa Szymborska 

translated by Joanna Trzeciak 


""Astonishing" is an epithet concealing a logical trap. Were astonished, after all, by things that deviate from some well known and universally acknowledged norm, from an obviousness weve grown accustomed to. Granted, in daily speech, where we dont stop to consider every word, we all use phrases like the ordinary world, ordinary life, the ordinary course of events. But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyones existence in this world."

Culture Desk: Wislawa Szymborska: The Happiness of Wisdom Felt : The New Yorker


----------



## midcan5

'A Starbucks Romance'

"She asked if I was in line and I said
Im always in line for something but
I never know what it is and she said

nothing for what seemed like seconds
and then replied Thats way too deep
before my coffee and I said Ask me

something after weve had our coffee
and she said Whatever would I ask
and I said Ask me what my plans are

for Saturday night as we inched along
and she said I like movies I saw Unfaithful
last week and it didnt have

a happy ending which made it more
realistic and we got our double lattes
and found two corner seats and I said

I saw Y Tu Mama Tambien but the sex
didnt seem real and she said Movies
never get it right and we had another

double latte and talked awhile and
drove to her condo and lived happily
ever after what seemed like weeks"

Robert Funge


----------



## midcan5

'One Of Those Topics I ShouldnT Talk About'

"To be honest, there are times when
I say to myself God I hope Im not

pregnant. My faith is not 100%
in condoms. Why I never had sex

until I was 19. And then I married him
several years later. We have a son now

and I remember when I told him the news.
I came out of the bathroom saying, Look

what you did! Pointing the plastic wand
as though he was the only one

responsible. Thats the word that comes
to mind after I hope Im not pregnant.

Even at 33 I think I should know better
except the pill really screws up my body.

So I choose not to take it. For a long time
I didnt know what it was to ovulate. Now

my body is like clockwork. Always
two weeks after my period and I tell him

we have to be careful. Responsibilities.
In high school health class we learned

how to give life by blowing air into a dummys
mouth. That same year they erected

a Coke machine in the school cafeteria.
Because everyone likes to have Coke.

But not sex! my dad said after he found
Anns birth control pills in her room. No

daughter of mine is having it! To be invisible
is to not be pregnant. Because when you are

pregnant, strangers touch your belly and tell you
what you should and should not do

when the baby comes. Before I know Im not
pregnant I imagine how my life might be

different. Like changing lanes all of a sudden
when another car doesnt see me.

When you have a child you worry about space
in the backseat and whether there is too much

sunlight or not enough. I pull the seatbelt tight
across my chest, look at my son in the rearview mirror:

An American flag sways its head back-and-forth
in front of the Georgia Right To Life headquarters. Next door

a young Hispanic girl looks through the window of a T.V.
repair shop, hair parted unevenly down the middle. Her father

waits in the gravel parking lot, car idling. The trunk
open and empty."

Tammy F. Brewer


----------



## midcan5

'What To Know'

I cant write anything new for you,
reader, I cant tell you anything
you dont already know, but youre still
here so I must have gotten something right
or, at least, you can tell Im not lying.

I know the colors of your bruise,
and thats not it, I know the way
you feel about dark staircases and potato salad,
both are scary, but mostly I am
lonely here on the other side
of this page, hungry for everyone.

At night you want to give your thoughts
to someone, someone who will let you
pour back and forth, the way you do
between glasses to aerate the wine.

Maybe, reader, I have let you down,
not enough images here, not enough
insight. But my lover cut himself up,
covered the back of his forearms
in bloody stripes. Now, I dont think
I know anything about love.

Has that happened to you, reader?
Has yours lost his mind, hid drugs,
heard voices and slammed his head in doors?
No? Oh, neither has mine, actually,
Im married now, we have two kids.
While I write he is brewing coffee,
and later hell lift the bed sheet corner,
make a tent of space for me to crawl into.

There, Ill pour my day into him. No,
I dont need you, reader. I just wanted
to make you feel less alone. I thought
you might feel better about yourself, reading
this, imagining me in your shoes. But Im not
this poem, and I cant hope to see you."

Allison Campbell


----------



## midcan5

Last evening we are out with family when our granddaughter decides restuarants aren't her thing and she'd rather roam the sidewalk testing her small legs on curbs but smart enough to know her limits. I want to watch this one grow up for she will be a bundle. 


'Apology For Being Small'

"Im sorry I have to touch dirt, grease, just-rolled
noodles drying on the counter. Snot, scabs,
broken birdshells, you with my grimy fingers.
For when were in the store and words burn
my chest and crawl in my throat like throw-up
but only screams come out. The kicking is extra
and feels good after looking at bread and tomatoes
when I know there are cookies and toys
you should let me have. The lies that arent
very goodabout chocolate and wetting the bed
I know you wont believe, so I dont think they count.
The ones about the dog who knows my name
and wants to live with me and my invisible friend
who can flythose arent lies, theyre stories.
Im sorry I ask so many questions, especially
the same ones over and over. For hiding dirty underwear,
candy, myself inside my treehouse to see how long
youll look. Im sorry for breaking my toys,
the vase you told me not to touch, your skin
with my teeth. Im sorry my legs arent longer, sorry
I cant keep up, that I have to try so hard to Be good,
Be quiet, Straighten up and behave. Im sorry
I cry because Im scared, hungry, tired, mad.
Because Im small. Because you dont remember
what thats like and Im afraid that Ill forget."

Carrie Shipers


----------



## midcan5

'Thaw"

"Mid-March, noon, the sunlight presses
warm against the city like a hand.

The T.V. says its record-breaking,
says its toppled 47, and this streak

may last the week. Ties loosed, blouses
cut low and blooming color,

the lunch hour crowds rejoice. Music
blasts in snippets. Skaters rocket

from the steps of the museum
where office workers picnic

and the statuary fairly glows.
Today, winter is a dread

forgotten. And more than once,
stepping from the bus, waiting

at the corner for the light, Ive heard
a total stranger say global warming

to no one in particular, with a shrug
and grin that means, at least today,

destructions on our side, which means,
we might as well enjoy the fall.

I think, on days like this, beautiful days,
we believe the Earth suffers

the way we know a child suffers
halfway round the world from drought.

The T.V. tells us so.
Which means we believe it

the way we know we become dirt,
or, somehow, less than even that."

David OConnell


----------



## midcan5

'The Waiting Place'

"You can get so confused
that youll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place

for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting."

Dr. Seuss


----------



## midcan5

'How I Wanted You to Find Me and What You Have in Common with God'

"Last night when you didnt turn up I snapped my timing belt and 
spent an hour listening to passing cars make the ditch brush hiss, 
watching the earthworms coming up onto the blacktop looking for 
a better place to dry out and die. The tow truck driver talked 
forever. His shift was over in forty minutes, and if he delayed he 
wouldnt have to go out to rescue anybody else. I texted you as he 
dropped me and the dog at the Motorway Motel, but you didnt 
respond so I got out of the cab and tried not to make a big deal out 
of things. I ran some water from the sink into the ice bucket and 
went to sleep on top of the covers. I imagined there were dead 
bodies in the boxspring. I imagined there were U.S. Marshalls in 
the room next door. I imagined the next morning I would settle 
down and live here with a truck driver who was only home on 
holidays. This is how I wanted you to find me. This is how I 
thought I could make you feel sorry for what youd done. 


When I got home God was already in the living room with his knitting 
needles. I asked him if he wanted some of my Cherry Seven-Up, but he 
did not seem thirsty or amused. He wanted to talk about where Id been 
and how empty Corona bottles got all over the kitchen floor, and when I 
tried to cry, he rolled his eyes and turned on the news. I asked him if hed 
use his superpowers to send me back to last winter where I could lay
awake again listening to the sound of your incoming text messages. He
did not answer. Instead he put down the scarf he was making and 
gathered up the half a Lean Cuisine youd left on the coffee table. He 
didnt talk to me for the rest of the night, and all I could think about was 
how much he looked like you."

Sarah Caron


----------



## midcan5

'Reckless Poem'

"Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.

It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves  you may believe this or not 
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers

somewhere
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.

Though, of course, I also know that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.

Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.

And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming."

Mary Oliver


----------



## midcan5

'The Freshman Essay'

"The question one will argue in this essay is what is a cannibal.
You are so wrong if you said a kind of animal.

Fact: they are not like a dark stranger.
Fact: they are much endanger.

Maybe you think just because you are you
you would not do what they do.

Well think again civilized man and/or woman.
Plane crash must eat frozen dead co-pilot proves ordinary people can.

Let us now consider the state of nature,
a spot of time when toil-free work and whore-mongering made life richer.

Another point is what is so gross anyway about people meat.
One went to Chinatown one time and saw chicken feet.

In conclusion we are too full of ourselves here in the West.
(Can you let me know if the last day to drop this class has passed?)"

Mike White


----------



## Sky Dancer

Last night 
the rain 
spoke to me
slowly, saying,

what joy
to come falling
out of a brisk cloud,
to be happy again

in a new way
on the earth
that what is said 
as it dropped, 

smelling of iron, 
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over. 

The sky cleared
I was standing 
under a tree.

and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves 
at the moment

at which moment 

my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars

and the soft rain
imagine! Imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.                                   


Mary Oliver


----------



## Sky Dancer

THE SUN NEVER SAYS 

Even

After

All this time

The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe

Me."

Look

What happens

With a love like that,

It lights the

Whole

Sky.

Hafiz (trans. Daniel Ladinsky)


----------



## Sky Dancer

Enough

Enough. These few words are enough. 
If not these words, this breath. 
If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to the life 
we have refused 
again and again 
until now.
Until now 

David Whyte, Where Many Rivers Meet


----------



## Sky Dancer

Ten thousand flowers in spring, the moon in autumn

A cool breeze in summer, snow in winter.

If your mind isnt clouded by unnecessary things,

This is the best season of your life.

  Wu-men


----------



## Sky Dancer

Trust your wound to a teacher's surgery.

Flies collect on a wound. 

They cover it,

 those flies of your self-protecting feelings,

your love for what you think is yours.

Let a Teacher wave away the flies

 and put a plaster on the wound.

Don't turn your head. 

Keep looking

 at the bandaged place. 

That's where

the Light enters you.

And don't believe for a moment

 that you're healing yourself."



                            Rumi


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Truth stands before me,

On my left is a blazing fire, and

On my right, a cool flowing stream.

One group of people walk toward the fire, into the fire,

And the other towards the cool flowing waters.

No one knows which is blessed and which is not.

But just as a just as someone enters the fire,

That head bobs up from the water,

And just as a head sinks into the water,

That face appears in the fire.

Those who love the sweet water of pleasure

And make it their devotion are cheated by this reversal.

The deception goes further-

The voice of the fire says:

I am not fire, I am fountainhead,

Come into me and dont mind the sparks.

                                                              Rumi


----------



## Sky Dancer

I love the dark hours of my being.

        My mind deepens into them.

        There I can find, as in old letters,

        the days of my life, already lived,

        and held like a legend, and understood.



        Then the knowing comes: I can open

        to another life that's wide and timeless.

        So I am sometimes like a tree

        rustling over a gravesite

        and making real the dream

        of the one its living roots

        embrace:

        a dream once lost

        among sorrows and songs.

                                                                     Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God.


----------



## Sky Dancer

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing

there is a field.

 Ill meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,

the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase each other

doesnt make any sense.

                                                                                              Rumi


----------



## midcan5

'300 Cubits'

"Two of everything, its written somewhere, meaning a breeding pair.
 But Ive wondered, alone and feral, under the puzzle-pieced
 night sky, about the dudsbum steers and defiants,
 the intersown paramours, the shamed livestock
 whose omnivorous urges I hear cruising the zoo park.

When the ancient stockpiling crossed the dock,
 ascended the plank, and the rank and file
 hoof, talon, and foot found their arrangements readied,
 surely they sensed difference, some before the first coitus
 was rattled to completion at sea.

Ive lounged with my particulars between lovers
 and seen in a mirror where my hands were lain
 after wriggling when I shouldve zipped. In other words,
 Ive got cavities of experience. Thus the old arks
 too pure for my taste: one of everything, I say,
 and come on, come forward, come what may."

Eric Higgins


----------



## American Horse

&#8220;To live within limits. 
To want one thing. 
Or a few things very much and love them dearly. Cling to them, survey them from every angle. Become one with them - that is what makes the poet, the artist, the human being.&#8221; 

&#8220;What a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it!&#8221; 

&#8213; Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther


----------



## Valerie

Valerie said:


> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Valerie said:
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> 
> >
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *
> V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID*
> 
> 
> AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
> After the frosty silence in the gardens
> After the agony in stony places
> The shouting and the crying
> Prison and place and reverberation
> Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
> He who was living is now dead
> We who were living are now dying
> With a little patience
> 
> Here is no water but only rock
> Rock and no water and the sandy road
> The road winding above among the mountains
> Which are mountains of rock without water
> If there were water we should stop and drink
> Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
> Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
> If there were only water amongst the rock
> Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
> Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
> There is not even silence in the mountains
> But dry sterile thunder without rain
> There is not even solitude in the mountains
> But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
> From doors of mudcracked houses
> If there were water
> And no rock
> If there were rock
> And also water
> And water
> A spring
> A pool among the rock
> If there were the sound of water only
> Not the cicada
> And dry grass singing
> But sound of water over a rock
> Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
> Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
> But there is no water
> 
> Who is the third who walks always beside you?
> When I count, there are only you and I together
> But when I look ahead up the white road
> There is always another one walking beside you
> Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
> I do not know whether a man or a woman
> &#8212;But who is that on the other side of you?
> 
> What is that sound high in the air
> Murmur of maternal lamentation
> Who are those hooded hordes swarming
> Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
> Ringed by the flat horizon only
> What is the city over the mountains
> Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
> Falling towers
> Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
> Vienna London
> Unreal
> 
> A woman drew her long black hair out tight
> And fiddled whisper music on those strings
> And bats with baby faces in the violet light
> Whistled, and beat their wings
> And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
> And upside down in air were towers
> Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
> And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
> 
> In this decayed hole among the mountains
> In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
> Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
> There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
> It has no windows, and the door swings,
> Dry bones can harm no one.
> Only a cock stood on the rooftree
> Co co rico co co rico
> In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
> Bringing rain
> 
> Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
> Waited for rain, while the black clouds
> Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
> The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
> Then spoke the thunder
> D A
> Datta: what have we given?
> My friend, blood shaking my heart
> The awful daring of a moment's surrender
> Which an age of prudence can never retract
> By this, and this only, we have existed	 405
> Which is not to be found in our obituaries
> Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
> Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
> In our empty rooms
> D A
> Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
> Turn in the door once and turn once only
> We think of the key, each in his prison
> Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
> Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
> Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
> D A
> Damyata: The boat responded
> Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
> The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
> Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
> To controlling hands
> 
> I sat upon the shore
> Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
> Shall I at least set my lands in order?
> 
> London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
> 
> Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
> Quando fiam ceu chelidon&#8212;O swallow swallow
> Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
> These fragments I have shored against my ruins
> Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
> Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
> 
> Shantih shantih shantih
> 
> Click to expand...
Click to expand...




Eliot, T. S. 1922. The Waste Land





_APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding	 
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing	 
Memory and desire, stirring	 
Dull roots with spring rain.	 
Winter kept us warm, covering	         5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding	 
A little life with dried tubers.	 
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee	 
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,	 
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,	  10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.	 
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm&#8217; aus Litauen, echt deutsch.	 
And when we were children, staying at the archduke&#8217;s,	 
My cousin&#8217;s, he took me out on a sled,	 
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,	  15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.	 
In the mountains, there you feel free.	 
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.	 

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow	 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,	  20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only	 
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,	 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,	 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only	 
There is shadow under this red rock,	  25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),	 
And I will show you something different from either	 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you	 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;	 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.	  30
        Frisch weht der Wind	 
        Der Heimat zu,	 
        Mein Irisch Kind,	 
        Wo weilest du?_


----------



## percysunshine

Twin horses of vadalia

Are smitten with romp

Nere do they tromp

On the meadow of peace


----------



## eflatminor

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 18071882

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree	 
  The village smithy stands;	 
The smith, a mighty man is he,	 
  With large and sinewy hands;	 
And the muscles of his brawny arms	         
  Are strong as iron bands.	 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,	 
  His face is like the tan;	 
His brow is wet with honest sweat,	 
  He earns whate'er he can,	  
And looks the whole world in the face,	 
  For he owes not any man.	 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,	 
  You can hear his bellows blow;	 
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge	  
  With measured beat and slow,	 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,	 
  When the evening sun is low.	 

And children coming home from school	 
  Look in at the open door;	  
They love to see the flaming forge,	 
  And hear the bellows roar,	 
And watch the burning sparks that fly	 
  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.	 

He goes on Sunday to the church,	  
  And sits among his boys;	 
He hears the parson pray and preach,	 
  He hears his daughter's voice,	 
Singing in the village choir,	 
  And it makes his heart rejoice.	  

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,	 
  Singing in Paradise!	 
He needs must think of her once more,	 
  How in the grave she lies;	 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes	  
  A tear out of his eyes.	 

Toiling,rejoicing,sorrowing,	 
  Onward through life he goes;	 
Each morning sees some task begin,	 
  Each evening sees it close;	  
Something attempted, something done,	 
  Has earned a night's repose.	 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,	 
  For the lesson thou hast taught!	 
Thus at the flaming forge of life	  
  Our fortunes must be wrought;	 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped	 
  Each burning deed and thought!


----------



## percysunshine

Twice the glory

Once the pain

Never between

Shall logic complain


----------



## midcan5

'Four Women In A Hot Tub'

"We lowered ourselves in, our suits
stretched by fat that had collected
all winter like sediment. We smoked
pot and someone said something

profound, but it wasnt me. I rolled
like a detached fetus in the water
and wondered about the electrical
wires that ran beneath us like veins

that dont age so much as blow out.
One woman said all she still wanted
was fame but we knew it was
too late for her.

Lets talk about something
happy, she said. No calamities
in China or women getting screwed
or chemotherapy. She went first.

She said her son had made
a friend after being alone all
school year. The next woman said her
backyard had caught the first

light after weeks of rain. Her children
were illuminated as they dug in the mud.
The next said she opened her door to find
a kind letter from a man she

left ten years ago. The last woman
asked when did happiness
become merely a reprieve?
Like a blizzard letting up

after a night on Everest? Or an iffy
remission after chemotherapy?
In the hot tub we slid laterally. We circled
to the right so we each got a turn

with the most brutal jets that would, time
willing, break us out of our
skin and into something larger and
more forgiving than ourselves."

Kathlene Postma


----------



## eflatminor

Now when the waters are pressing mightily on the walls of the dams
Now when the white storks returning are transformed in the middle of the firmament into fleets of jet planes
Will we feel again how strong are the ribs and how vigorous the warm air in the lungs
And how much daring is needed to love on the exposed plain, when the great dangers arched above
And how much love is required to fill all the empty vessels and the watches that stopped telling time
And how much breath
A whirlwind of breath
To sing the small song of spring

 Yehuda Amichai
translated from the Hebrew by Leon Wieseltier


----------



## Montrovant

I used to write a lot of poetry, but have only very infrequently done so in more recent years.
Last night, while I was trying to go to sleep, for some reason I started coming up with one in my head.  Eventually I got up and wrote it down so I'd stop thinking about it and go to sleep. 

Anyway, thought I'd post it.

She looks at me, I look away
Her smile burns like fire
The birds in the trees sing thunder
While tears of rain
Fall down the face of the world
The darkness hides terror
The daylight exposes our fear
There is comfort in ignorance
Comfort
In desperation I reach for comfort
I open my eyes to see
She looks at me, I look away
She sees me no more
I close my eyes and see


----------



## American Horse

Poetry from the Space Station - By astronaut Don Petit

Space is My Mistress

Space is my Mistress,
and she beckons my return.
Since our departure I think of you
and yearn to fly across the heavens arm in arm.
I marvel at your figure,
defined by the edges of continents.
You gaze at me with turquoise eyes,
perhaps mistaken for ocean atolls.
You tease me to fall into your bosom,
sculptured by tectonic rifts,
only to move away as if playing some tantalizing game.
Time and time we turn together,
through day, and night, and day,
repeating encounters every 90 minutes with a freshness,
as if we have never seen our faces before.
We stroll outside together,
enveloped by naked cosmos,
filled with desire to be one.
So close,
you sense my every breath,
which masks your stare through visor haze.
We dance on the swirls of cloud tops,
while skirting the islands of blue.
You know my heart beats fast for you.
Oh, Space is my mistress,
and when our orbits coincide,
we will once again make streaks of aurora across the sky.


----------



## midcan5

'Maybe She Dreams Of Rivers'

"I love her because she is exhausted and has fallen asleep on the train
                with the book still clutched in one hand
                while the other trails the aisle like a willow branch in slow green water.
                (Maybe she dreams of rivers.)

Because her shoes are thick-soled sneakers
                and she wears a brown shoelace around her neck
                strung with keys that rise and fall in a cluster against her breast
                as they ride the rhythm of her sleep.
                (Maybe she dreams of horses,
                maybe her body is gleaming and supple.)

Because her hair is the orange of cheap dyes
                and her skin is a blend of browns with freckles adorning
                a face that is no longer young,
                and her earrings are small bells
                that are not silver but are delicate
                as the eyelashes that flutter now and then,
                as if a slight breeze combed the length of our car.
                (Maybe June shimmers inside her,
                maybe wind chimes are talking.)

I love her because the title of the book in her lap is How to Create Poetry,
                and when she awakens with a start,
                she looks down at it before she gathers her packages,
                pulls a cap over her ears,
                walks out of the train into a wordless winter night."

Francine Marie Tolf


----------



## midcan5

'What I Am'	  

"Fred Sanford's on at 12
& I'm standing in the express lane (cash only)
about to buy Head & Shoulders
the white people shampoo, no one knows
what I am. My name could be Lamont.
George Clinton wears colors like Toucan Sam,
the Froot Loop pelican. Follow your nose,
he says. But I have no nose, no mouth,
so you tell me what's good, what's god,
what's funky. When I stop
by McDonalds for a cheeseburger, no one
suspects what I am. I smile at Ronald's poster,
perpetual grin behind the pissed-off, fly-girl
cashier I love. Where are my goddamn fries?
Ain't I American? I never say, Niggaz
in my poems. My ancestors didn't
emigrate. Why would anyone leave
their native land? I'm thinking about shooting
some hoop later on. I'll dunk on everyone
of those niggaz. They have no idea
what I am. I might be the next Jordan
god. They don't know if Toni Morrison
is a woman or a man. Michael Jackson
is the biggest name in showbiz. Mamma se 
Mamma sa mamma ku sa, sang the Bushmen 
in Africa. I'll buy a dimebag after the game, 
me & Jody. He says, Fuck them white people 
at work, Man. He was an All-American 
in high school. He's cool, but he don't know 
what I am, & so what. Fred Sanford's on 
in a few & I got the dandruff-free head 
& shoulders of white people & a cheeseburger 
belly & a Thriller CD & Nike high tops 
& slavery's dead & the TV's my daddy-- 
   You big Dummy!
Fred tells Lamont."

Terrance Hayes


----------



## midcan5

'Mother's Day'	  

for my children

"I see her doing something simple, paying bills,
or leafing through a magazine or book,
and wish that I could say, and she could hear,

that now I start to understand her love
for all of us, the fullness of it.

It burns there in the past, beyond my reach,
a modest lamp."

David Young


----------



## Sky Dancer

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PInPedCLGFo]Your mother by Rashid Bhikha - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## Sky Dancer

The Peace of Wild Things


When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For the time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.


                                                 Wendell Berry


----------



## Amelia

I WILL LEAVE THIS HOUSE


    I will leave this house, being tired of this house
    And too much talk;
    I will walk down to the sea where the wind blows
    The waves to chalk,
    And the sand scratches like a silver mouse...
    I will leave everything here and walk.

    I do not know why grass like golden leather
    Whipped into strings
    Should quiet the heart, or why this autumn weather,
    This salt that stings
    My eyes and eyelids should heal me altogether -
    I do not know the reason for such things.
    I only know that here are walls that harden
    The eyes and brain;

    I only know words hiss and hurt and pardon -
    Only to hurt again;
    And that the sea is like Death's emerald garden
    Dripping with silver wind and silver rain.


                                             Joseph Auslander


----------



## Sky Dancer

Is my soul asleep?

Have those beehives that labor

at night stopped?  And the water

wheel of thought,

is it dry, the cups empty,

wheeling, carrying only shadows?

No my soul is not asleep.

It is awake, wide awake.

It neither sleeps nor dreams but watches,

its clear eyes open,

far off things, and listens

at the shores of the great silence.

                                             from Antonio Machado (translated by Robert Bly):


----------



## derk

She often cried when happy. Never stopping
feelings of love that kept growing an
endless showing of a garden bloomed with
caring and gently coaching me with her glaring.
O' mother inside my heart we will never part.
These are the drops of words for the endless
longing your memory starts. Gentle was
your life a comfort to mine now adding
to my broken hearts strife and these empty
feelings that are dealings to my days now
grow as moments that cause me to pay
a prayer for you. Your absence, is a constant
gloom. Leaving me, lone- &#8216;alone, way to soon.
O&#8217; mother inside my heart we will never part.


----------



## midcan5

'In Childhood' 

"In childhood Christy and I played in the dumpster across the street
from Pickett & Sons Construction. When we found bricks, it was best.
Bricks were most useful. We drug them to our empty backyard
and stacked them in the shape of a room. For months
we collected bricks, one on top another. When the walls
reached as high as my younger sisters head, we laid down.
Hiding in the middle of our room, we watched the cycle
of the sun, gazed at the stars, clutched hands and felt at home."

Sarah A. Chavez


----------



## midcan5

'Facing It'	  

"My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears. 
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's 
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair."

Yusef Komunyakaa

---------------------------

check out:  Disabled American Veterans


----------



## midcan5

'To The Daughter I Never Had'

"I saw you today at the playground.
You were wearing a little dress
that reminded me of all the dresses

I never bought for you,
all the sundresses and twirly skirts,
all the Hanna Anderssons.

You were on the swing, leaning back,
reaching up with your candy-striped legs,
as if to reinsert yourself

into an imaginary heaven,
into the realm of possibility.
You didnt see me watching you

from a future in which you dont exist,
but sometimes you smile at me
from the face of another mans daughter

a smile that contains all the mornings
we never baked bread together,
all the cartwheels you never turned,

all the stories you never told me
about all the things that never happened.
You are six, or nine, or fifteen, and always

as beautiful as I imagined, growing up
smart and graceful and strong, and I am glad,
and it breaks my heart

that you have become all this without me.
I have spent what would have been
your entire life breaking up

fights between the boys,
scrubbing the floor around the toilet,
trying to get them to change their underwear,

and knowing that I could not love anyone more
not even you.
Perhaps someday you will understand

how its possible to regret
the life that never was, and still love nothing
more than the life that is."

Rob Hardy


----------



## Sky Dancer

A Silly Poem

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B? 


Spike Milligan


----------



## Sky Dancer

Let Me Die A Youngman's Death


Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death 


Roger McGough


----------



## midcan5

'Elena'

"My Spanish isn't good enough
I remember how I'd smile
Listening my little ones
Understanding every word they'd say,
Their jokes, their songs, their plots
Vamos a pedirle dulces a mama. Vamos.
But that was in Mexico.
Now my children go to American High Schools.
They speak English. At night they sit around the
Kitchen table, laugh with one another.
I stand at the stove and feel dumb, alone.
I bought a book to learn English.
My husband frowned, drank more beer.
My oldest said, Mama, he doesn't want you to
Be smarter than he is I'm forty,
Embarrased at mispronouncing words,
Embarrased at the laughter of my children,
The grocery, the mailman. Sometimes I take
my English book and lock myself in the bathroom,
say the thick words softly, for if I stop trying, I will be deaf
when my children need my help."

Pat Mora


----------



## Sky Dancer

Paris and Helen

By Judy Grahn 


He called her:  golden dawn
She called him:  the wind whistles


He called her:  heart of the sky
She called him:  message bringer


He called her:  mother of pearl
           barley woman, rice provider,
           millet basket, corn maid,
           flax princess, all-maker, weef


She called him:  fawn, roebuck,
           stag, courage, thunderman,
           all-in-green, mountain strider
           keeper of forests, my-love-rides


He called her:  the tree is
She called him:  bird dancing


He called her:  who stands,
           has stood, will always stand
She called him:  arriver


He called her:  the heart and the womb
           are similar
She called him:  arrow in my heart.


----------



## Sky Dancer

For the Record 

The clouds and the stars didn't wage this war 
the brooks gave no information 
if the mountain spewed stones of fire into the river 
it was not taking sides 
the raindrop faintly swaying under the leaf 
had no political opinions 

and if here or there a house 
filled with backed-up raw sewage 
or poisoned those who lived there 
with slow fumes, over years 
the houses were not at war 
nor did the tinned-up buildings 

intend to refuse shelter 
to homeless old women and roaming children 
they had no policy to keep them roaming 
or dying, no, the cities were not the problem 
the bridges were non-partisan 
the freeways burned, but not with hatred 

Even the miles of barbed-wire 
stretched around crouching temporary huts 
designed to keep the unwanted 
at a safe distance, out of sight 
even the boards that had to absorb 
year upon year, so many human sounds 

so many depths of vomit, tears 
slow-soaking blood 
had not offered themselves for this 
The trees didn't volunteer to be cut into boards 
nor the thorns for tearing flesh 
Look around at all of it 

and ask whose signature 
is stamped on the orders, traced 
in the corner of the building plans 
Ask where the illiterate, big-bellied 
women were, the drunks and crazies, 
the ones you fear most of all: ask where you were. 

adrienne rich


----------



## Sky Dancer

All blood is menstrual blood


by Judy Grahn


(An excerpt from the poem, women are tired of the ways men bleed)


Images of blood are all around us, everywhere

in our modern urbanized society blood is 
depicted, spoken of, displayed:

The blood of wound, of death and to a tiny extent 
birth, is part of daily viewing in television
and films; we are completely familiar
with the bloodlines of kinship, and with the blood
of violence, of murder and vengeance, of sacrifice,
suffering, and of IV drug users; the blood
of warning, of wounding, of threat; the danger
attached to the blood of AIDS; the blood of life, of 
transfusions, of redemption; the blood of Christ;
the blood of martyrdom, of St. Sebastian, of the prize
fighter depicted in the movies. Blood is 
genealogy in bloodlines, family blood, 
the blood that is thicker
than water.

Blood is in name and in common
expression, in the blood of the lamb, in the blood 
of blood, sweat and tears, in the blood of the Sangre
de Christo Mountains, in the blood of blood brothers, 
the blood of the stigmata, the blood on the moon, 
the blood that cannot be squeezed from turnips,
the blood dripping from the mouth of the vampire, 
the bloodstain on Lady Macbeth's hands, the blood
gurgling down the shower drain in horror films.

Real blood is everywhere in our society, Saturday-
night blood, drive-by-shooting blood, the blood he was
covered in after he was shot, or stabbed
or blown up; the pencil- thin line like a necklace
across her throat, the great spread of it when she was
chopped up, the bloody nose, the bleeding ulcer,
the sting of hemorrhoids, the blood on the surgeon's
gown and the butcher's apron, the many rivers of 
battle and massacre that have run with blood,
the battlefield soaked, the sand reddened, 
the blood on the child's ear and the wife's 
mouth and the young man's cheek. 

In the cities the gutters are streaming
and sidewalks pooled and car seats puddled and 
emergency rooms smeared and police clubs stained.

When gangster John Dillinger's body fell on the street
shot by the FBI and spouting
from numerous holes
passersby instantly leaped as though 
to a holy stream, to dip
a handkerchief, newspaper, even
a sleeve into the blood of his wounds, to take
a bit home with them.

Blood is magic
Blood is holy
And wholly riveting of our attention.

Menstrual blood is the only source of blood
that is not traumatically induced. 
Yet in modern society, this is the most 
hidden blood, the one rarely spoken of 
and almost never seen
except privately by women, who shut themselves
in little rooms to quickly and perhaps disgustedly 
change their pads and tampons,
wrapping the bloodied cotton so it won't be seen
by others, wrinkling their faces at the odor,
flushing or hiding the evidence away.
Blood is everywhere
and yet the one
the only
the single name
it has not had publicly
for many centuries
is menstrual blood.

Menstrual blood, like water
just flows. 
Its fountain existed
long before knives or flint.
Menstruation
is the original source of blood.
Menstrual is blood's secret name.


Judy Grahn


----------



## Sky Dancer

They say she is veiled 

They say she is veiled 
and a mystery.   That is 
one way of looking. 
Another 
is that she is where 
she always has been,   exactly in place, 
and it is we, 
we who are mystified, 
we who are veiled 
and without faces. 

From The Queen of Wands


----------



## Sky Dancer

Be Ahead of All Parting 

I lay on Emily's grave 
I lay on Chief Seattle 
as though they were behind me 
as though now were that night 

For among winters one is so endlessly winter 
I fled my love in Lourmarin and found 
Albert Camus. I brought back to my love the lavender 
that covers him and Madam Camus. All things 
double on one another especially our hearts. I sat on Sartre 
and De Beauvoir, "ensemble!" the guard shouted, 
one on top the other. I was looking for Vallejo 
but found in the slot Jean Seberg. (I didn't find 
Joan of Arc or Romain Gary). On Gertrude Stein 
among the pebbles and Alice B. Toklas 
I left my White-Out, there being no pebbles left 
in Paris 

We walked across London to Karl Marx 
miles covered by asphalt and cement. My Marxist love 
had a fit for fear I'd pee on even his cement. Systems 
impossible in time, I am forever dead 
in the women's section 
of the Moravian Cemetery 
in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Hilda Doolittle 
as "Mrs. Richard Aldington" 
beneath the towering phallus 
or was that the omphalos? the now that is night, glacier 

cloud drifting but mostly 
the unknown 
when I was going I stopped 
at every death 
I saw the movies the dead see. 


By Sharon Doubiago


----------



## Sky Dancer

How do we know that the panthers

will accept a gift from

white  middle  class  women?



Have you ever tried to hide?

In a group

of women

hide

yourself

slide between the floor boards

slide yourself away child

away from this room

& your sister

before she notices

your Black self &

her white mind

slide your eyes

down

away from the other Blacks

afraid  a meeting of eyes

& pain would travel between you 

change like milk to buttermilk

a silent rage.

SISTER! your foots smaller,

but its still on my neck.


----------



## Sky Dancer

A Brave and Startling Truth


We, this people, on a small and lonely planet 
Traveling through casual space 
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns 
To a destination where all signs tell us 
It is possible and imperative that we learn 
A brave and startling truth 

And when we come to it 
To the day of peacemaking 
When we release our fingers 
From fists of hostility 
And allow the pure air to cool our palms 

When we come to it 
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate 
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean 
When battlefields and coliseum 
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters 
Up with the bruised and bloody grass 
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil 

When the rapacious storming of the churches 
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased 
When the pennants are waving gaily 
When the banners of the world tremble 
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze 

When we come to it 
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders 
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce 
When land mines of death have been removed 
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace 
When religious ritual is not perfumed 
By the incense of burning flesh 
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake 
By nightmares of abuse 

When we come to it 
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids 
With their stones set in mysterious perfection 
Nor the Gardens of Babylon 
Hanging as eternal beauty 
In our collective memory 
Not the Grand Canyon 
Kindled into delicious color 
By Western sunsets 

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe 
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji 
Stretching to the Rising Sun 
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor, 
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores 
These are not the only wonders of the world 

When we come to it 
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe 
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger 
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace 
We, this people on this mote of matter 
In whose mouths abide cankerous words 
Which challenge our very existence 
Yet out of those same mouths 
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness 
That the heart falters in its labor 
And the body is quieted into awe 

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet 
Whose hands can strike with such abandon 
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living 
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness 
That the haughty neck is happy to bow 
And the proud back is glad to bend 
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction 
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines 

When we come to it 
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body 
Created on this earth, of this earth 
Have the power to fashion for this earth 
A climate where every man and every woman 
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety 
Without crippling fear 

When we come to it 
We must confess that we are the possible 
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world 
That is when, and only when 
We come to it. 


Maya Angelou


----------



## Sky Dancer

How to Dress Like a Scary Dyke 

She said, Wear my leather jacket, a looser
sweater. Take off that lipstick,
dont fuss with your hair. Wear
jeans and boots. That ought to do it.

I still had stockings stuffed like
seaweed in packages, and nylon pants
that made my crotch itch without desire.

I still had black high heels
I bought to make me look all business,
but I couldnt get to the business
of not dressing for men.

She told me what theyd like,
those scary dykes.
I took these notes.
Wanted to learn real bad.

1977

How to Dress like a Femmy Dyke 

Go with a perm or a duck tail
 low maintenance.
Heavy on the eye paint, a little hard.
Blood-red lips. Develop a swagger
in your fuck-me shoes, or wear
expensive cowboy boots, the kind
that go with gypsy clothes.

Get three holes in one ear
and pour on the gold.
Use tons of Yes, the new perfume.
Wear fifties coats with shoulder pads.
If you get a little plump,
just pile on the frills.

Go to Prelude and order Kaluha with cream,
or cream with anything.
Dance up a storm.
And if a scary dyke looks too long at you,
start picking the polish off your nails
or burst into tears and
beg her to take you home.

1981


----------



## midcan5

My granddaughter dances in circles when she see me - who knew when you start this journey....have a great day all you dads and more out there.

=================

(for Doris Schnabel)

'My Father'

was a cowboy.
My father was a sugar man.
My father was a teamster.

My father was a Siberian 
tiger; a corsair; a lamb, 
a yellow dog, a horse's ass.

My father had a triple bi-pass.
My father was a rat 
but he bought me my first hat. 

My father believed in decency 
and fair play. My father drove 
the getaway. My father was a blue jay.

My father drove the boys away.
My father drove a Thunderbird, 
a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck 

with a rusty tool box, a Skybird, 
a Sunray. My father drove hard bargains 
ever day; he was a force. My father 

was mercurial. He was passive, 
a little moody: rock... paper... scissors. 
He loved me. He loved me not.

He stomps and hurls lightning bolts. 
Has slipped away. Passed away. 
My father was passé. My father 

was a Texas Ranger. Taught me 
to pray. Because of him, I hoard things 
in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use 

botox. Because of him, I look to clocks. 
Because of my father, I know how 
to oil the gate; dont own a map. 

Because of my father, I have no use for 
similes. Because of my father, I hunger 
for my own catalog of metaphors."

Scott Hightower


----------



## Sky Dancer

HARLEM SWEETIES

Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?
Cast your gims
On this sepia thrill:
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat.
Peach-skinned girlie,
Coffee and cream,
Chocolate darling
Out of a dream.
Walnut tinted
Or cocoa brown,
Pomegranate-lipped
Pride of the town.
Rich cream-colored
To plum-tinted black,
Feminine sweetness
In Harlem's no lack.
Glow of the quince
To blush of the rose.
Persimmon bronze
To cinnamon toes.
Blackberry cordial,
Virginia Dare wine--
All those sweet colors
Flavor Harlem of mine!
Walnut or cocoa,
Let me repeat:
Caramel, brown sugar,
A chocolate treat.
Molasses taffy,
Coffee and cream,
Licorice, clove, cinnamon
To a honey-brown dream.
Ginger, wine-gold,
Persimmon, blackberry,
All through the spectrum
Harlem girls vary--
So if you want to know beauty's
Rainbow-sweet thrill,
Stroll down luscious,
Delicious, fine Sugar Hill.


Langston Hughes


----------



## midcan5

One thousand - wow. 

'A Story'

"Everyone loves a story. Let's begin with a house.
We can fill it with careful rooms and fill the rooms
with things&#8212;tables, chairs, cupboards, drawers
closed to hide tiny beds where children once slept
or big drawers that yawn open to reveal
precisely folded garments washed half to death,
unsoiled, stale, and waiting to be worn out.
There must be a kitchen, and the kitchen
must have a stove, perhaps a big iron one
with a fat black pipe that vanishes into the ceiling
to reach the sky and exhale its smells and collusions.
This was the center of whatever family life
was here, this and the sink gone yellow
around the drain where the water, dirty or pure, 
ran off with no explanation, somehow like the point
of this, the story we promised and may yet deliver.
Make no mistake, a family was here. You see
the path worn into the linoleum where the wood,
gray and certainly pine, shows through.
Father stood there in the middle of his life
to call to the heavens he imagined above the roof
must surely be listening. When no one answered
you can see where his heel came down again
and again, even though he'd been taught
never to demand. Not that life was especially cruel;
they had well water they pumped at first,
a stove that gave heat, a mother who stood
at the sink at all hours and gazed longingly
to where the woods once held the voices
of small bears&#8212;themselves a family&#8212;and the songs
of birds long fled once the deep woods surrendered
one tree at a time after the workmen arrived
with jugs of hot coffee. The worn spot on the sill
is where Mother rested her head when no one saw,
those two stained ridges were handholds
she relied on; they never let her down.
Where is she now? You think you have a right
to know everything? The children tiny enough
to inhabit cupboards, large enough to have rooms
of their own and to abandon them, the father
with his right hand raised against the sky?
If those questions are too personal, then tell us,
where are the woods? They had to have been
because the continent was clothed in trees.
We all read that in school and knew it to be true.
Yet all we see are houses, rows and rows
of houses as far as sight, and where sight vanishes
into nothing, into the new world no one has seen,
there has to be more than dust, wind-borne particles
of burning earth, the earth we lost, and nothing else."

Philip Levine


----------



## Sky Dancer

Freedom of Love
(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire 


Andre Breton


----------



## Sky Dancer

TYPING THE MENU 

Not a day goes by 
when Ma, in her blue waitress uniform, 
stops me reading The Oakland Tribune 
to dictate, precisely at 3:30 P.M., 
the next day's menu. 

All right, Ma says, in English, 
tomorrow we'll serve 
Baked Spaghetti 
Beef Stew with Potatoes and Carrots 
Fried Breast of Lamb and 
Boiled Ox Tongue with Spanish Sauce. 

My mouth waters 
as she decides the next day's specials. 
Ma doesn't need to say 
Breaded Veal Cutlets 
Fried Oysters or 
Prime Rib of Beef 
because these are always 
on the menu every day. 

Though I can write in shorthand, 
I scribble the specials in long hand 
and step down into Bah Bah's office 
and insert a a piece of paper 
into the old Royal typewriter. 
I type tomorrow's menu 
watching the purple letters spring up 
like soldiers marching in union 
filling up the sheet, such plums and grapes 
for our daily lives. 

I proofread carefully, 
the typed menu, making sure 
I typed the correct specials 
that Ma dictated, 
making sure that each item 
was spelled correctly 
just from memory 
because Spell Check 
was a futuristic ploy. 

With the labor of my fingers, 
my back, my eyes 
staring at the list of items 
that ranged from Halibut Steak 
for 50 cents to 
Prime Rib of Beef 
for 95 cents 
knowing that my fingers 
helped to support the family, 
my secretarial skills a blip 
of the family business 
known as The Great China Restaurant 
Ai Joong Wah 
at 723 Webster Street 
in Chinatown, Oakland, California. 

When my sisters and I labored 
without wage 
but survived with tips 
and ngow ngiook fahn 
Beef over Rice 
served us by Bock Gung 
the head cook 
when Ma and Bah Bah 
weren't looking. 

When World War II filled 
The Great China with customers 
Pinky of Milen's Jewlers 
Mr. Carlson of Carlson's Confectionery 
Johnny, the boxer, and his girlfriend Lucille 
with her ruby red lips and white teeth 
Thlon doy 
single men 
families 
pensioners 
workers from gas stations, 
the parachute factory 
and herb and poultry stores, 
tenants from The Aloha Hotel, 
gypsies with their love 
for bowls of steamed rice overflowing 
with gravy. 

Typing the menu 
a job I didn't apply for 
but became mine 
in between making coffee, 
milkshakes and lettuce and tomato salads, 
anxious for tips that filled 
the glasses kept beneath 
the formica counter, 
understanding, even then, 
that money grew not on trees, 
but through our labor 
typing the menu 
drying silverware 
stringing string beans 
refilling granulated sugar jars 
washing the coffee urn on tip toes 
sweeping 
mopping 
Bah Bah inventorying and planning 
the next day's supplies 
vegetable oil 
flour 
50 pound sacks of long grain rice 
Flank steak, pork butt, 
Jello. 

The Great China, 
our second home, 
sandwiched between 
regular school and Chinese school, 
our days of wonder, 
questions, 
fatigue, 
anticipation and 
simmering American dreams. 

Nellie Wong


----------



## midcan5

Reader,  over 70,000 views, make sure and support the poets read here or there. Buy a book. 

============================

'What To Know'

"I cant write anything new for you,
reader, I cant tell you anything
you dont already know, but youre still
here so I must have gotten something right
or, at least, you can tell Im not lying.

I know the colors of your bruise,
and thats not it, I know the way
you feel about dark staircases and potato salad,
both are scary, but mostly I am
lonely here on the other side
of this page, hungry for everyone.

At night you want to give your thoughts
to someone, someone who will let you
pour back and forth, the way you do
between glasses to aerate the wine.

Maybe, reader, I have let you down,
not enough images here, not enough
insight. But my lover cut himself up,
covered the back of his forearms
in bloody stripes. Now, I dont think
I know anything about love.

Has that happened to you, reader?
Has yours lost his mind, hid drugs,
heard voices and slammed his head in doors?
No? Oh, neither has mine, actually,
Im married now, we have two kids.
While I write he is brewing coffee,
and later hell lift the bed sheet corner,
make a tent of space for me to crawl into.

There, Ill pour my day into him. No,
I dont need you, reader. I just wanted
to make you feel less alone. I thought
you might feel better about yourself, reading
this, imagining me in your shoes. But Im not
this poem, and I cant hope to see you."

Allison Campbell


----------



## percysunshine

Res ipsa liquid tore
another word for your
passage to moor
ending in a chore
of unlit devoire
for the purpose of more
and the desire of score
only to deplore
in a fatefull poor
convenience store


----------



## midcan5

*XXXXX*

==========================================


Nora Ephron 1941-2012

'Old Friends'

"Old friends? We must be. You&#8217;re delighted to see me. I&#8217;m delighted to see you. But who are you? Oh, my God, you&#8217;re Jane. I can&#8217;t believe it. Jane. "Jane! How are you? It&#8217;s been &#8212; how long has it been?" I&#8217;d like to suggest that the reason I didn&#8217;t recognize you right off the bat is that you&#8217;ve done something to your hair, but you&#8217;ve done nothing to your hair, nothing that would excuse my not recognizing you. What you&#8217;ve actually done is&#8217; gotten older. 1 don&#8217;t believe it. You used to be my age, and how you&#8217;re much, much, much older than I am. You could be my mother. Unless of course I look as old as you and I don&#8217;t know it. Which is not possible. Or is it? I&#8217;m looking around the room and I notice that everyone in it looks like someone &#8212; and when I try to figure out exactly who that someone is, it turns out to be a former version of herself, a thinner version or a healthier version or a pre-plastic-surgery version or a taller version. If this is true of everyone, it must be true of me. Mustn&#8217;t it? But never mind: you are speaking. "Maggie," you say, "it&#8217;s been so long." "I&#8217;m not Maggie," I say. "Oh, my God," you say, "It&#8217;s you. I didn&#8217;t recognize you. You&#8217;ve done something to your hair.""

Nora Ephron


----------



## midcan5

'Gravel'

"Little children love gravel, kneeling to play in gravel,
even gravel covering dry, meaningless dust.

Its not, Look what I found! its the gravel itself,
which is what puzzles adults: nothings there, even beneath.

But thats just what Catherine, watching children at that,
especially loves: that theres no purpose, no meaning.

So, that day in the metro when the pickpocket
shed warned a tourist against knelt, glaring at her,

a hand at his ankle, I wonder if one layer of that instant
of her mind had drift into it, children, children and gravel?

It didnt come to her until later, telling it to me,
that the thief may well have been reaching into his boot

for a knife, or a razor; only then was she frightened,
more frightened even than when the crook, the slime,

got up instead and shoved her, hard, and spit at her face,
and everyone else stood there with their eyes attached,

only then did she lean against me, and shudder, as I, now,
not in a park or playground, not watching a child sift

through her shining fingers those bits of cold, unhealable
granite which might be our lives, shudder, and shudder again."

C.K. Williams


----------



## percysunshine

Twas the night before SCOTUS, when all through the House
Not a Congressman was stirring, not even a spouse.
The stock options were hung by their broker with care,
In hopes that St Roberts soon would be there.

The lawyers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And Mechelle in her &#8216;kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just digested our arugula for a long winter&#8217;s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the west wing I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my cash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen know
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects bestowed.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and nine tinny Justice Dear.

With a little old driver, so lively and pert,
I knew in a moment it must be St Robert.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Kennedy! now, Ginsberg! now, Scalia and Breyer!
On, Alito! On, Thomas! , on Kagan and Sotomayor!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the Mall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the House-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Roberts too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the tube 
The prancing and pawing of each little boob.
As I drew in my head, with a turning around fling,
Down the chimney St Roberts came with a founding.

He was dressed all in suit, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a meddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his spine like John Kerry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin reminded me of Olympia Snowe.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was clubby and Trump, a right jolly old self,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stock options, then turned with a jerk.
And pointing his middle aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, &#8216;ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Commerce Clause to all, and to all a good-night!"


----------



## Liability

percysunshine said:


> Twas the night before SCOTUS, when all through the House
> Not a Congressman was stirring, not even a spouse.
> The stock options were hung by their broker with care,
> In hopes that St Roberts soon would be there.
> 
> The lawyers were nestled all snug in their beds,
> While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
> And Mechelle in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
> Had just digested our arugula for a long winters nap.
> 
> When out on the lawn there arose such a splatter,
> I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
> Away to the west wing I flew like a flash,
> Tore open the shutters and threw up my cash.
> 
> The moon on the breast of the new-fallen know
> Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects bestowed.
> When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
> But a miniature sleigh, and nine tinny Justice Dear.
> 
> With a little old driver, so lively and pert,
> I knew in a moment it must be St Robert.
> More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
> And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
> 
> "Now Kennedy! now, Ginsberg! now, Scalia and Breyer!
> On, Alito! On, Thomas! , on Kagan and Sotomayor!
> To the top of the porch! to the top of the Mall!
> Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
> 
> As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
> When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
> So up to the House-top the coursers they flew,
> With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Roberts too.
> 
> And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the tube
> The prancing and pawing of each little boob.
> As I drew in my head, with a turning around fling,
> Down the chimney St Roberts came with a founding.
> 
> He was dressed all in suit, from his head to his foot,
> And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
> A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
> And he looked like a meddler, just opening his pack.
> 
> His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
> His cheeks were like roses, his spine like John Kerry!
> His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
> And the beard of his chin reminded me of Olympia Snowe.
> 
> The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
> And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
> He had a broad face and a little round belly,
> That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
> 
> He was clubby and Trump, a right jolly old self,
> And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
> A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
> Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
> 
> He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
> And filled all the stock options, then turned with a jerk.
> And pointing his middle aside of his nose,
> And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
> 
> He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
> And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
> But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
> "Happy Commerce Clause to all, and to all a good-night!"



Brought a tear to my eye.

*sniff*

No.  Not the poem.  St. Roberts.


----------



## midcan5

'Unplotted'

"One woman leaned
over another on the shoulder
of the road. A thin black
sweater fluttered backward.
Whatever had happened
had just happened.
Trucks piled up
behind us, a procession
for the woman none of us knew.
And in this curve of dust
and sky, on Route 62-180
to El Paso, beside a mountain
where that morning
we&#8217;d risen in the wind,
where somewhere close a border
had been drawn,
we waited and were told
the wait would be long.
Men stood in clumps,
speaking Spanish, taking turns
to walk out to the desert
and relieve themselves, glance
through swaying brush
at the afterwards ahead,
wives still in their passenger seats
with the doors nudged open.
Such an easy thing,
to wait, to be alive, but
some of us closed our eyes
and sighed. How soon,
we wanted to know, could
we be back on the road like those
who would come upon this curve
in a few hours and pass over it,
as they&#8217;d pass over any other
spot along their way, not knowing?"

Christine Poreba


----------



## midcan5

'Fourth of July'

"Freedom is a rocket,
isnt it, bursting
orgasmically over
parkloads of hot
dog devouring
human beings
or into the cities
of our enemies
without whom we
would surely
kill ourselves
though they are
ourselves and
America I see now
is the soldier
who said I saw
something
burning on my
chest and tried
to brush it off with
my right hand
but my arm
wasnt there
America is no
other than this
moment, the
burning ribcage,
the hand gone
that might have
put it out, the skies
afire with our history."

John Brehm


----------



## midcan5

'Fourth of July at Santa Ynez'

         I
"Under the makeshift arbor of leaves
a hot wind blowing smoke and laughter.
Music out of the renegade west,
too harsh and loud, many dark faces
moved among the sweating whites.

         II
Wandering apart from the others,
I found an old Indian seated alone
on a bench in the flickering shade.

He was holding a dented bucket;
three crayfish, lifting themselves
from the muddy water, stirred
and scraped against the greasy metal.

         III
The old man stared from his wrinkled
darkness across the celebration,
unblinking, as one might see
in the hooded sleep of turtles.

A smile out of the ages of gold
and carbon flashed upon his face
and vanished, called away
by the sound and the glare around him,
by the lost voice of a child
piercing that thronged solitude.

         IV
The afternoon gathered distance
and depth, divided in the shadows
that broke and moved upon us . . .

Slowly, too slowly, as if returned
from a long and difficult journey,
the old man lifted his bucket
and walked away into the sunlit crowd."

John Haines


----------



## midcan5

'Learning to Love America'

"because it has no pure products

because the Pacific Ocean sweeps along the coastline
because the water of the ocean is cold
and because land is better than ocean

because I say we rather than they

because I live in California
I have eaten fresh artichokes
and jacaranda bloom in April and May

because my senses have caught up with my body
my breath with the air it swallows
my hunger with my mouth

because I walk barefoot in my house

because I have nursed my son at my breast
because he is a strong American boy
because I have seen his eyes redden when he is asked who he is
because he answers I dont know

because to have a son is to have a country
because my son will bury me here
because countries are in our blood and we bleed them

because it is late and too late to change my mind
because it is time."

Shirley Geok-Lin Lim


----------



## midcan5

'The Promise' 

"Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.

Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.

Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.

Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.

Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.

Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always."

Jane Hirshfield


----------



## Dajjal

I wrote this some years ago.

I walked among a grove of trees,
On a golden carpet of autumn leaves,
The leaves were falling, dying things,
Giving up their luscious greens, 
They died to be reborn again,
With the coming of the spring.

I saw that God was hard at work,
Tending to our mother earth,
Gathering up the worn and old,
Then giving new lives to the world,
Reaping what the harvest sowed,
A crop of new enlightened souls.

The mother and father of us all,
Allows his worn out leaves to fall,
Our creator and eternal life giver,
Our redeemer and our forgiver.
I knew then mankind were brothers,
All women our sisters and mothers.

I knew the old Gods had seen their day.
The Gods to whom we used to pray,
Like Ra and Thor and Zeus and Mars,
Like Gods of the sun and of the Stars,
Gods grown old beyond their time,
Ideas that only imprisoned our minds

I saw a new God for all creation,
For ever colour, race and nation
To whom you do not need to pray
For he is within you every day,
Judging no soul to cruel damnation.
Giving us our greatest revelation,

I knew then that there is no heaven,
There is no lasting place like hell,
The kingdom of heaven lies within
Our mortal lives are just a dream,
When all our dross is burned away,
Our hearts will be purified one day.

We need not fear where we will go,
Our divine creator loves us all,
We are all a living part of him,
We are all his immortal children.
All souls will finally be redeemed,
This is the God of which I dreamed.

My feet felt the earth in strange delight.
The colours all seemed clear and bright,
The breeze embraced me and curled around,
The rustling leaves were a sweet sound.
Caressed by wind and kissed by rain,
I saw through all earthy mortal pain.

I was with God in the here and now,
There was nowhere I would rather go,
I knew I needed nothing nor ever will,
All fear was gone and time stood still,
I loved every blessed living thing, 
For every creature was a divine being.

I had seen through illusion to Gods face,
I knew I would find him in any place.
Send me to heaven or send me to hell.
I would be in the same place as now,
Make the world bright,or make it dark,
I would still see God within my heart.


----------



## midcan5

'The Mournes'

"I shall not go to heaven when I die.
But if they let me be
I think I'll take a road I used to know
That goes by Slieve-na-garagh and the sea.
And all day breasting me the wind shall blow,
And I'll hear nothing but the peewit's cry
And the sea talking in the caves below.
I think it will be winter when I die
(For no one from the North could die in spring)
And all the heather will be dead and grey,
And the bog-cotton will have blown away,
And there will be no yellow on the wind.
But I shall smell the peat,
And when its almost dark I'll set my feet
Where a white track goes glimmering to the hills,
And see, far up, a light
Would you think Heaven could be so small a thing
As a lit window on the hills at night?
And come in stumbling from the gloom,
Half-blind, into a firelit room
Turn, and see you,
And there abide.

If it were true,
And if I thought that they would let me be
I almost wish it were tonight I died."

Helen Waddell

http://www.usmessageboard.com/writing/235471-ulsters-forgotten-darling.html
Poems by Helen Waddell


----------



## midcan5

'America'

"Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud   
Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes   
Where you cant tell the show from the commercials,

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,   
He says that even when hes driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them   
Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds   
Of the thick satin quilt of America

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,   
or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,   
It was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills   
Spilling from his wounds, andthis is the weird part,

He gasped Thank godthose Ben Franklins were   
Clogging up my heart

And so I perish happily,
Freed from that which kept me from my liberty

Which was when I knew it was a dream, since my dad   
Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto clothes
And I think, I am asleep in America too,

And I dont know how to wake myself either,
And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

I was listening to the cries of the past,
When I should have been listening to the cries of the future.

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable
Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you
And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you
And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand
Which turns the volume higher?"

Tony Hoagland


----------



## Liability

Holy fuck.

Shitty poetry is shitty regardless of who posts it or why.


----------



## freedombecki

Liability said:


> Holy fuck.
> 
> Shitty poetry is shitty regardless of who posts it or why.


The point of a good sharp quill pen often irritates the one it pokes.. Just sayin' 

Oh, wait. 
That's me annoying cdrrips...


----------



## midcan5

'Why People Really Have Dogs'

"People really have dogs so they can talk to themselves
without feeling crazy. Take me, for example, cooking
scrambled eggs, ranting about this dumb fuck
who sent naked pictures of himself to strange women,
a politician from New York, I read about it in the paper,
start telling my nervous cock-a-poo, blind in one eye,
practically deaf (so I have to talk extra loud) all about it
and he&#8217;s looking at me, poor thing, like he thinks I&#8217;m
the smartest person he&#8217;s ever heard and I go on, him
tilting his head, and when he sees me pick up my dish
of eggs he starts panting and wagging his tail, I tell him,
no, they&#8217;re not for you, but then I break down and give
him some knowing full well that feeding from the table
is rule number one of what you don&#8217;t do with dogs,
but I do it anyway because he wants them so bad,
because it makes me feel good to give him what he wants,
and I expound more to make sure he&#8217;s aware of the whole
political scandal, the implications for the democrats,
the hypocrisy, tell him dogs are rarely hypocrites, except
when they pretend to be interested in you when all they want
is your food, take him, for example, right now pretending
to love me so much when all he wants are my eggs, me
talking to him when all I want is to say my opinions with no one
interrupting, feel my voice roll out on a clear Saturday morning,
listen to it echo from the kitchen to the bath, up through the ceiling,
out to the sky, the voice from within, all alone in the morning
as the light outside catches the edge of the silver mixing bowl
where the remaining, uncooked eggs sit stirred, ready to toss
into the pan, cooked, eaten by whomever pretends to want them."

Kim Dower


----------



## midcan5

'My Grandmother Told Us Jokes'

"like the one about the man who
walked down the street
& turned into
a drugstore.

There was some secret in the moment
of that turningwhen he was one thing,
became another
that I return to again & again.

The day she stopped being
grandma & turned into
that madwoman.

The day my sister stopped being
& never came back. Perhaps there
was an instant between her sweet sleep

& the moment the fever struck,
from which she could have been plucked.

Do not make that turn, I want to say to the man
who becomes the drugstore; to the woman
who dies insane; to my sister;

to the boy who became an adult
the moment the cell door slammed shut.
I want to freeze-frame each instant of turning,

unfold in slow motion the moment of callous
change. Perhaps the secrets in the mans
intention; in the list in his pocket of mundane
nostrums he was sent to fetch home.

Or perhaps Ive got it wrong,
perhaps theres a soda fountain where they all sit
the man, my grandmother, my sister, the boy

& drink nickel root beer floats, look back
on that fateful turn, and laugh among themselves
at the rest of us, who took it all so seriously."

Richard Beban


----------



## Liability

midcan5 said:


> 'My Grandmother Told Us Jokes'
> 
> "like the one about the man who
> walked down the street
> & turned into
> a drugstore.
> 
> There was some secret in the moment
> of that turningwhen he was one thing,
> became another
> that I return to again & again.
> 
> The day she stopped being
> grandma & turned into
> that madwoman.
> 
> The day my sister stopped being
> & never came back. Perhaps there
> was an instant between her sweet sleep
> 
> & the moment the fever struck,
> from which she could have been plucked.
> 
> Do not make that turn, I want to say to the man
> who becomes the drugstore; to the woman
> who dies insane; to my sister;
> 
> to the boy who became an adult
> the moment the cell door slammed shut.
> I want to freeze-frame each instant of turning,
> 
> unfold in slow motion the moment of callous
> change. Perhaps the secrets in the mans
> intention; in the list in his pocket of mundane
> nostrums he was sent to fetch home.
> 
> Or perhaps Ive got it wrong,
> perhaps theres a soda fountain where they all sit
> the man, my grandmother, my sister, the boy
> 
> & drink nickel root beer floats, look back
> on that fateful turn, and laugh among themselves
> at the rest of us, who took it all so seriously."
> 
> Richard Beban



*Poetry critique*:

Poetry means lots of different things to different people.

But the above quoted rambling -- almost free form -- "thought" which got put down into words could have been written with the exact same words in the exact same order, just not put arbitrarily into those little stanzas, and then nobody would have said it was "poetry."

Unless there actually is some special meter to the delivery that isn't apparent on the surface.


----------



## midcan5

"A poem can have an impact, but you can't expect an audience to understand all the nuances." Douglas Dunn 

"A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses."  Jean Cocteau

Saturday afternoon at the mall

My wife and I sit in a crossway at the mall
playing a game of guessing
the occupations of passersby
we try not to point, items describe,
some are easy, nerds and youth 
chino pants neat haircut
business executive
former teacher retired
hippy professor programmer
works in a pet store
faces make it hard
families harder
sometimes we laugh 
as I guess cook and she cop
clerk, no, teacher 
then as we leave
we point at each other
others wonder why 

mc5


"I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything."  Steven Wright

"Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure." A. E. Housman


----------



## American Horse

"From their eyelids as they glanced dripped love.&#8221; 

&#8213; The  Hesiod


----------



## midcan5

'Family Stories' 

"I had a boyfriend who told me stories about his family,
how an argument once ended when his father
seized a lit birthday cake in both hands
and hurled it out a second-story window. That,
I thought, was what a normal family was like: anger
sent out across the sill, landing like a gift
to decorate the sidewalk below. In mine
it was fists and direct hits to the solar plexus,
and nobody ever forgave anyone. But I believed
the people in his stories really loved one another,
even when they yelled and shoved their feet
through cabinet doors, or held a chair like a bottle
of cheap champagne, christening the wall,
rungs exploding from their holes.
I said it sounded harmless, the pomp and fury
of the passionate. He said it was a curse
being born Italian and Catholic and when he
looked from that window what he saw was the moment
rudely crushed. But all I could see was a gorgeous
three-layer cake gliding like a battered ship
down the sidewalk, the smoking candles broken, sunk
deep in the icing, a few still burning."

Dorianne Laux


----------



## Wry Catcher

Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try
No people below us, above it's only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do
No need to kill or die for and no religions too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Imagine no possessions I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger a brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing for the world

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
Take my hand and join us
And the world will live, will live as one


----------



## Liability

midcan5 said:


> 'Family Stories'
> 
> "I had a boyfriend who told me stories about his family,
> how an argument once ended when his father
> seized a lit birthday cake in both hands
> and hurled it out a second-story window. That,
> I thought, was what a normal family was like: anger
> sent out across the sill, landing like a gift
> to decorate the sidewalk below. In mine
> it was fists and direct hits to the solar plexus,
> and nobody ever forgave anyone. But I believed
> the people in his stories really loved one another,
> even when they yelled and shoved their feet
> through cabinet doors, or held a chair like a bottle
> of cheap champagne, christening the wall,
> rungs exploding from their holes.
> I said it sounded harmless, the pomp and fury
> of the passionate. He said it was a curse
> being born Italian and Catholic and when he
> looked from that window what he saw was the moment
> rudely crushed. But all I could see was a gorgeous
> three-layer cake gliding like a battered ship
> down the sidewalk, the smoking candles broken, sunk
> deep in the icing, a few still burning."
> 
> Dorianne Laux



Yes indeed.  Another compelling example of "poetry" that could be just some poor schmoe sitting in an analyst's chair venting about some shit or other in his or her life.

Hey!  Wait.  

Read that first paragraph again.

Poetry!


----------



## midcan5

Liability said:


> Yes indeed.  Another compelling example of "poetry" that could be just some poor schmoe sitting in an analyst's chair venting about some shit or other in his or her life.



I had no idea fans of John Belushi were poetry critics? But I'm confused, John's humor was drunk or drugged nonsense so I'm surprised that makes you an expert. But thanks for the insight, watch those drugs you know what happened to John.

========

'Halfies in Philadelphia and the Ritual of Desire'

"Twenty years later I find half a tennis ball
in the woods and return for a while
to that cramped geography at the other
end of my life, empty mills and El tracks
casting shadows we did not yet feel on our backs.
Our fingers curled around halfies&#8218; ruined edges,
mop handle bats twitched within the fists of friends
now gone to drugs or crime or some other darkness,
a shot to the first floor a single, to the second, a double,
the third, a triple, the roof an elusive home run,
no bases to trot around, home plate a chalked square.
Radio pounding, tire hiss, acrid smell of smoke
from coal cars clacking past our dead neighborhood
on the way to somewhere far from Perlstein Glass
and the rank back alley of our failures. Our fathers
worked hard for nothing wages, came home to beer,
a hot shower, a hot meal. They did not talk much,
nor did we those afternoons we tested each other
with trick pitches&#8212;flying saucers, German helmets&#8212;
tapping aside what we did not like until we strode
into one with a vicious uppercut, trying
to lift it above our little lives into the air
where no birds flew, where the wind could catch it
and pull it onto the roof, evanescent and free."

Daniel Donaghy


To this day I cannot pick up a rounded stick and not get a sense for how it would work in our summer school yard games. When the pimple ball lost too much air we cut it in half and played half ball. I wonder if any still rest on high roofs.


----------



## midcan5

'Telling Time' 

"My son and I walk away
from his sister&#8217;s day-old grave.
Our backs to the sun,
the forward pitch of our shadows
tells us the time.
By sweetest accident
he inclines
his shadow,
touching mine."

Jo McDougall


----------



## Liability

midcan5 said:


> 'Telling Time'
> 
> "My son and I walk away
> from his sisters day-old grave.
> Our backs to the sun,
> the forward pitch of our shadows
> tells us the time.
> By sweetest accident
> he inclines
> his shadow,
> touching mine."
> 
> Jo McDougall




Well, THAT was certainly uplifting.


----------



## midcan5

'August Morning'

"It&#8217;s ripe, the melon
by our sink. Yellow,
bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
the house too sweetly.
At five I wake, the air
mournful in its quiet.
My wife&#8217;s eyes swim calmly
under their lids, her mouth and jaw
relaxed, different.
What is happening in the silence
of this house? Curtains
hang heavily from their rods.
Ficus leaves tremble
at my footsteps. Yet
the colors outside are perfect&#8212;
orange geranium, blue lobelia.
I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum:
wife, children, books, flowers,
melon. Such still air. Soon
the mid-morning breeze will float in
like tepid water, then hot.
How do I start this day,
I who am unsure
of how my life has happened
or how to proceed
amid this warm and steady sweetness?"

Albert Garcia


----------



## midcan5

'Snapshot'

"My mother sends the baby pictures she promised
egg hunting in Shelby Park, wooden blocks
and Thumbelina tossed on the rug, knotty pine
walls in a house lost to memory. I separate out
the early ones, studying my navel or crumbs
on the tray, taken before my awareness
of Sylvania Superflash. Here I am sitting
on the dinette table, the near birthday cake
striking me dumb. Two places of wedding china,
two glasses of milk, posed for the marvelous
moment: the child squishes the fluted rosettes,
mother claps her hands, father snaps the picture
in the face of time. When the sticky sweet
is washed off the page, we are pasted in an album
of blessed amnesia. The father leaves the pine house
and sees the child on weekends, the mother
stores the china on the top shelf until its dull and crazed,
the saucer-eyed girl grips her curved spoon
like theres no tomorrow."

Linda Parsons Marion


----------



## Anne745

I Love this poem...

Who will cry for the little boy?

Who will cry for the little boy?
Lost and all alone.
Who will cry for the little boy?
Abandoned without his own?

Who will cry for the little boy?
He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy?
He never had for keeps.

Who will cry for the little boy?
He walked the burning sand.
Who will cry for the little boy?
The boy inside the man.

Who will cry for the little boy?
Who knows well hurt and pain.
Who will cry for the little boy?
He died again and again.

Who will cry for the little boy?
A good boy he tried to be.
Who will cry for the little boy?
Who cries inside of me?

 by Antwone Q Fisher.


----------



## Anne745

Junior Year in High School had to memorize this .. did not Appreciate until now....

The Charge Of The Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

Half a league half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred: 
'Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns' he said: 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

'Forward, the Light Brigade!' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder'd: 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do & die, 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 
Volley'd & thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army while 
All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke; 
Cossack & Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 
Volley'd and thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse & hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 
All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 
Noble six hundred!

Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854
Written 1854


----------



## midcan5

'Epitaph On An Army of Mercenaries'

"These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling
And took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay."

Alfred Edward Housman


----------



## midcan5

'Fallen Apples'

"Wasps at work in the soft 
flesh of rotting apples. 
Food of the gods, 
all day they mine it in busy 
hushed movements.

I pick up a mushy corpse 
one cold morning. 
Carefully turn it over. 
Its congregation tumbles 
into the cupped 
bowl of my hand.

Dazed, drunk, still 
chilled from overnight cold, 
they blunder like sleepwalkers 
feeling around for the light. 
Tiny antennae test my skin 
in search of something 
now gone.

Warmed by my hand, 
warmed by the sun, 
they stagger and fall into flight. 
They scribble orbits 
the air erases
and whine at last out of sight."

Tom Hansen


----------



## midcan5

'Kindness Of Strangers'

"Millions of people
I dont know
Love and care for me.
I cant turn my computer on
Without being reminded
Of their concerns.
A big shot in Nigeria
Picks me from over 200 million
Americans to share his
Uncles fortune and I win
The UK and European lotteries
On the same day.
There are a few details.
Many people are concerned
About the size of my penis.
My inadequacy seems to be
All over cyberspace. I get
The taunting:
          Did nature give you a big dick?
Along with promises to
                    Grow my man sausage by
                              Three to five inches.
I only need to send them money.
Speaking of money, there are
A thousand plans to help
Me become a millionaire
Effortlessly, sitting in my pajamas
Drinking coffee or on the deck
Of my new tropical home
Sipping rum and fruit juice.
I dont have to do a thing.
Sign a check and look in
The mail box once a day.
And I can meet a Russian bride
Or a Christian single,
Someone who will be happy to hook up
With a millionaire with a large member
With nothing to do but
Drink all day
And count his money."

Michael Shorb


----------



## midcan5

'On Reading A Poem By Phillis Levin'

"I laughed out loud this morning.
I was reading a poem called The Buzzard
and it took me through ice storms,
evacuation routes, terrible winds&#8212;
an ominous landscape.
But where is the buzzard, I wondered,
and how is he going to navigate
toward breakfast in this gale?
I got to the end where a neighbor&#8217;s shovel
scraping the walk made you reconsider
the meaning of your life,
and still no bird had shown up.
Not even a canary.
Did I miss something?
I turned back the page to read it again
and saw it was called The Blizzard.
How interesting life can be
when you mistake one thing for another."

Marilyn Robertson


----------



## midcan5

'In Memory Of His Memory'

"It was good for the alphabet, for the facts of arithmetic,
and the capitals of states. They froze into place somewhere
behind a piece of his mind. In speech class and debate
his minds eye reproduced whole streams of words
that had rattled out of the mouths of orators,
but not exactly by heart. That was for poems.

He could memorize any lyrics, no matter how bad,
with the ease of a quick study shaking backstage
and later could remember the names of the faces
of students arranged in rows of rows and call them
back to be recognized or counted absent.

He could think, even think and think and then rename
and remember what it was he should have done
when he hadnt done anything in forgettable moments
like this one now. We are gathered here to pay
our last respects to an absentee, whose name
you can find somewhere in your programs. He had something
to do and apparently did it or we wouldnt be here.

Im speaking now to some memorable purpose
or other, and you, on yours, are sitting there."

David Wagoner


----------



## midcan5

'The American Dream'

"It would have to be something dark,
glazed as in a painting. A corridor
leading back to a forgotten neighborhood
where a ball is bounced from street
to street, and we hear from a far corner
the vendors cry in a city light.

It would have to be dusk, long after
sunlight has failed. A shrouded figure
at the prow of a ship, staring
and pointingas if one might see
into that new land still unventured,
and beyond it, coal dust and gaslight,
vapors of an impenetrable distance.

Too many heroes, perhaps: a MacArthur
striding the Philippine shallows; a sports
celebrity smeared with a period color.
A voice in the air: a Roman orator
declaiming to an absentee Forum
the mood of their falling republic.

It would have to be night. No theater
lights, a dated performance shut down.
And in ones fretful mind a ghost
in a rented toga pacing the stage,
reciting to himself a history:

Here were the elected Elders, chaired
and bewigged. And placed before them
the Charter: they read it aloud,
pass it with reverence from hand to hand.

Back there in the curtained shadows
the peoples chorus waited, shifting
and uncertain; but sometimes among them
a gesture, a murmur of unrest.
"And somewhere here, mislaid, almost
forgotten, the meaning of our play,
its theme and blunted purpose . . .""

John Haines


----------



## midcan5

'My Mother Goes to Vote'

"We walked five blocks
to the elementary school,
my mothers high heels
crunching through playground gravel.
We entered through a side door.

Down the long corridor,
decorated with Halloween masks,
health department safety posters
we followed the arrows
to the third grade classroom.

My mother stepped alone
into the booth, pulling the curtain behind her.
I could see only the backs of her
calves in crinkled nylons.

A partial vanishing, then reappearing
pocketbook crooked on her elbow,
our mayors button pinned to her lapel.
Even then I could seeto choose
is to follow what has already
been decided.

We marched back out
finding a new way back down streets
named for flowers
and accomplished men.
I said their names out loud, as we found

our way home, to the cramped house,
the devoted porch light left on,
the customary meatloaf.
I remember, in the classroom converted
into a voting place
there were two mothers, conversing,
squeezed into the childrens desk chairs."

Judith Harris


----------



## midcan5

I haven't been back in a while but seeing the names of friends and HS buddies on a black wall in Washington is a bleak experience. I wonder what the years would have brought to each. Last time there I took a WWII vet whose reflection caught my eye as he ran his hand over the name of a cousin.

'Facing It'	  

"My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears. 
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's 
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair."

Yusef Komunyakaa


----------



## midcan5

'Thanksgiving' 

"Thanks for the Italian chestnutswith their
tough shellsthe smooth chocolaty
skin of themthanks for the boiling water

itself a miracle and a mystery
thanks for the seasoned sauce pan
and the old wooden spoonand all

the neglected instruments in the drawer
the garlic crusherthe bent paring knife
the apple slicer that creates six

perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson
thanks for the humming radiothanks
for the program on the radio

about the guy who was a cross-dresser
but his wife forgave himand he
ended up almost dying from leukemia

(and you could tell his wife loved him
entirelyit was in her deliberate voice)
thanks for the brined turkey

the size of a big babythanks
for the departed head of the turkey
the present neckthe giblets

(whatever they are)wrapped up as
small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs
thanksthanksthanksfor the candles

lit on the tablethe dried twigs
the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase
thanksfor the facesour facesin this low light."

Tim Nolan


----------



## midcan5

'The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood''

"First, grant me my sense of history:
I did it for posterity,
for kindergarten teachers
and a clear moral:
Little girls shouldn't wander off
in search of strange flowers,
and they mustn't speak to strangers.

And then grant me my generous sense of plot:
Couldn't I have gobbled her up
right there in the jungle?
Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?
As if I, a forest-dweller,
didn't know of the cottage
under the three oak trees
and the old woman lived there
all alone?
As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?

And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,
now my only reputation.
But I was no child-molester
though you'll agree she was pretty.

And the huntsman:
Was I sleeping while he snipped
my thick black fur
and filled me with garbage and stones?
I ran with that weight and fell down,
simply so children could laugh
at the noise of the stones
cutting through my belly,
at the garbage spilling out
with a perfect sense of timing,
just when the tale
should have come to an end."

Agha Shahid Ali


----------



## midcan5

'At the Post Office' 

"The line is long, processional, glacial,
and the attendant a giant stone, cobalt blue
with flecks of white, I&#8217;m not so much
looking at a rock but a slab of night.
The stone asks if anything inside the package
is perishable. When I say no the stone
laughs, muted thunderclap, meaning
everything decays, not just fruit
or cut flowers, but paper, ink, the CD
I burned with music, and my friend
waiting to hear the songs, some little joy
after chemo eroded the tumor. I know flesh
is temporary, and memory a tilting barn
the elements dismantle nail by nail.
I know the stone knows a millennia of rain
and wind will even grind away
his ragged face, and all of this slow erasing
is just a prelude to when the swelling
universe burns out, goes dark, holds
nothing but black holes, the bones of stars
and planets, a vast silence. The stone
is stone-faced. The stone asks how soon
I want the package delivered. As fast
as possible, I say, then start counting the days."

David Hernandez


----------



## Arthur

ABC
By Wislawa Szymborska

Ill never find out now
What A. thought of me.
If B. ever forgave me in the end.
Why C. pretended everything was fine.
What part D. played in E.s silence.
What F. had been expecting, if anything.
Why G. forgot when she knew perfectly well.
What H. had to hide.
What I. wanted to add.
If my being around
meant anything
to J. and K. and the rest of the alphabet.

(Translated, from the Polish, by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.)


----------



## Arthur

Advice
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I must do as you do? Your way I own
Is a very good way, and still,
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,
One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,
That the prudent choose each time;
And you think me reckless and rash to-day
Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
We are not like peas in a pod,
Compelled to lie in a certain line,
Or else be scattered abroad.

T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,
If we all just went one way;
Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,
Though they lead apart today.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;
You like an even pace,
I like to mix with the crowd and run,
And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm, and strife,
You like a peaceful time;
I like the passion and surge of life,
You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
And crocuses, framed in snow;
I like roses, born of the heat,
And the red carnations glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,
For so it was written down;
We must follow our given paths to the end,
But I trust we shall meetin town.
​


----------



## Arthur

Affirmation
By Donald Hall

To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters
into debris on the shore,
and a friend from school drops
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us
past middle age, our wife will die
at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women come and go. All go.
The pretty lover who announces
that she is temporary
is temporary. The bold woman,
middle-aged against our old age,
sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand.
Another friend of decades estranges himself
in words that pollute thirty years.
Let us stifle under mud at the ponds edge
and affirm that it is fitting
and delicious to lose everything.


----------



## Arthur

Abandonment
By Amélie Rives

Sometimes when walls seem enemies, and sleep
Given to others like a cruel jest
Sent for my mocking, I, being mad for rest,
Creep out all lonely past the huddled sheep,
Stirring with drowsy tang of bells that keep
Soft iterance through the whispery night, where nest
And nestling sway, by winnowing wind caressed,
There fling myself along the grass to weep,
Sobs gathering, hands gripped hard into the earth,
The blesséd earth that takes us back at last!
And think, Ah, could this knowledge now befall
Some woman who for long hath thought me worth
Only her hatred, she would hold me fast
And strive to comfort me, forgetting all.


----------



## Arthur

The Art of Disappearing
By Naomi Shihab Nye

When they say Dont I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.

If they say we should get together.
say why?

Its not that you dont love them any more.
Youre trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you havent seen in ten years
appears at the door,
dont start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.​


----------



## Arthur

Ask Me
By William Stafford

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.


----------



## Arthur

The animals in that country
By Margaret Atwood

In that country the animals
have the faces of people:

the ceremonial
cats possessing the streets

the fox run
politely to earth, the huntsmen
standing around him, fixed
in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered
with blood and given
an elegant death, trumpets, his name
stamped on him, heraldic brand
because

(when he rolled
on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth
in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant
conversations in their
forests thickened with legend.

         In this country the animals
         have the faces of
         animals.

         Their eyes
         flash once in car headlights
         and are gone.

         Their deaths are not elegant.

         They have the faces of
         no-one.


----------



## Arthur

At Least
By Raymond Carver

I want to get up early one more morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedyI have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see whats going to happen.


----------



## Arthur

Boy at the Window
By Richard Wilbur

Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a God-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.
​


----------



## Arthur

Captivity
By Louise Erdrich

He (my captor) gave me a bisquit, which I put in my pocket, and not daring to eat it,
buried it under a log, fearing he had put something in it to make me love him.
   from the narrative of the captivity of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, who was taken prisoner
     by the Wampanoag when Lancaster, Massachusetts, was destroyed, in the year 1676

The stream was swift, and so cold
I thought I would be sliced in two.
But he dragged me from the flood
by the ends of my hair.
I had grown to recognize his face.
I could distinguish it from the others.
There were times I feared I understood
his language, which was not human,
and I knelt to pray for strength.

We were pursued! By Gods agents
or pitch devils, I did not know.
Only that we must march.
Their guns were loaded with swan shot.
I could not suckle and my childs wail
put them in danger.
He had a woman
with teeth black and glittering.
She fed the child milk of acorns.
The forest closed, the light deepened.

I told myself that I would starve
before I took food from his hands
but I did not starve.
One night
he killed a deer with a young one in her
and gave me to eat of the fawn.
It was so tender,
the bones like the stems of flowers,
that I followed where he took me.
The night was thick. He cut the cord
that bound me to the tree.

After that the birds mocked.
Shadows gaped and roared
and the trees flung down
their sharpened lashes.
He did not notice Gods wrath.
God blasted fire from half-buried stumps.
I hid my face in my dress, fearing He would burn us all
but this, too, passed.

Rescued, I see no truth in things.
My husband drives a thick wedge
through the earth, still it shuts
to him year after year.
My child is fed of the first wheat.
I lay myself to sleep
on a Holland-laced pillowbeer.
I lay to sleep.
And in the dark I see myself
as I was outside their circle.

They knelt on deerskins, some with sticks,
and he led his company in the noise
until I could no longer bear
the thought of how I was.
I stripped a branch
and struck the earth,
in time, begging it to open
to admit me
as he was
and feed me honey from the rock.


----------



## Arthur

Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe
By Bill Holm

Start with the square heavy loaf
steamed a whole day in a hot spring
until the coarse rye, sugar, yeast
grow dense as a black hole of bread.
Let it age and dry a little,
then soak the old loaf for a day
in warm water flavored
with raisins and lemon slices.
Boil it until it is thick as molasses.
Pour it in a flat white bowl.
Ladle a good dollop of whipped cream
to melt in its brown belly.
This soup is alive as any animal,
and the yeast and cream and rye
will sing inside you after eating
for a long time.


----------



## Arthur

Flames 

by Billy Collins


Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it. ​


----------



## midcan5

'A Fairy Tale'

"When my father was nine years old, his mother said, "Tommy, I'm taking you to the circus for your birthday. Just you and me, and I'll buy you anything you want." The middle child of six, my father thought this was the most incredible, wonderful thing that had ever happened to himlike something out of a fairy tale.

They got in the car, but instead of driving him to the circus, his mother pulled up in front of the hospital and told him to go inside and ask for Dr. So-and-so. After that they'd go to the circus.

He went inside and asked for Dr. So-and-so. A nurse told him to follow her into a room where she closed the door and gave him a shot. My father fell asleep, and some hours later, woke up crying in agony with his tonsils gone. A different nurse got him dressed, and sent him outside where his mother was waiting in the car with the engine running. He couldn't speak on the way home to ask her, "What about the circus?" Days later, when he could, he didn't. They never mentioned it again.

Fifty-eight years later, he tells this story to his wife, his only explanation, when she asks him, "What are you doing home from church so early?"

He'd walked out in the middle of "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," never to return."

Jennifer L. Knox


----------



## midcan5

'Shots Fired'

"She didnt deserve custody of the children
he calmly explained
seated in the interrogation room
hands covered with brown paper bags.

It was his weekend with their kids.
When it was time for them to go home
she and her nephew approached the house.
Her parents and sister waited in the van.

He answered the bell, emptied his revolver
into his ex-wife then closed the door.
Miraculously her nephew was uninjured.
The family dragged her body
off the porch, onto the neighbors lawn.
She was pronounced dead at the scene.

Later at the P.D.
they sat in gray plastic chairs
dazed
waiting to give their statements
her tissue and brain matter splattered
over their clothes.

A week later he was out on bond
unheard of in a murder case.
Money talks.

Sunday he stood before the congregation
at his local church
hands clutching the lectern
confessed his sins
begged to be allowed to teach his Sunday school class.

Members of the congregation said
What could we do? He repented.

He taught that class
until the day he was sentenced
to ninety-nine years."

Barbara Ann Carle


----------



## Billo_Really

The only guys that know poems, are in prison writing to their girlfriends to keep them from fucking their friends while they're doing time.

This is the only poem I know and it led to the loss of my virginity in 1974.

*In the garden of eden, as everyone knows
lived Adam and Eve, without any clothes
And in this garden, lived two little leaves
one covered Adam's and one covered Eve's
As the story goes on, needless to say
along came a wind and blew them away
And at this wonderful site, before Eve's eyes
Adam's thing, did start to rise
The night was young, with a full moon above
So it is said, the first night of love
But suddenly to Eve's surprise, she found Adam between her thighs
the head of Adam's thing touched her hole, driving her to passion beyond control
Eve helped Adam all through the night, while Adam pushed with all his might
Eve's joy was so great she wouldn't let loose, until Adam's thing was drained of its juice
Now down through the years, people all screw
So now it is time for me and you
So let down your pants and lay in the grass
Cuz I'm in the mood, for a nice piece of ass!​*
I know it's corny!  But what do you expect from a 17 year old virgin that survived 
8 years of Catholic school and was told, everything I did, was wrong.


----------



## PoliticalChic

My daughter finally allowed me to post one of her original poems.
She wrote this for Miss Soto after the horrible massacre....

The Bravest One
by Lil' PC

There is a certain teacher, gone now
Who you may already know
Yet she should have been publicized
For her actions against a foe

She hid her students in a closet
To save them from a fatal day
And showed valor I can only hope to possess
As that man took her life away

Bullets aimed at her courageous soul
I talk of her now with anguish and sorrow
She herself will not return,
Yet wanted those kids to see tomorrow

Nefarious people are usually famed
And their names are usually ones you remember
But think about a teacher&#8217;s sacrifice
In this month of disastrous December

She deserves a higher place
Than that man who deserved far worse
God bless her for the actions she took
To try and save her students first

Injustice is something ever present
Heroism isn&#8217;t something we often find
Keep her family and friends in your prayers
And keep Miss Soto in your mind

~
A beautiful person gone from us now, who shielded her students."


----------



## midcan5

"Nearing Xmas Eve! I don't know why--since I'm not a believer in the conventional sense--but every year around this time I end up standing here, pausing before this gray, hulking building with so many of its tall, stained glass windows darkened and lit only by floodlights from outside of it, but with twin spires still pointing towards heaven. Tonight I can see only a single light still shining--in a half-open casement window located on the second floor. "Hello, hello," I call out, "Anybody around up there?--anybody home tonight?" Silhouetted at the casement window, a head appears. "Sure, we're open all night tonight all right--but this isn't a church anymore," the head shouts back in a decidedly irritated voice. "Didn't you know?--our entire operation was finally taken over last year--we were shut down for a while and then re-opened again converted to a peanut-brittle factory," "But don't I recognize you, Sir," I call back--"aren't you the former Sexton?" "Yes," the head says, after we were converted the takeover people thought it would be wise for the sake of efficiency to retain some of the same personnel for a while, so together with some of my staff, I agreed to stay on for a bit." "Does that include God, too?" I hear myself calling back to the former Sexton. "Sure it does," the Sexton shouts back, "have a Merry Christmas!"--and his head disappears from the window. Then I see no silhouetted head much less face, and hear a far deeper and far more resonant voice: "My Son, my Son--we've been putting you on, my Son. But you know you should really come up here anyway--you know in your heart that for all He's ever meant to you, Christ might as well have been a part-time worker in a peanut-brittle factory!" Then suddenly the casement window slams shut. "Oh My God!" I hear myself cry out--"Could that have been God Himself up there? And if so, was He genuinely angry with me, personally?" On the way up the stairs to find out--trembling slightly I must confess--I meet an angel. He's coming down the stairs after apparently just knocking off from working on the night-shift somewhere upstairs. He's beaming radiantly; his wings are folded neatly behind him and he's licking his lips; his cheeks are covered up with peanut-butter and candy and look like two big chocolate chip cookies; and there's a big blob of marshmallow on the tip of his nose...."

Michael Benedikt


----------



## midcan5

For those of you who grew up in similar circumstances I hope you share during this brief life. Not a poem just a kid extremely happy to have someone think of them. Enjoy, don't cry, and Merry Christmas. 

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UPOMhvU-8Q]Happy Christmas from Darren Hayes - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'People You May Know'

"This weekend, I noticed my dead grandfathers
Facebook profile is still up. He was suggested as a friend,
an offer I never took up even while he was alive
because I cant imagine something more awkward
than being Facebook friends with your grandpa.

He died last year and, according to his page
with its blue default silhouette profile image,
he graduated in 1942 from DeVilbiss High School.
His occupation is retired, and he was born in Toledo.
Thats whats left of my grandfather on Facebook.

I thought, someone should take it down.
And by someone, I mean anyone who is not me.
He was a complicated man, or technically,
an impressively high-functioning alcoholic, but
either way, a ghost shouldnt have a Facebook page.

Typing thator reading it nowmakes me feel haunted.
An old man with a bald head, sweater and glasses
menacing over my shoulder grouchy and boiling.
Grouchy because hes tied to this earthly realm
by a stupid Facebook page he made on a whim.

And now here, look at me, I wrote a poem about it."

Patrick Dutcher


----------



## midcan5

'Rua'

"Morning lazy sounds
 nothing much except birds
 and a car maybe passes
 sky a clear blue with dabs of cloud sorbet
 above white, hand-curved stucco
 dark blue shutters, interlocked tile roof
 one guy pushes a car downhill,
 another steers, a woman comes
 out of her gate, loads her trunk
 with a blanket on top, closes it
 a car from the auto escola drives by
 a butterfly flits around a garden
 a man begins tying rope
 to the bottom of his truck
 while his dog peers over the side
 the man begins attaching the rope
 to a car behind the truck, lying on the asphalt,
 and the white, black-eared dog
 scratches at the truck's window happily
 a pregnant woman gets out
 of the car into the truck
 attempts to drive it away
 but the rope comes untied from the car
 she backs up, and they try again
 the second time, they get half a block
 a man pulls up in a black Volkswagen Voyage
 and goes into the pharmacy
 as a woman comes out
 two men walk up the sidewalk
 followed by another, an old man
 in the sun on the other side, in sandals
 there is a rhythm in the way
 things continue, one after another
 on a Saturday morning
 it is not hurried, and there is enough
 space between each act to keep it
 separate, they don't blend into
 each other, but slowly accumulate
 as pieces of a life no one noticed"

Vincent Katz


----------



## midcan5

Richard Blanco's Poetry Pays Homage to American Experience

'One Today'

"One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper&#8212;
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives&#8212;
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches 
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind&#8212;our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me&#8212;in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always&#8212;home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country&#8212;all of us&#8212;
facing the stars
hope&#8212;a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it&#8212;together."

Richard Blanco


----------



## midcan5

'God Knows I Want To Be Good'

"Thats why last year I went out with Michael
who drove a white Prius
and wore beige vegetarian shoes. And when
wed meet at a tofu bistro the same distance
from both of our houses, wed go dutch because
we knew the importance of sexual equality. We had good
conversations, talked about dwindling
rainforests and fragile ecosystems. We liked
the same movies and poems.
God knows I want to be good, so I tried
to ignore that boorish guy Mark at the party who bragged
that he once caught a trout with his bare hands. I mean,
what an asshole, what a hairy-chest-beating
Neanderthal. So why did I let him
pull me into the bathroom, shove those
fish-snatching hands under my shirt?
The other day, a friend told me that Michaels
engaged. I said good, good for him,
and nodded my head like a chicken. As for Mark,
its been a whole week since the night I groped
around on his bedroom floor in search
of my underwear. Tonight, I lie
by the window, my body still
humming like a long dial tone
in the dark."

Jackleen Holton


----------



## midcan5

'Einsteins Happiest Moment' 

"Einsteins happiest moment
occurred when he realized
a falling man falling
beside a falling apple
could also be described
as an apple and a man at rest
while the world falls around them.

And my happiest moment
occurred when I realized
you were falling for me,
right down to the core, and the rest,
relatively speaking, has flown past
faster than the speed of light."

Richard M. Berlin


----------



## midcan5

'Cement Backyard'

"My father had our yard cemented over.
He couldnt tell a flower from a weed.
The neighbors let their backyards run to clover
and some grew dappled gardens from a seed,

but he preferred cement to rampant green.
Lushness reeked of anarchys profusion.
Better to tamp the wildness down, unseen,
than tolerate its careless brash intrusion.

The grass interred, he felt well satisfied:
his first house, and he took an owners pride,
surveying the uniform, cemented yard.
Just so, he labored to cement his heart."

Lynne Sharon Schwartz


----------



## freedombecki

Always loved this one:



Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann, 1927

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace
there may be in silence. 
As far as possible, without surrender, 
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly,
and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career
however humble;
it is a real possession in the 
changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you
to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself
with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham,
drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.​


----------



## Capstone

*You, Andrew Marvell*

And here face down beneath the sun   
And here upon earth&#8217;s noonward height   
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night:

To feel creep up the curving east   
The earthy chill of dusk and slow   
Upon those underlands the vast   
And ever climbing shadow grow

And strange at Ecbatan the trees   
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange   
The flooding dark about their knees   
The mountains over Persia change

And now at Kermanshah the gate   
Dark empty and the withered grass   
And through the twilight now the late   
Few travelers in the westward pass

And Baghdad darken and the bridge   
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on

And deepen on Palmyra&#8217;s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone   
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown

And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls   
And loom and slowly disappear   
The sails above the shadowy hulls

And Spain go under and the shore   
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more   
The low pale light across that land

Nor now the long light on the sea:

And here face downward in the sun   
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on...​​

--Archibald MacLeish, _Collected Poems 1917-1982_--​


----------



## midcan5

'Enough'

"Spring comes early and completely to the South.
 So many forget-me-nots, with their white centers,
 scattered, youd say, if there werent
 so many everywhere, as many as the stars
 last night in between the branches
 on the porch in the side yard next to the house.
 Was it an argument or were there just
 things they had to say?
 I could have faith in so many creatures
 the old setter from the neighbor yard
 who follows me around the corner
 and no longer, the chick with its new beak
 just past breakable whose lighter topfeathers
 have a bit of flight, any mother bear
 you say things and the next day
 its like they dont matter, we want our faces
 to alter though we dont want to get older, neither
 do we want to get younger, repetition
 with less knowledge is ridiculous,
 just ask the Greeks, you get to keep
 being a tree but without the branch
 that showed the sky your starlike shape?
 I dont think so. Steadiness can be useful,
 but my loyalty loves a form
 that will follow me through changes.
 At a diagonal the dark woods
 on the backslope have enough space
 to walk between, not enough to hide.
 He looks into them
 and writes notes to his mother, she
 looks into them and finds alignment,
 or looks for what she wants.
 She has a human skeleton on her desk.
 He has a protractor. I had wishes
 for both of them yesterday
 but the weather has since become so kindly,
 so temperate, I forget what blessings
 they dont think they have.
 I am a guest in this house. I didnt go inside
 until I heard the ending of the argument."

Katie Peterson


----------



## midcan5

'Junk'

at the annual worlds longest yard sale

"We had to park a mile away: the truck
 my buddy drove like a redneck Charon.
 We were always restless in the boondocks.

We were tragically horny. No standards
 of emission, the big-block engine belched
 and leaked its oil, its unleaded bloodwork

down the rusty undercarriage. We knew
 the grass below would brown like a photo.
 It was August. Signs swore cockamamie

discounts, a full days worth of distraction.
 Gothic statues graced the highways exit:
 a bare-chested chief in headdress, his arm

raised in endless How; a pink elephant
 crunked on some jumbo Cosmopolitan.
 We heard the banjo and gut-bucket band,

moos and bleats from the fetid petting-zoo.
 We met jugglers, peddlers, and face-painters.
 We both made a beaded cross for Jesus.

(O, you plain-faced girls with righteous booties!
 This was not like Mule Day. Even Mule Day
 was not like Mule Day.) I had hoped to buy

some penny-loafers, a lamp, a pick-axe.
 I had hoped to tell him I was leaving.
 He was my old friend. He was an orphan.

His name was like a nest, full of sorrow.
 After his mothers death, I held his head,
 as snug as a gunbutt, to my shoulder."

Michael Marberry


----------



## Skull Pilot

I generally dislike poetry but I do like

If by Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!


----------



## midcan5

'Microcosmos'

"When we first started looking through microscopes
a cold fear blew and its still blowing.
Life hitherto had been frantic enough
in all its shapes and dimensions.
Which is why it created small-scale creatures,
assorted tiny worms and flies,
but at least the naked human eye
could see them.

But then suddenly beneath the glass,
foreign to a fault
and so petite,
that what they occupy in space
can only charitably be called a spot.

The glass doesnt even touch them,
they double and triple unobstructed,
with room to spare, willy-nilly.

To say theyre many isnt saying much.
The stronger the microscope
the more exactly, avidly theyre multiplied.

They dont even have decent innards.
They dont know gender, childhood, age.
They may not even know they areor arent.
Still they decide our life and death.

Some freeze in momentary stasis,
although we dont know what their moment is.
Since theyre so minuscule themselves,
their duration may be
pulverized accordingly.

A windborne speck of dust is a meteor
from deepest space,
a fingerprint is a farflung labyrinth
where they may gather
for their mute parades,
their blind iliads and upanishads.

Ive wanted to write about them for a long while,
but its a tricky subject,
always put off for later
and perhaps worthy of a better poet,
even more stunned by the world than I.
But time is short. I write."

Wislawa Szymborska


----------



## midcan5

Support Home - DAV (Disabled American Veterans)  "A veteran, whether active duty, retired, national guard, or reserve, is someone who, at one point of their life, signed a blank check made payable to "The United States of America", for an amount of 'up to and including my life. " anon

- repost -

'Memorial Day for the War Dead'   	  

"Memorial day for the war dead.  Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you.  Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.

Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.

Memorial day.  Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.

The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.

A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.

A great and royal animal is dying 
all through the night under the jasmine 
tree with a constant stare at the world.

A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.""

Yehuda Amichai


----------



## SmartRafal

"Use of Human Beings"


Man looking for, goes to the unwanted stuff
Things that break down it constantly
Living in the world of hypocritical, Feeling Feelings
Which is perfectly played, Looking for Actors
I can see the card through them committed errors
Opening to be cheated
In writing this, Me pen is broken
Such is the fate, unwanted

Rafa&#322; &#346;wita&#322;a


----------



## SmartRafal

"Landscape"

What is a landscape? A picture on the wall? A view of the mountains?
Or maybe ... The space, filled with oxygen ... ?
Landscape, there is something that gives it life.
Everything in the landscape alive. Wind suitable trees and water movement;
Trees produce oxygen for us and we can live. Everything has a purpose;
The ambiance of landscaping is to give life, and you people;
You are destroying it. Looking for comfort, make your heedless of the consequences.
Nature gives life, but you are destroying them. Accounts for it in the image, and then you destroy.
Artists - Painters reveal a landscape so as to give life a blank piece of paper.
They paint images so that whoever looks at them, he imagined it to be there,
he sees movement leaves, a gust of wind on the water, falling stream of water from the mountains.
They paint in order to give life, because the artists are different from ordinary people.
Each artist will give inspiration to life by even the most lifeless thing.

Rafa&#322; &#346;wita&#322;a.


----------



## SmartRafal

"Puppet"

Man is born naked and after birth gets a slap on the butt for welcome. Starting crawl, then trying to walk. Every time you fall, rise and will try to continue.

When you have to learn to forget how to walk and will not have a problem with it.

Move phase of growing up, grow and become strong.

When it is developed enough to his power and strength to solve their problems, he begins to go to work.

He works hard, and the time it continually grows old.

Few earn and live in debt.

You pay taxes to the government. Earns the state, and the country still do not see the changes.

Where this is so wander the means of payment? For bank accounts abroad, those who rule the Country.

Democracy say, everyone in government says vote for me!

I'll do this and that, and how you can not see the changes, so too does hear. Corruption, theft, violence, gambling, hookers and sex All that this little Polish.

Had to think that man has achieved in his life and what he did, and how much he could do and what he could achieve - then realizes that missed a whole &#380;ycie.&#379;ycie, which is more valuable than the world.

Because the world is alive because of us.

The world is alive because we move it, circling the globe in an ellipse around the sun, which stands on the site, and it is life-giving warmth of the plants, the earth, all living beings, as well as and other planets.

When it is, there comes a moon that shines its splendor star.

Each star is like the soul, which shows how long the universe exists.

He who believes in God, so is his will.

I believe that is something that makes life even in the worst situation is excellent.

I do not know whether God Is Power Do other things make us molecule something that is alien to us, something that is unknown to us, is so far the only unit that we do not know.

It is in the universe and evaluates every being and the world.

It decides the fate of every living creature or dead. Suitable purpose of life and it decides.

This is something or someone is in a place where not even reach beyond the barrier nie&#347;miertelnik.Jest our capabilities.

Creates the border, which does not exceed one. Few survived retirement, but those who persevered and live retreated in development, because they thought that if they worked hard at it, it's time to rest and just bought a big-screen TV and looked at what the world society sticks to your head.

Man looks at the TV to be able to experience emotions perfectly played by actors.

The film is a film, in fact it is not experiencing time.Instead Someone will look at in addition played emocje.Emocje false and deceitful, that most people pragnie.Jest a saying that, I recognize the poor man after a big-screen TV he has a rich man after How much is he bibliotek&#281;.Police their assigned duties doing.Hold People who live life to the fullest and know how to use it. Stops on those found guilty, and sometimes not at fault. Alcohol, drugs, drugs all lead to the destruction of human life, which is the essence of doskona&#322;&#261;.Addictive, why do not you want to help the sick? Disease is contagious and is spreading like mushrooms proliferating in lesie.President wonders, wonders why in Poland are so that type of people. Why do not know how to help them? Then it is clad on the back burner and deal with issues outside Country. I tell you to be rich should give, but to be able to give you first take from life.

The one who gives the rich is becoming.

Anyone who thinks about people and loved ones become a scientist. scientist who gives, who is thinking about human needs, which mean how people's lives easier, rich in staje. Wealth it is necessary to use full of life. life offers us everythings. Needs to want. Needs just reach out, reach inside yourself, take ideas, which at first are crazy. Human who thinks about something that is important, in fact, a man enlightened. Human who has ideas that are ready for implementation. Man is a being who has a soul, body, mind and Instinct. If man looks in the depths of all these four characteristics, it would find itself wealth.

Rafa&#322; &#346;wita&#322;a.


----------



## SmartRafal

"Fall in love"

Precious Hair, Eyes shining, eyes large;
Figure models, big breasts, round shapes - simply perfect;
Flawless face, covered with pride, but not exalting in her;
Mouth passionate, smiling and attractive;
The heart beats faster as the music alternative;
Soul filled with happiness and hope;
Life more beautiful, sharper colors;
The magic that attracts each other like a magnet;
The feeling is great, and even exaggerated;
Fall in love with it so as to be born anew;
The newly create something out of nothing;
It's like looking in the boundless, spectacular scenery;
It's like being at the Summit of Mount Everest and observe the world;
It is a condition in which there is euphoria, which goads us into action;
It is a state that does not last forever, but it is worth the sacrifice of life;
It's something that makes our life is such, what we dreamed about;
It's something that makes referring success in life.
Falling in love is something that is perfect, flawless, perfect in its duration.

Rafa&#322; &#346;wita&#322;a.


----------



## SmartRafal

"Splendor Day in Egypt"

At sea, boats, seagulls in the air, on the beach, people in love;
The sun shines brightly even on the west;
Egyptians in their fancy garments dressed;
Sea beautifully adorned with coral reefs;
There is a pure soul, does not explode like dynamite;
Pyramids of his perfection intact;
You have to live by their own rules;
You have to feel the greatest emotions;
You have to spend time so nice to have mentioned it.
Molecule must be something new.

Rafa&#322; &#346;wita&#322;a.


----------



## SmartRafal

It is a dialogue describing Human Happiness and Sadness
In writing it I think of those two important things.

"Talking Man of Happiness and Sorrow"

Man: Where are you? Where do I look for you?
Happiness: Do not look for me, but ask when I was coming.
Man: No one's asking questions, but ask what will happen then?
Happiness: will fill your soul emotions that will be showed on the outside giving you a smile and joy.
Sadness And the happiness I'll come to Me.
Man: I was surprised I ask who you are and why you stay out of our conversation?
Sadness: The Unwanted everyone, so my fate constant.
Man: So by me or you will be unwanted. Go away and do not come back anymore.
Sadness: I'm not leaving but I stay, even though I was unwanted.
Happiness: Only I can outrun you.
Sadness: You're just like I was that you willed.
Happiness: Because I give something, what is the desire of man.
Man: Wait, wait. I have to choose between you two?
Happiness and Sadness: You're not going. We at appropriate times and times to show up.
Man: So I understand that both You come as unwanted guests.
Sadness: I'm always unwanted. Good fortune to him speak.
Happiness: Why did you call me unwanted? But give it as an inspiration.
Man: You come at an unexpected time. So how can you be a guest proszonym?
Happiness: a guest or not, come and give what you want every man.
Man: I do not want you. You give something that is temporary, not permanent.
Sadness: I am the only solid state, which fills you through life.
Man: So you're a natural. Something that is within us and can get used to it.
Sadness: Ot what, but I was an unwanted state.
Man: It should be the other way around for everyone to face the truth.
Happiness: It's never a man will come to you. Discouraged me and I'm disappointed, I'll go to another.
Man: Go away and do not come back, and you become sad. At least until you get used.

Rafa&#322; &#346;wita&#322;a.


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

This will make love to your soul...&#9829;..enjoy...
&#9835;&#9835;.*. Take me away .*.&#9835;&#9835;
Oh take me, take me,
far far away,
where children smile and flowers play.
Take me, take me far far away,
where a tear is never seen,
of rainbows that scan the horizon,
where life becomes my dream.

Oh take me to the stars,
come upon a kiss in your arms,
swim in the river of life to be content,
where fears and hurt are absent.

Oh take me, take me far far away,
I want to forget the pain of today,
Take me, take me far away,
I will build my home and forever stay.....

Albert Alexander Bukoski.©


----------



## TemplarKormac

Life

Can be a gentle dream
Can be a cruel reality
Can be a great experience 
Can be a wasted opportunity
Can be a gift from God 
Or a curse from Hell itself

A life without love is lost
Love without life is fruitless
Life is what one makes for himself
Life is more than journey of a thousand miles
But the journey is well worth it

Life

-TemplarKormac


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

TemplarKormac said:


> Life
> 
> Can be a gentle dream
> Can be cruel reality
> Can be great experience
> Can be wasted opportunity
> Can be gift from God
> Or a curse from Hell itself
> 
> A life without love is lost
> Love without life is fruitless
> Life is what one makes for himself
> Life is more than journey of a thousand miles
> But the journey is well worth it
> 
> Life
> 
> -TemplarKormac




Mmm.. lovely   Thank you for sharing..


----------



## midcan5

'Hard Life with Memory'

"Im a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and dont,
step out, come back, then leave again.

She wants all my time and attention.
Shes got no problem when I sleep.
The days a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.

In her stories Im always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature todays sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.

At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too."

Wislawa Szymborska


----------



## midcan5

'Algonquin Afterthoughts'

'By the time you swear youre his,
    Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
    Infinite, undying
Lady, make a note of this:
    One of you is lying.-'
             Dorothy Parker


"Or else our drunken tumble was
   too true for daylights pleasure,
too much in vino veritas
   troubled the gods of measure
who sent bright draughts of sunshine down
   and sobered up my treasure.

All night rapacity had come
   as naturally as breathing;
we nibbled on each others necks
   like greedy babies teething.
How soon an empty bottle makes
   one feel a blissful free thing.

Aspirin, aspirin, he implored;
   I fed him several pills,
and when he wondered where he was
   it gave me frightful chills,
but still I told him of the partys
   unexpected thrills.

Words woke us up, reflection turned
   affection to regret:
After she left me I tried not
   to do this, but I get
so lonely...so I showed him out,
   warbling Im glad we met.

But now I crave the swift return
   of scotch-transfigured nights,
like Chaplin, horrified by his
   rich friend in City Lights
who only recognizes him
   from liquor-gladdened heights,

sticking a tall glass in the mans
   upstanding hand (the clink
or worse awaits poor tramps like us
   if scamps like you wont think)
and meekly scolding, in a voice
   weak with nostalgia, "Drink.""

Rachel Wetzsteon


----------



## midcan5

'Break'

"We put the puzzle together piece
by piece, loving how one curved
notch fits so sweetly with another.
A yellow smudge becomes
the brush of a broom, and two blue arms
fill in the last of the sky.
We patch together porch swings and autumn
trees, matching gold to gold. We hold
the eyes of deer in our palms, a pair
of brown shoes. We do this as the child
circles her room, impatient
with her blossoming, tired
of the neat house, the made bed,
the good food. We let her brood
as we shuffle through the pieces,
setting each one into place with a satisfied
tap, our backs turned for a few hours
to a world that is crumbling, a sky
that is falling, the pieces
we are required to return to."

Dorianne Laux


----------



## midcan5

For Franz Kafka's Birthday


'Blue Octavo Haiku'

- after Kafka

"In fat armchairs sat
indolence and impatience,
plotting my downfall

      *

A wicked cage flew
across the long horizon
searching for a bird.

      *

I burned with love in
empty rooms, I sternly turned
knives within myself.

      *

Behold the bright gate,
the keeper said. I am now
going to shut it.

      *

Hardly was the road
swept clean when ah! there appeared
new piles of dry leaves.

      *

But nothing could kill
a faith like a guillotine,
as heavy, as light.

      *

Happiness? Finding
your indestructible core;
leaving it alone.

      *

Into the heavens
flew a breathless legion of
impossible crows."

Rachel Wetzsteon


----------



## midcan5

'Things' 

"What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.

We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,

and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.

Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image;
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safety."

Lisel Mueller


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

Enchanted lady mystical dreams,
Did you hear it's true,
Your the lady of my dreams,
Your the lady.....I love you,
Glory of the moon arise,
Come here close your eyes,
It's your heart that's in for a surprise,
Sparkling nights on a voyage with me,
Come my dear to lands of fantasy,
You and me will fly the world with our wings,
See the lands of purity hear the wind as she sings,
In the air we fly gently holding hands,
Flying over the worlds beautiful lands,
As we fly in love as we go to different lands and different parts,
Our love flies as does our hearts,
As we soar as we fly high to romance we abide,
It's you and me together in life we fly side by side.

Albert Alexander Bukoski.(c)


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

Look at me,
What do you see?
Do you see what you want and want me to be?
Am I the one you want to hold,
The Rose in the garden in the land,
Or the thorns on the Rose,
That puts a pain in your hand?
My confusion once was real, now I understand,
You say you love me,
Trying to change into your ways, and what you want,
Love me for me and not what you want me to be.

Albert Alexander Bukoski©


----------



## derk

LadyGunSlinger said:


> Look at me,
> What do you see?
> Do you see what you want and want me to be?
> Am I the one you want to hold,
> The Rose in the garden in the land,
> Or the thorns on the Rose,
> That puts a pain in your hand?
> My confusion once was real, now I understand,
> You say you love me,
> Trying to change into your ways, and what you want,
> Love me for me and not what you want me to be.
> 
> Albert Alexander Bukoski©



Whats the significance of the rose pics? Do you know the author?


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

derk said:


> LadyGunSlinger said:
> 
> 
> 
> Look at me,
> What do you see?
> Do you see what you want and want me to be?
> Am I the one you want to hold,
> The Rose in the garden in the land,
> Or the thorns on the Rose,
> That puts a pain in your hand?
> My confusion once was real, now I understand,
> You say you love me,
> Trying to change into your ways, and what you want,
> Love me for me and not what you want me to be.
> 
> Albert Alexander Bukoski©
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Whats the significance of the rose pics? Do you know the author?
Click to expand...


The black and white represents void, pain.. the red rose represents love despite adversity, the rose itself represents the thorns in life we encounter which make us who we are.


----------



## derk

LadyGunSlinger said:


> derk said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> LadyGunSlinger said:
> 
> 
> 
> Look at me,
> What do you see?
> Do you see what you want and want me to be?
> Am I the one you want to hold,
> The Rose in the garden in the land,
> Or the thorns on the Rose,
> That puts a pain in your hand?
> My confusion once was real, now I understand,
> You say you love me,
> Trying to change into your ways, and what you want,
> Love me for me and not what you want me to be.
> 
> Albert Alexander Bukoski©
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Whats the significance of the rose pics? Do you know the author?
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> The black and white represents void, pain.. the red rose represents love despite adversity, the rose itself represents the thorns in life we encounter which make us who we are.
Click to expand...


Thanks. You have anything we can feel that you've written?

This represents something I hope you'll like , lol. Thanks for sharing.


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

derk said:


> LadyGunSlinger said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> derk said:
> 
> 
> 
> Whats the significance of the rose pics? Do you know the author?
> 
> 
> 
> 
> The black and white represents void, pain.. the red rose represents love despite adversity, the rose itself represents the thorns in life we encounter which make us who we are.
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> Thanks. You have anything we can feel that you've written?
> 
> This represents something I hope you'll like , lol. Thanks for sharing.
Click to expand...



Thank you.. it's lovely..  I do have my own poetry .. perhaps I'll post a couple when I feel comfortable to do so. Poetry opens the soul and gives the reader personal insight in to the heart.. I don't particularly care to share that here to be honest. I have a persona to uphold ;-) Perhaps though?


----------



## derk

LadyGunSlinger said:


> derk said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> LadyGunSlinger said:
> 
> 
> 
> The black and white represents void, pain.. the red rose represents love despite adversity, the rose itself represents the thorns in life we encounter which make us who we are.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Thanks. You have anything we can feel that you've written?
> 
> This represents something I hope you'll like , lol. Thanks for sharing.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> 
> Thank you.. it's lovely..  I do have my own poetry .. perhaps I'll post a couple when I feel comfortable to do so. Poetry opens the soul and gives the reader personal insight in to the heart.. I don't particularly care to share that here to be honest. I have a persona to uphold ;-) Perhaps though?
Click to expand...


Ok well not sure about your image, but when you feel comfortable let me know. Thanks.


----------



## midcan5

'The Fish'

"I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go."

Elizabeth Bishop


----------



## midcan5

Another change of pace, a riveting change. 


[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s]Neil Hilborn - "OCD" (Rustbelt 2013) - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## midcan5

'Highlighters'

"If you told me to write an essay on my first year of high school,
I probably wouldnt do it,
But if you asked me to highlight
the three most important moments,
I would tell you this:

One is my boyfriend,
Who never knew pencil was a color,
But the funny part is,
He was an artist,

Two is Korea,
Where Bailey told me,
On multiple occasions,
That she ate my dog,
I didnt think it was funny,
Until I got home,
And made sure I still had a dog,

Three is my best friends brother,
Who ran into the door,
While carrying a cardboard brick,
Waiting for me to play Brickfight with him,
And after getting up off the floor,
Said to me,
I SCARED THE DOOR!

Hes three.""

Kayla Anderson


----------



## Impenitent

Hey diddle diddle
Mitt sprayed his spittle
When Newt colonized the moon
Old Ron laughed to see him snort
And Rick spoke in tongues like a loon


----------



## Impenitent

"Reviled Thing"

Workin all week 10 to 3 for my money
Found a company in KC ripe to pick an slick as honey
A sucka like that really gets my blood aflowin'
Get my gear, call my crew, an get this baby rollin'

Introduce myself as Mitt and I'm on fire
They said, you got the juice, maybe you a liar?
Let's not make this hostile,got no time to beguile
Put yo money in this bag, I'm off to the Cayman Isle

Reviled thing
Reviled thing

I ain't here to pitch a tent, I here to steel
Had to adjust my wallet cause my eye beam so unreal
Shit eatin' grin cause I didn't screw the pooch
Took they pensions and turned em out to mooch

Reviled thing
I love to do the reviled thing

Gonna slide on in KYB Toys
Lotsa do-ray-me fo me an my boys
I do the pump an dump, that bankruptcy court my chump
I don't wanna make no toys, that ain't how i get my rocks
I'm only laughin' when my boys are slappin' a deposit box

Reviled thing
Reviled thing

I tear it up tonight when I put my putter inner Caddy
We stashed the loot in the golf bag when up walked my Daddy
What was in his head, he caught me red, I didn't know what to say
I guess he'd make me confess, repent an then repay

Reviled thing
Reviled thing

"Son, it doesn't matter who you scew
As long as to your tribe you stay true
You're the son of boss and as the prophecy described one day you'll be King
And I was once young like you and loved to do the reviled thing"

Reviled thing
He loved to do the reviled thing

My homey Milken hit some trouble when his junk didn't bond
I cooled it too, got a different view way out on that salt pond
Run a local scam, kickbacks were good to go
Shoulda heard em holla, but I got my dolla, when I made it snow

Cleaned up my act, buried some fact
but they still call me liar
Can't find a thing, a perfect sting
Now I'm a country squire
I ran a state, then erased the tapes
Can't prove my gangstery
And that tax I evade, on the money I made 
I covered by amnesty

Reviled thing
I got away with the reviled thing


----------



## Impenitent

" Megyn"

Once upon that midnight fated,
While I surveyed, satisfied and sated,
Polling monographs obscure but intriguing,
Statistics unknown theretofore.
While I plotted, resolve undaunted,
Suddenly, there came a visitor unwanted,
And to this day I am haunted,
By the way she taunted,
Taunted from my chamber door,
"Is this just math you do as a Republican,
'Or is this real" she implored.


So distinctly I remember,
It was in that bleak November.
I, and hosts who couldn't engender
An evolved platform were seen no more.
An acceptance of demographics,
Requiring oratorical acrobatics,
And a purge of religious fanatics,
Banishing Romney, Ryan, and reason
For the remainder of this,
or any season,
And all unnamed here for evermore.

That public pulling back by your person,
Of our Mephistophelean right wing curtain,
Chilled me - filled me with a paranoid shiver anyone would abhor.
Yes Hillary, there is a vast conspiracy,
And in all sincerity,
From the time I portrayed an Arkansas trooper,
with guile and temerity,
Bill was my agent provocateur
Until his cover was blown on the Oval Office floor.

In that void flowed a new contextualism,
reconfigured as neo-conservatism,
A policy of compassionate corporate colonialism
on foreign shore.
Within our nation building,
With its glimmering golden gilding,
Reposed horrors of extraordinary rendition
in its dungeon hiding
A moral schism neither questioned nor explored,
And will not be now or evermore.

At every junction
for twenty years without compunction,
I performed his executive function,
Transforming his countenance to Presidential,
From that alcoholic ne'er-do-well of yore.
But there comes the day,
all the blood is leeched away,
And the parasite from its host must stray
I sought out wealthy but dullard fellows,
Promising I would be their bellows,
Bellows for the coming inferno
which would consume Obama for evermore.

Separated from my symbiont
but seeking knowledge,
I made my annual CPAC pilgrimage,
My naked ambition not incongruent
With the Bible and American Flag I wore.
For the mere cost of an insider trade,
This promise Justices Roberts and Thomas made;
"You will be brazenly delighted
And personally most farsighted
Should you emulate Citizens United
When the next election cycle comes to the fore."

I approached the next crossroads
With care and cunning
As both my profit and prestige
were potentially stunning
Only needing to convince the marks
that I could fix the score.
But could I peer into those hearts,
Those vapid black holes,
And tell the story any harks,
ours being kindred souls,
Removing liberal bias for those sharks, unskewing the polls
Pretending it is only that, and nothing more.

Intermission- like Ann said, "This is hard!
[ame=http://www.youtube.com/embed/d2y0lrvPnpU?autoplay=1]Boardwalk Empire Intro - YouTube[/ame]

Don't take me as a common grifter
None separates the funds any swifter
From the free market trader
To the serial tax evader,
Their contributions gushingly outpour.
Those conservative captains of commerce and industry,
Rewarded the gallantry of my attacking,*
Hacking with neither quarter given nor guile lacking,
In battles won now and forever more.

My henchmen at the ready, when, an
Anonymous warning made them unsteady.
Tho no real threat could I discern,
The fear in my men had my concern,
which I could not ignore.
If we repeat our cybergate
In at least three swing states
It will seal mine and our nation's fate.
I told my men that planes can fall from the sky,
Brakes can fail and you'll never know why.
Only that, and nothing more.

The election drawing near,
The loyalty bought with fear
Coalesces in the hearts of
Pawns and proctor, and the patrons
To which we swore.
No good outcome do I foresee,
Should I stay or should I flee,
Oh God, what will become of me,
Will I die or will I be, will I finish this damned soliloquy, now*or evermore.

Previously withheld, unquelled bloodlust, melds with my vision of victory
Vaingloriously swirling, twirling, intertwining, non-contradictory,
In complete rapport.
Tis time, Tis time to flip the switch
The polity of Ohio, I again bewitch
This reverse, as been rehearsed
Like a simple crevasse oft traversed
Now, fire burn and cauldron bubble
Computer churn, forestall our trouble as so many times before.

Our falcon is flying through cyberspace, finding and feasting on a furtive database
A right shift revision interfaced
with algorithmic precision
So Romney and Ryan might hear the crowd roar.
Conservatives , nearly orphaned and forlorn, but never broken
Will now restore the White House to whom the manor born
Fulfilling my contract as guarantor.

Now Nearing finality, one more status check a mere formality
The right shift now a known
normality
I glance at the growing gross vote
and enter my adios vote to Obama, just as I did Al Gore.
As the status I refreshed, the gears of democracy moaned and threshed
Then silently remeshed signaling my reward, not even the most astute would impute the action untoward
And I'll be back to hosting this house of ill repute
Coasting as I'm boasting of the trick I performed as Sherman Adelson's whore.

I stare at the totals with eyes bleary
The night is long, the soul is weary
Waiting for the migration of ephemeral floaters, momentarily expecting
confirmation of those redirected voters
Soon to be emerging, surging, eventually diverging from the path they were on before.
But whilst clutching , caressing this and my past successes
A myriad of excesses, a cacophony of duresses shock me, mock me
As I attempt to restore.

At this point of my confusion, furiously dissecting deed from delusion
You discovered me, nearly uncovered me
My attempt at extricating from the White Housing a vexing, perplexing achromatic complexion I so deplore.
In my moment of duress you chose to aggress
My explanations severed spurned and suppressed
My employ as a tactician of sedition portrayed as a fools' mission
You so brutally chose to underscore
Wicked Woman ! Begone!  Torment me nevermore!


----------



## midcan5

'The Answer'

"Tonight, looking for the answer,
 I must have killed an hour
 flipping through philosophy and poetry books,
 every few minutes opening and reading a different title.
 I anxiously searched all the places I keep books
 looking in the kitchen, the boys rooms,
 checking the laundry room and workshop,
 before going outside finally to the curb
 to search through books tossed
 in the backseat of the car.
 Snow fell straight down in the windless silence.
 The keys in my left hand jingled like very small bells.
 I stopped and tried to remember
 what Id come into the night looking for."

Richard Jones


----------



## Impenitent

"Presidential Debate"

Romney:

I could make a merger that devours
Hobnobbing with world powers
Golfing in Bahrain
But to get elected I'll turn the tables
Where would you buy your staples
If I hadn't worked at Bain

Who'd bust unions with efficiency
Reducing cost and deficiency
For a capital gain
Would I look like a robber baron
In this Armani suit I'm wearin'
If I hadn't worked at Bain

I'm looking forward to the general
When my old politics become ephemeral.
And stop causin' so much pain
but I'll still keep you guessin' with
Which entitlements I'd be messin' with
If I hadn't worked at Bain

Obama:

I see you have some apprehension
Totally lacking comprehension
Of other people's pain
Tho your Daddy was a liberal
You're a diff'rant individual
Karl Rove controls your brain

I know what you're athinkin'
They'll never allow another Lincoln
Your party's not the same
Up not down would be sensational
But his pull is gravitational
Karl Rove controls your brain

But no matter whose water I'm afetchin'
It's not me who keeps goose-steppin'
when others are in pain
If schadenfreude makes you merry
Go ahead and stay a dingleberry
Karl Rove controls your brain


----------



## Impenitent

Pigmalion, a Farce in 5 Acts, Act I 


Johnny Mac needed a date for a wedding 
So he turned to Mush Limpole for some vetting 
I want a demure but bright lass 
With big boobs and a tight ass 
I'll score you some roxies for your abetting 


Johnny, I haven't found any zingers 
Alas with the total package, few ringers
A matronly Texan too plain 
Or those Trotskyites in Maine 
Where in these 48 are the right-wingers 


Mush, perhaps a compromise this time 
The main thing is that she look fine 
If cute and low in chronology 
I don't care about her ideology 
Damn, I don't even care about mine 


Within this herd there is a dearth 
But Ms Right we will unearth 
We must expand our search 
Who at this party would besmirch 
Merely because of her place of birth 


I'm overcome with a conservative vision 
I hope this won't be met with your derision 
I dreamed of a committee ad hoc 
With me and that gal on 30 Rock 
Mush, I'll create a clone by cell division! 


Pigmalion. Act II 


I asked our nation's leader who stated glibly 
I have a plan to shoot her in the belly 
and after this act of predation 
Move to my undisclosed location 
If it fails I'll just blame Scooter Libby 


But Dick I won't commit murder 
I prefer to not even hurt her 
The scientists who contrive 
To continually keep you alive 
It's with them I'd like to confer 


He referred me to Doctor Zhivago 
A cryogenic scientist in Chicago 
Had the secret of the matter 
A frozen head on a platter 
Carried by Salma a comely Chicano 


Salma bode me stand closer to see 
I was doing just that when she directed me 
Back to that frozen head 
Although obviously long dead 
Staring at me the face of Dick Cheney 


My God what are the implications 
Is Dick's heart lacking palpitations 
Is Zhivago really Boris Karloff 
Must I cut Tina Fey's head off 
Is Salma signaling romantic invitations 


Pigmalion, Act III 


Zhivago explained what injured Dick alas 
An oilfield explosion when bent to kiss ass 
Sealing a deal with Hussein 
So Haliburton could remain 
Sole producer of oil and Saddam's natural gas 


Saddam gathered all of Dick he could view 
Frozen inside an aluminum tube with co2 
Despite his best inclination 
A problem with refridgeration 
Left us with only this head and Cheney stew


Zhivago said the human body Is a vessel 
It's really not that much of a hassle 
I don't want the head of Ms Fey 
But need a body and her DNA 
And stem cells to have your ideal damsel 


Then Mush called, excited and in a daze 
This Alaskan woman does amaze 
Sarah Doolittle is her name 
Against corruption is her claim 
For a new wardrobe she'll change her ways 


Salma will not be be in my plan of attack 
Even though she had a nice rack 
Much to my regret 
I was sure she was wet 
I'm afraid that was only her back 


Pigmalion, Act IV 


Mush is on a fact finding mission 
But she might be chosen due to attrition 
He can negotiate with Ms Doolittle 
Come home with her committal 
And collect from Feelgood, my personal physician 


Johnny, now that she's been chosen 
No doubt you two will soon be posin' 
But after doing heavy lifting 
My bad back is very fitting 
And for those roxies I am jonesin' 


We'll get her to Chicago by some ruse 
A free nip tuck she couldn't refuse 
So with Tina's DNA awaiting 
Zhivago can go about creating 
My date for Uncle Sam's big schmooze 


I myself am headed for New York City 
But first must meet with the pork committee 
Give Michael J Fox and jerks 
Money for stem cell research? 
Stick a fork in that, I've got no pity 


It was easy getting in 30 Rock that day 
My celebrity helps me in that way 
Watching Tina taping closeups 
I quickly switched our coffee cups 
Giving me the DNA of Ms Tina Fey 


Pigmalion, Act V 


Sarah flew to Chicago as was our plan 
To be the perfect date for the leading man 
Her sweet innocence soon imbued 
With Tina Fey drama will exude 
I'll be Prince Charles and she Lady Diane 


Zhivago did all was promised to fix her 
Injecting into Sarah his magic elixir 
Thowing in a youthful perk 
And that now signature smirk 
Leaving his nurse to ready Sarah for the mixer 


A woman scorned is desperate for survival 
Tho only tasked with Sarah's revival 
Realizing as she holds the suture 
Sarah instead will live her future 
Salma chanted over the body of her rival 


Double double toil and trouble 
Fire burn and caldron bubble 
Venom strike of snake got 
Blood of poison toad in pot 
Tempered with brain of Betty Rubble 


Zhivago burst in tho certainly too late 
Realizing the horror done over a date 
A soul destroyed in that chanting 
Reduced to a life of bitter ranting 
An angelic woman condemned to this demonic fate


----------



## percysunshine

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great

And would suffice.  -Frost


----------



## Stashman

*The Closet Scratchers Club​*

*I've got a lovely penis and some hairy balls to match it,
And sometimes when it itches than I like to sit and scratch it.
I scratch it in the morning, and I scratch it in the night,
Cause when I scratch it long enough it starts to feel alright.

Well I scratch it when it itches, but usually when it doesn't,
And if someone see's me do it than I quickly say I wasn't.
Cause scratching it in public is a nasty little habit,
And you could be arrested if someone see's you grab it.

So if your gonna scratch it than make sure that no one see's you,
Cause bail will cost you plenty when the time has come to free you.
So be a closet scratcher if your gonna scratch your nub,
And join the countless thousands in the closet scratchers club.​*


----------



## Mad_Cabbie

*Perfection.*
February 6, 2012 at 4:47am

The Sun shines its glorious light upon its subjects -

Its surface, uninhabitable and deadly to the touch

yet, It is perfect because without it,

there would be no light.



A mighty Elm stretches across the sky and offers shade 

on a scorching summer day -

It is held fast, a prisoner to its roots

yet it is perfect because without it,

there would be no shade.



A mother provides for her young and guards them from danger -

She bares the scars of motherhood

yet without her

there would be no love.



If a ball of fire or a simple plant attains perfection,

how is it that you are imperfect?



You are perfect because without you

your world would cease to exist ~









Mad Cabbie.



.


----------



## Impenitent

Testing...testing...testing

Things seem to be working again!

Here's one I wrote some time back during a test of wills, on another venue:


Schadenfreude Schadenfreude
Every evening you deplore me
Sharp and fleet
Precise and neat
You seem so happy to gore me
Hatred though
Destroys the soul
It will grow forever
Schadenfreude Schadenfreude
A self defeating endeavor


----------



## Impenitent

I met her in the evening
A chance encounter
Giving me that old feeling
There could be more in store

She, shivering and stranded
Asking only to use my phone
Alone and being quite candid
At that cheap motel door

She telling me her story
Of homelessness and desperation
A flirtation with my altruistic glory
Her dignity my honor to restore

There I, an aging boomer
Being quite the perfect gentleman
With a woman thirty years my junior
Would she become my paramour

How much she missed her baby
While locked up in county
And cryin' cryin', oh maybe
I'd just help her score

How this had really wrung her
And would be ever so beholdin'
And after feeding this gnawing hunger
Could she stay for more

She looked deeply in my eyes
Aiming below my heart and soul
She was jonesin' and that was why
As she wasn't a reg'lar whore

We descended into hell with no regret
Our individual needs so irresistible
A prick to her arm, and t'where it warm and wet
Her salvation we mutually ignored

In a moment I learned how weak I am
She, helpless and needing my charity
I, so willing to fall for her scam
Intertwined now, with fates we deplore


----------



## Impenitent

"Disparately Seeking Duzy"

And your acceptant embrace!

Hey, Democratic Underground my writings are profound and mercurial!  Can't you use an extra terrestrial? 

If you agree with me, or relate to what I said, you can RSVP within this very thread!

Anticipating Fridays chosen, and who with Duzy is posin'...

Yet again, not America's Idol !

Judges are quirky. Alas, another turkey...

Perhaps this is tribal?

Before everyone limps away, here's a glimpse of my day, and the hours I devote:

Just this morning I proved global warming.  You'd think someone would take note!

I waded water to my knees, landing refugees in the Keys, before being thrown off the boat!

I crammed Donald's mullet down his gullet, when of certificates he began to gloat!

I called Rush and made him blush, about words and what they connote!

"Ask not what your country can do for you
but what you can do for your country"

I know those words by rote.  But he should have added, as i just now did,

"But you'll be judged by what you wrote!"

So you see, no better lib than me, but for a Duzy they are choosy...

And I'll get not a vote.


----------



## midcan5

'Job Interview'

'Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife
He would have written sonnets all his life?'
		Don Juan, III, 63-4

"Where do you see yourself five years from now?"
the eldest male member (or is "male member"
a redundancy?) of the committee
asked me. "Not here," I thought. A good thing I
speak fluent Fog. I craved that job like some
unappeasable, taunting woman.
What did Byron's friend Hobhouse say after
the wedding? "I felt as if I had buried
a friend." Each day I had that job I felt
the slack leash at my throat and thought what was
its other trick. Better to scorn the job than ask
what I had ever seen in it or think
what pious muck I'd ladled over
the committee. If they believed me, they
deserved me. As luck would have it, the job
lasted me almost but not quite five years."

William Matthews


----------



## Impenitent

"Nukes, Nukes, Nukes"



Aboard Enola Gay I carry a curse
And to the world below I'll disperse
My half of a breeding pair
God please hear my prayer
From this Noah's Ark in reverse
__________________

The war was won by conventional means
But Japanese don't surrender it seems
To avoid a deadly incursion
We created an ungodly diversion
Of smoke mirrors mushrooms and screams

Our economic collapse could release a bias
Of respect for humanity we've been impious
Will we reproach our crime
Before we approach the time
When history is no longer written by us
__________________
This reply could be a little stark
But is a warning you might hark
Sure you can live mostly
Heated warm and toasty
Plus lights when you glow in the dark

----------------------

Oil, coal, and atoms, poisons in any guise
Stop this deceit of the devil, otherwise
You'll all be dead
And then God said
I gave you the Sun, the Wind, the Tides


----------



## midcan5

Don't forget Poetry as gifts this season. I am currently reading Robert Wrigley's 'Beautiful Country.' Love the cover photo. 

============================

'Do You Love Me?'

"She's twelve and she's asking the dog,
who does, but who speaks
in tongues, whose feints and gyrations
are themselves parts of speech.

They're on the back porch
and I don't really mean to be taking this in
but once I've heard I can't stop listening. Again
and again she asks, and the good dog

sits and wiggles, leaps and licks.
Imagine never asking. Imagine why:
so sure you wouldn't dare, or couldn't care
less. I wonder if the dog's guileless brown eyes

can lie, if the perfect canine lack of abstractions
might not be a bit like the picture books
she "read" as a child, before her parents' lips
shaped the daily miracle of speech

and kisses, and the words were not lead
and weighed only air, and did not mean
so meanly. "Do you love me?" she says
and says, until the dog, sensing perhaps

its own awful speechlessness, tries to bolt,
but she holds it by the collar and will not
let go, until, having come closer,
I hear the rest of it. I hear it all.

She's got the dog's furry jowls in her hands,
she's speaking precisely
into its laid-back, quivering ears:
"Say it," she hisses, "say it to me.""

Robert Wrigley


----------



## HenryBHough

The Rolling English Road
by G.K.Chesterton

    Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, 
    The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. 
    A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, 
    And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire; 
    A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread 
    The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head. 

    I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire, 
    And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire; 
    But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed 
    To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made, 
    Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands, 
    The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands. 

    His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run 
    Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun? 
    The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which, 
    But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch. 
    God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear 
    The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier. 

    My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage, 
    Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age, 
    But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth, 
    And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death; 
    For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen, 
    Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.


----------



## Impenitent

"B'Endiana Natuf and the Volcano of Doom"

A right wing crisis of sorts
A disaster close to our hearts
One more carbon dioxide machine
Extinct, gone from the scene
Call Rush! Call Sean! Call Bono!
We must save the last volcano

Arriving in their corporate jets
Or convoys of hummers and corvettes
They rally at Reagan Internationale
So dour, so pious, so fashionable
Nary a common tree hugger wacko
Thus not a word of enviro mytho

We'll have our statement on the environments
After we make these two announcements
We've selected B' En as our native guide
To save this generator of carbon dioxide
He'll sail for Iceland on the Calypso
That frenchy's ship we got as a repo

A gaseous producer we'll save to prove our points
That a mere compound of life giving elements
Cannot trap heat in the atmosphere
What we deny will be perfectly clear
It will not take inspector Cleauseau
To prove the innocence of CO2

B' En has landed in Iceland he reports
He will initiate our plan of last resorts
For the volcano with the limestone facade
No doubt plugged by Bjork and Sinead
A flyover with Sarah shooting drano
Down the throat of that dormant volcano

With a prayer to Vulcan , B' En departs
No virgin to sacrifice Sarah retorts
(Tucker Carlson didn't answer our query)
The blast and the sound and fury
Signals the spewing of dogma we bestow
Again to the world with this magma flow
___________


----------



## HenryBHough

Title:     The Rhyme Of The Remittance Man
Author: Robert W. Service [More Titles by Service]

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;
But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,
And I killed it on the mountain miles away.
Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming
On the water where the silver salmon play;
And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming,
In the twilight, of a land that's far away.

Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,
That I fancy I have gained another star;
Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,
Far away -- God knows they cannot be too far.
Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon -- how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!
I might have been as well-to-do as they
Had I clutched like them my chances,
learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,
Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

Well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing,
And the star-like lily nestles in the green;
And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing,
And it doesn't matter what I might have been.
While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory,
The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,
I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story
Of the lazy, lapping water -- it is best.

While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover,
And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,
And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,
I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back.
For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin,
With the morning-glory clinging to the door,
Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,
Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;
Put a little in my purse and leave me free.
Say: "He turned from Fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure,
He is one of us no longer -- let him be."
I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,
The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;
By the lonely seas I've sailed in -- yea, the final word is spoken,
I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.


----------



## Impenitent

Muse

Ever since our chance encounter
Time ceases as my thoughts I peruse
I recall our warm friendly banter
And writing poems to my Muse

That illusion will always endear
Oh Erato, I relive it every day
You play your song to my ear
Our words dance in grand ballet

Will you rekindle that burning moment
For I fear the ember will fade
And I'll never again have that token
It will have been a mere charade

Perhaps you once again sight this
Please take my hand and write this...


----------



## Impenitent

Impenitent said:


> Muse
> 
> Ever since our chance encounter
> Time ceases as my thoughts I peruse
> I recall our warm friendly banter
> And writing poems with my Muse
> 
> That illusion will always endear
> Oh Erato, I relive it every day
> You play your song to my ear
> Our words dance in grand ballet
> 
> Will you rekindle that burning moment
> For I fear the ember will fade
> And I'll never again have that token
> It will have been a mere charade
> 
> Perhaps you once again sight this
> Please take my hand and write this...




Hoorah! She beckons to me again
Calling, calling through the murkiness
Was I was not rejected with disdain
Please, with your sonnet allay my anxiousness 


"Tho we are but fragile souls of twain
It was my delight to fill your emptiness
Have my song and love, forget your pain
But know that my gifts are not limitless'

' I poured myself on you, it was never feigned
Just as for you, it was for me - timeless
But Poet, giving unrequited left me weak - drained
Be not selfish in our rhyming symbiosis"

0h Muse, my pretense could you not see through
My songs, my poems, my love - they were for you

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=v1ySZ1M8Dfc


----------



## Impenitent

"Sonnet #1" 
(2nd attempt!)

At the end of a hunt my ears did hear
A song of joy signaling spring my way
My gun at the ready, my prey was near
But the robin flew to my wrist that day

Away, away little songbird from me
I hunt your kind and have not my limit
Your song is sweet but I think you should flee
For things could turn in a New York minute

To Robin her old song was fresh and blessed
As the red-breasted bird more proudly sang
Though eyes of blue i saw her puff her chest
The hunt that day would not end with a bang

Robin as long as that color are you
Will be hunters like me, more men of blue


----------



## midcan5

'The Socialist ABC'

"When that I was and a little, tiny boy,
Me daddy said to me,
'The time has come, me bonny, bonny bairn,
To learn your ABC.'

Now Daddy was a lodge chairman
In the coalfields of the Tyne
And his ABC was different
From the Enid Blyton kind.

He sang, 'A is for Alienation
That made me the man that I am, and

B's for the Boss who's a Bastard,
A Bourgeois who don't give a damn.

C is for Capitalism,
The bosses' reactionary creed, and

D's for Dictatorship, laddie,
But the best proletarian breed.

E is for Exploitation
That workers have suffered so long, and

F is for old Ludwig Feuerbach,
The first one to say it was wrong.

G is all Gerrymanderers,
Like Lord Muck and Sir Whatsisname, and

H is the Hell that they'll go to
When the workers have kindled the flame.

I's for Imperialism,
And America's kind is the worst, and

J is for sweet Jingoism,
That the Tories all think of the first.

K is for good old Kier Hardy,
Who fought out the working class fight, and

L is for Vladimir Lenin,
Who showed him the left was all right.

M is of course for Karl Marx,
The daddy and the mommy of them all, and

N is for Nationalisation -
Without it we'd tumble and fall.

O is for Overproduction,
That capitalist economy brings, and

P is for all Private Property,
The greatest of all of the sins.

Q's for the Quid pro quo,
That we'll deal out so well and so soon, when

R for Revolution is shouted and
The Red Flag becomes the top tune.

S is for Sad Stalinism
That gave us all such a bad name, and

T is for Trotsky, the hero,
Who had to take all of the blame.

U's for the Union of Workers -
The Union will stand to the end, and

V is for Vodka, yes, Vodka,
The vun drink that vont bring the bends.

W's for all Willing Workers,
And that's where the memory fades,

For X, Y, and Zed,' my dear daddy said,
'Will be written on the street barricades.'

Now that I'm not a little tiny boy,
Me daddy says to me,
'Please try to forget those thing that I said,
Especially the ABC.'

For daddy is no longer a union man,
And he's had to change his plea.
His alphabet is different now,
Since they made him a Labour MP."

Alex Glasgow


----------



## midcan5

'At the Movie: Virginia, 1956'

"This is how it was:
they had their own churches, their own schools,
schoolbuses, football teams, bands and majorettes,
separate restaurants, in all the public places
their own bathrooms, at the doctors
their own waiting room, in the Tribune
a column for their news, in the village
a neighborhood called Sugar Hill,
uneven rows of unresponsive houses
that took the maids back in each afternoon 
and still I never saw them on the street.
It seemed a chivalric code
laced the milk: youd try not to look
and they would try to be invisible."

Ellen Bryant Voigt


----------



## Impenitent

"McCain in Syria"



Hey, Syria Syria

Here I go

From the wheelchair to the walker to the plane for Syria

Uh huh! I gotta go groveling in this tent
Gotta stir up more hate and discontent

No prize please, I don't want war to cease
Just lookin' to disturb a little peace

With Syria 

Think I better cool it in Chechnya
My best bet is with Lebanon and Syria

Syria

Who to deal with has me quite perplexed
One Mohammed looks pretty much like the next

No doubt any would murder or bugger me
Just like the my buddies back in the GOP

If we gotta go deep to make the deal just right
Ill have to get and give my Syria surprise tonight

Guns for pearls around the world with me

In Syria

But somethings wrong as the label warned
For more than 4 hours I've been horned

My heart exploding like a mortar round
Ill keep my hands shut tight for if I'm found

Theyll find the pearls for Syria

Syria

And now its over, i'm awake at last
Oh, heartaches and memories from the past

It was just another dream about pharmaceutical love

With Syria

Here I go

Back to sleep and in my dreams

Ill be in Syria

Syria

Syria


----------



## midcan5

'Working Homicide'

"He greets us at the door.
Shes downstairs on the floor,
he says, behind the bed.
We find her, as he said,
wedged into the narrow space
with nothing but a trace
of blood in her black hair
to show us where
the bullet struck and threw
her back before she knew
how their shouted argument
had fired his rage and sent
him groping in the dresser drawer
to threaten, as he had before,
to silence any sound.
She might have stood her ground
and told him that she knew
the secret of his manhood grew
out of his fathers mocking scorn
when a weakling son was born."

James Fleming


----------



## Impenitent

"Locket"

When we first met
I knew it was you
And you knew it too

Swept off our feet
A lover's high
No wonders why

You gave to me
A heart locket to keep
That I could feel it beat

When you were away
I could be near to you
And care for you

Such a fragile thing
Placed much trust in me
Now you're unjust to me

Those demons could see
Our love so limitless
And stole our happiness

Just to let you know
I wish you well
And it beats there still


----------



## Impenitent

"Indian Paintbrush"

There was a flowing brook
Bordering a golden meadow
Indian paintbrush and willow

Such an untroubled nook
Welcomed respite we took
My chest your pillow

But winter drouth has come
Where once glory now none
Serenity all undone

To fear and doubt did succumb
So quickly it leaves me numb
What had only begun

Do I hear a robin's song
Or just my echo there
So faint it isn't clear

Promising spring will be along
Tho the risk of being wrong
Oh, but how I need you here

Are you the same songbird
Will the brook flow as before
Will the meadow bloom evermore

How I loved your every word
And how time became blurred
Please again be mine to adore


----------



## midcan5

'A Story Can Change Your Life' 

"On the morning she became a young widow,
my grandmother, startled by a sudden shadow,
looked up from her work to see a hawk turn
her prized rooster into a cloud of feathers.
That same moment, halfway around the world
in a Minnesota mine, her husband died,
buried under a ton of rockfall.
She told me this story sixty years ago.
I don&#8217;t know if it&#8217;s true but it ought to be.
She was a hard old woman, and though she knelt
on Sundays when the acolyte&#8217;s silver bell
announced the moment of Christ&#8217;s miracle,
it was the darker mysteries she lived by:
shiver-cry of an owl, black dog by the roadside,
a tapping at the door and nobody there.
The moral of the story was plain enough:
miracles become a burden and require a priest
to explain them. With signs, you only need
to keep your wits about you and place your trust
in a shadow world that lets you know hard luck
and grief are coming your way. And for that
&#8212;so the story goes&#8212;any day will do."

Peter Everwine


----------



## Impenitent

"I've Been Springboarding"

Off of Mars
Dancing on the stars
Howling at the moon
That we'd be together soon

I've been trembling for the touch
This Earthling seeks so very much
Locked in our private little nook
Where first the Earth shook

Canaveral morning was so cozy
The capsule shiny bright and rosy
We blasted toward the aurora borealis
A King and his Queen in a palace

And this Superman will never rest
Until i inhale Lois Lane's hot breath
And that really doesn't have to rhyme
If this metaphor is yours, as it is mine


----------



## Impenitent

"Yesterday's News"

I suppose I'd better warm this up
Get the motor runnin' - where to?
Will we be drinking from the loving cup
Or go back to that same old déjà vu?

You know, I start a couple of lines
No idea which way they will go
Just waiting for you to flip your dime
Are you hot today, or in an ice floe?

You must join me in this last dance
I pick the music and lyric - I am Apollo
You seem to know the steps of faux romance
You lead - I follow I follow I follow

I was writing about this roller coaster ride
To easy metaphors our love I'd connote
But the hype stripped away, that's a downhill slide
Leaving me with only a suicide note

The paradox I see, the deeper our love is, for me
Toward the beach you float away
While I'm drowning at the bottom of the sea
You're thinking of another love, another day

What I can give, you don't need
But what you can take, is what you want
It seems the greatest compulsion I feed
Is my heart on a stick for you to flaunt

I already know what the ending is
When this construct is destroyed by reality
And you walk away from the abyss
Unconcerned about this little triviality


----------



## Impenitent

"Dirty Little Coward"

I've been a long time
Adrift at sea
No human contact
To comfort me

I had a songbird
But i set her free
She didn't even say
Goodbye to me

I should hang her picture
So the world could see
The tender trap I fell into
Plus Mr. Howard's plan for me

These signals from space
The many that disagree
They don't fit my meme
They don't get thru to me

A shaman came calling
Mr. Howard with his Judas Tree
I let down my guard
You see what's become of me

He arranged a rendezvous
My Robin under the marquee
Now a woman in red
At the Biograph with me


----------



## The Professor

My Wife and I have always been impressed with the number seven because of its Biblical significance.  Even in the secular world the number has always been considered special, even magical.  Instead of sending our granddaughter Emma Rose a birthday card for her seventh birthday  we decided that we would create a poem about the number seven so here it is:

*The Times Table for Emma Rose *

You've  seen the world for seven years;  
You're seven years times one.
There is a new adventure
With each rising of the sun.
It wasn't very long ago 
That you first learned to walk,
But now you read and write and dance
And draw with magic chalk.
There's still so much to see and do;
Your life has just begun.
The world is full of wonder  
When you're seven years times one.

One day you will be  fourteen, 
which is seven years times two,
And like the flowers in the field
You'll bloom just as they do.
At fourteen  you will have less time 
For all your childhood toys.
There will be more important things 
Like school and clothes (and boys).
The grass will seem much greener 
And the sky a deeper blue.
The world is bright and beautiful 
When you're seven years times two.

Then you will  be  twenty-one
Which is seven years times three.
It's time to think of where you've been
And where you hope to be.
Then Emma Rose will spread her toes
On soft, warm glistening sands,
And look out at the ocean 
And think of distant lands.
Then filled with love and faith and dreams 
You'll fly across the sea.
Oh, the world is full of promise 
When you're seven years times three.

But today's the day you'll celebrate 
With presents, cake and fun.
It's a very special day because
You're seven now, times one.


----------



## IlarMeilyr

Here comes an oldie from Andrew "Dice" Clay:

Betty and Jack up a tree
F-u-c-k-i-n-g
First comes Betty, then comes Jack
Then comes the goo out of Betty's crack​


----------



## Impenitent

"Borrowed Words" 
(Sonnet #2)

My dear, you ask what do I think of you
May I give you the answer once again
That we never touch is my greatest rue
My make believe isn't just love i feign

Can we but return to the beginning
With your gentle replies and ice-cream smile
We were turtledoves billing and cooing
How do we reclaim what once so beguiled

While it does entertain and amuse me
Sending messages through with borrowed words
It might also distress and confuse me
Can I hear, once again, my sweet songbird

All the words, above our heads, spinning 'round
It should be so simple to pull them down


----------



## Impenitent

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe


----------



## Impenitent

"Visceral Poetry"

Republicans and Nazis we should never compare
To do so would be outrageous and unfair!
But there's a question that continually keeps me awake
Would old Nazis good Republicans make?

Republicans could never be Nazis, for goodness sake!
But could Nazis, in the Grand Old Party, ever partake?
Could the founding fathers of the Thousand Year Reich
Adapt to the party of a Thousand Points of Light?

Given some thought, it's not so unfeasible
Even General Eisenhower thought it conceivable
When he found Wernher Von Braun hiding in the thistles
Only to make him father of NASA and our ballistic missiles

Given that example, why couldn't more rehabilitate their brand?
This time, be good soldiers for the Republican high command
Wouldn't Rommel, a Panzer Commander of Field Marshal rank
Be equally comfortable running a right wing think tank?

Or Joseph Goebbels, charged to propagandize and flummox
Could become a talking head with his own show on Fox
While Eichmann and his concentration camp guards
Would be pole watchers, checking our registration cards

And those entitlement programs that never really worked
Our leaders bold proposals they've flip flopped and shirked
Would Nazis be like these windsocks and spin it?
Or would they throw grandma off the cliff? ...In a Wehrmacht minute!


----------



## derk

Impenitent said:


> "Visceral Poetry"
> 
> Republicans and Nazis we should never compare
> To do so would be outrageous and unfair!
> But there's a question that continually keeps me awake
> Would old Nazis good Republicans make?
> 
> Republicans could never be Nazis, for goodness sake!
> But could Nazis, in the Grand Old Party, ever partake?
> Could the founding fathers of the Thousand Year Reich
> Adapt to the party of a Thousand Points of Light?
> 
> Given some thought, it's not so unfeasible
> Even General Eisenhower thought it conceivable
> When he found Wernher Von Braun hiding in the thistles
> Only to make him father of NASA and our ballistic missiles
> 
> Given that example, why couldn't more rehabilitate their brand?
> This time, be good soldiers for the Republican high command
> Wouldn't Rommel, a Panzer Commander of Field Marshal rank
> Be equally comfortable running a right wing think tank?
> 
> Or Joseph Goebbels, charged to propagandize and flummox
> Could become a talking head with his own show on Fox
> While Eichmann and his concentration camp guards
> Would be pole watchers, checking our registration cards
> 
> And those entitlement programs that never really worked
> Our leaders bold proposals they've flip flopped and shirked
> Would Nazis be like these windsocks and spin it?
> Or would they throw grandma off the cliff? ...In a Wehrmacht minute!



Did you write it?


----------



## Impenitent

derk said:


> Impenitent said:
> 
> 
> 
> "Visceral Poetry"
> 
> Republicans and Nazis we should never compare
> To do so would be outrageous and unfair!
> But there's a question that continually keeps me awake
> Would old Nazis good Republicans make?
> 
> Republicans could never be Nazis, for goodness sake!
> But could Nazis, in the Grand Old Party, ever partake?
> Could the founding fathers of the Thousand Year Reich
> Adapt to the party of a Thousand Points of Light?
> 
> Given some thought, it's not so unfeasible
> Even General Eisenhower thought it conceivable
> When he found Wernher Von Braun hiding in the thistles
> Only to make him father of NASA and our ballistic missiles
> 
> Given that example, why couldn't more rehabilitate their brand?
> This time, be good soldiers for the Republican high command
> Wouldn't Rommel, a Panzer Commander of Field Marshal rank
> Be equally comfortable running a right wing think tank?
> 
> Or Joseph Goebbels, charged to propagandize and flummox
> Could become a talking head with his own show on Fox
> While Eichmann and his concentration camp guards
> Would be pole watchers, checking our registration cards
> 
> And those entitlement programs that never really worked
> Our leaders bold proposals they've flip flopped and shirked
> Would Nazis be like these windsocks and spin it?
> Or would they throw grandma off the cliff? ...In a Wehrmacht minute!
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Did you write it?
Click to expand...

Yes


----------



## IlarMeilyr

Impenitent said:


> "Visceral Poetry"
> 
> Republicans and Nazis we should never compare
> To do so would be outrageous and unfair!
> But there's a question that continually keeps me awake
> Would old Nazis good Republicans make?
> 
> Republicans could never be Nazis, for goodness sake!
> But could Nazis, in the Grand Old Party, ever partake?
> Could the founding fathers of the Thousand Year Reich
> Adapt to the party of a Thousand Points of Light?
> 
> Given some thought, it's not so unfeasible
> Even General Eisenhower thought it conceivable
> When he found Wernher Von Braun hiding in the thistles
> Only to make him father of NASA and our ballistic missiles
> 
> Given that example, why couldn't more rehabilitate their brand?
> This time, be good soldiers for the Republican high command
> Wouldn't Rommel, a Panzer Commander of Field Marshal rank
> Be equally comfortable running a right wing think tank?
> 
> Or Joseph Goebbels, charged to propagandize and flummox
> Could become a talking head with his own show on Fox
> While Eichmann and his concentration camp guards
> Would be pole watchers, checking our registration cards
> 
> And those entitlement programs that never really worked
> Our leaders bold proposals they've flip flopped and shirked
> Would Nazis be like these windsocks and spin it?
> Or would they throw grandma off the cliff? ...In a Wehrmacht minute!



^ quite full retard goes the Impenitent


----------



## derk

Impenitent said:


> derk said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Impenitent said:
> 
> 
> 
> "Visceral Poetry"
> 
> Republicans and Nazis we should never compare
> To do so would be outrageous and unfair!
> But there's a question that continually keeps me awake
> Would old Nazis good Republicans make?
> 
> Republicans could never be Nazis, for goodness sake!
> But could Nazis, in the Grand Old Party, ever partake?
> Could the founding fathers of the Thousand Year Reich
> Adapt to the party of a Thousand Points of Light?
> 
> Given some thought, it's not so unfeasible
> Even General Eisenhower thought it conceivable
> When he found Wernher Von Braun hiding in the thistles
> Only to make him father of NASA and our ballistic missiles
> 
> Given that example, why couldn't more rehabilitate their brand?
> This time, be good soldiers for the Republican high command
> Wouldn't Rommel, a Panzer Commander of Field Marshal rank
> Be equally comfortable running a right wing think tank?
> 
> Or Joseph Goebbels, charged to propagandize and flummox
> Could become a talking head with his own show on Fox
> While Eichmann and his concentration camp guards
> Would be pole watchers, checking our registration cards
> 
> And those entitlement programs that never really worked
> Our leaders bold proposals they've flip flopped and shirked
> Would Nazis be like these windsocks and spin it?
> Or would they throw grandma off the cliff? ...In a Wehrmacht minute!
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Did you write it?
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> Yes
Click to expand...


But I'm a Republican so I disagree with the typical liberal vitriol of nasty right and its evil plight. Still it was a good waste of a comparison to those heinous in their diabolical direction. For one of mankind's worst political actions.

[ame=http://youtu.be/YXgcxb2lmfY]Duo Aetneo Remembrance - Schindler's List .. solo audio. - YouTube[/ame]


----------



## Impenitent

Although, I will admit, it did compare Republicans to Nazis, my purpose was to illustrate how wrong the Republican agenda is for America.

The right wing think tanks, the propaganda media, the voter intimidation/ID push, and the push back on Medicare, Obamacare, and other Social safety net programs are, to me, so wrong for America, that showing who would also embrace those viewpoints, is necessary to drive home that point.

I expect you to disagree.  Perhaps a politician, or better poet could make that point in a less inflammatory way, but that's my way.


----------



## derk

Impenitent said:


> Although, I will admit, it did compare Republicans to Nazis, my purpose was to illustrate how wrong the Republican agenda is for America.
> 
> The right wing think tanks, the propaganda media, the voter intimidation/ID push, and the push back on Medicare, Obamacare, and other Social safety net programs are, to me, so wrong for America, that showing who would also embrace those viewpoints, is necessary to drive home that point.
> 
> I expect you to disagree.  Perhaps a politician, or better poet could make that point in a less inflammatory way, but that's my way.



The one issue which I made. The individuals you compare me to : *Killed 6 million people.*


----------



## Impenitent

I don't compare you to them.  I firmly believe that the rank & file Republicans, such as yourself, have no true idea what republican donors, politicians and policy makers are up to.  Are you familar with Alec?  Look it up, if you aren't.  American Legislative Exchange Council.  Industry writes legislation, hands it to state and national pols, who then pass it though their assembly. 

 I'm sure you believe voter ID is being pushed for the integrity of elections, yet that is perhaps not the reason.  A Federal judge has ordered Texas legislators to turn over all internal emails to determine why they passed the ID law they did.  The Reps fought against this transparency like it was the Alamo.  Why do you think they resist, if there is nothing to hide?

Nope, not even the bad Republicans are murderers.  Where did I say they were?


----------



## derk

Impenitent said:


> I don't compare you to them.  I firmly believe that the rank & file Republicans, such as yourself, have no true idea what republican donors, politicians and policy makers are up to.  Are you familar with Alec?  Look it up, if you aren't.  American Legislative Exchange Council.  Industry writes legislation, hands it to state and national pols, who then pass it though their assembly.
> 
> I'm sure you believe voter ID is being pushed for the integrity of elections, yet that is perhaps not the reason.  A Federal judge has ordered Texas legislators to turn over all internal emails to determine why they passed the ID law they did.  The Reps fought against this transparency like it was the Alamo.  Why do you think they resist, if there is nothing to hide?
> 
> Nope, not even the bad Republicans are murderers.  Where did I say they were?



Enough of haggling in this thread its for poetry and writing -that should in most cases transcend the mundane & inconsequential of politics.


----------



## derk

This bitter is as common place
and costly to my senses. As
letting the dark take hold
my soul a blackened space,
leaves me lost a sinner.

Now learning starts a new
this season , as it may
and like my darkened heart
held so long at bay.

I cost the time to harken
past and leave my youth
a shambles. When called to
pay with life&#8217;s endless
folly's of praise, love
and hurts gone past.

Must I speak as grave of
this the pain against a
life of plight the like
I could not hope to right.

Ageless grief I self had
Planned the endless pain
of this lost man. Whom
thorns do prick yet pick
I must these dark flowers
with petals soft a shiny
gloss.

They age the young as
minutes pass, the old find
new their lives they past.
Under a moon-sung night
In bosoms they grow.
Blossoms of hearts
that tarnish the soul. 

( I wrote it about women who seem to always find the dark lining of every cloud they see, lol)


----------



## BDBoop

"You cannot trust," her mother said.
Over and over she drilled her truth.
The daughter just rolled her eyes.

She was wounded time and again,
sometimes by the same person
(Because she believed in second chances).

It didn't matter, though; so many more
true friends were found than adversaries.
The price was worth it.

But then there came a day when a true friend
befriended an adversary. And the friend's 
words became the lies of the adversary.

Her mother was ecstatic. "Finally," she said
"You know I speak the truth." But she was wrong.
The daughter knew a truth, yes.

But the truth was about people like her friend.
Not those who trust.
Just those who betray.


----------



## Capstone

*Bug-shield

I wonder what went through your tiny mind,
besides what's plain for everyone to see,
before the impact cruelly redefined
the matter for us so transparently.

I wonder, from a thousand open eyes,
how every single thing in life appears;
and when your vision clearly multiplies,
how many more the added fallen tears?

The sort of things no-one among us knows;
the doubt humanity's reflection brings;
the questions I can only recompose
to broken, torn, and disembodied wings,

and try my best to "wash and wipe" away
the last remaining remnants of your plight,
as stubborn bits of insect pieces pay
a morbid tribute to your final flight.*​


----------



## derk

Capstone said:


> *Bug-shield
> 
> I wonder what went through your tiny mind,
> besides what's plain for everyone to see,
> before the impact cruelly redefined
> the matter for us so transparently.
> 
> I wonder, from a thousand open eyes,
> how every single thing in life appears;
> and when your vision clearly multiplies,
> how many more the added fallen tears?
> 
> The sort of things no-one among us knows;
> the doubt humanity's reflection brings;
> the questions I can only recompose
> to broken, torn, and disembodied wings,
> 
> and try my best to "wash and wipe" away
> the last remaining remnants of your plight,
> as stubborn bits of insect pieces pay
> a morbid tribute to your final flight.*​



Whats it about?


----------



## Impenitent

Sprint Medley

I'm sure I won't be alive in 30 years ..
Probably not in 20
10 years ... Yeah,that's about right
I've got 10 years

When should I make my bucket list?
When should I do my bucket list?
When should I settle my affairs?
When should I start one?

I may be lucky enough to learn over time
But I may no be so lucky
Will it be because I don't have enough time?
Or because I'm not really lucky?

All my life I've been told to be patient
How much longer can I be patient?
When I only have 10 hyears
And I don't yet have you

You can't teach an old dog new tricks
You shouldn't expect him to break the mold
I take this one step out of the box, before
Again "the same as it ever was" of old
/

Time is short to carry this lighted torch
I'll eventually slow and stagger
The flame reduced to a dying ember
(scorch and dagger and remember!)

So I forego all reason
(along with rhyme and rhythm)
This burst of speed my desperation
As what wells inside mustn't escape before I reach my final destination

"Et tu Brute" stoned me, as if I had sinned
The dagger in my heart, spat upon, flamed and beaten

But since, your soul I've lovingly cleansed
And all of your sins I've willingly eaten


----------



## Capstone

derk said:


> Whats it about?



At face value, it's about a fly that splattered on the windshield of my car.

On a deeper level, it's a metaphor for the almost cruel ambivalence of reality in relation to our daily endeavors.

I've hit that windshield more than once, myself.


----------



## Capstone

*Sonnet 1: For What It's Worth**

From those who know the meaning of 'hard knocks' --
a blanket, some discarded styrofoam,
the little things that make a house a home,
an alley and a filthy cardboard box;

to those who live instead the life of ease --
the art collections and exotic cars,
the vintage wines and finest of cigars,
the mansions on their sprawling properties;

to those between the riches and the street --
the worries and the stacks of unpaid bills,
the cheaper transportation (hold the frills),
the paychecks with the ends that rarely meet;

despite what life has taught us all from birth,
no currency defines our human worth.*​


----------



## Capstone

*The Sterling Tongue

A relic of forsaken bigotry,
whose ancient ugliness has come to light,
is on display for all the world to see
and raise the brows of players black and white.

The hate recorded by his trophy love,
a beauty way beyond the old man's league,
has placed the issue on the covers of
rags known to manufacture their intrigue.

With Magic in the hearts of angry men,
and playoff ratings on the rise among
the fans with cause to jeer and cheer again,
the NBA should *thank* Don's sterling tongue! *​


----------



## midcan5

'Forms Of Attention' 

"Often writing is a kind of listening, a form of deep attention. 

Tuning the stations, fingering the dial. 

From whence does that voice arise, a spring in which foothills? 

What will it say next? 

The feeling of exhaustion 

as one falls back upon the bed, 

the sensation of thirst as water passes the lips- 

are these forms of attention? No. 

These are harmonies of fulfillment."

Campbell McGrath


----------



## Capstone

*Sestina 1: The Only Way Ahead

Embrace the things on which we all agree
and let contentious dogmas drift-a-way,
each compromising Faith to some degree,
let's relish in the clergyman's dismay,
with confidence our "mortal sin" would be
to make tomorrow better than today.

Who's happy with the state of things today?
With costs so high for failing to agree,
the need to work together couldn't be
more clearly shown in any other way.
So, set aside the reasons for dismay,
let's work together to the nth degree

(no settling for less than that degree).
Imagine -- if we took that step today,
without a hint of fear or pure dismay,
on every single step we could agree
and lean upon each other all the way --
how wonderful our children's lives could be

if taught by our example how to be
at peace to work and earn their own degree
of harmony to light the future's way
for generations yet to come. Today,
if we could only manage to agree
to end the disillusions and dismay

(and mainly disillusion-based dismay),
the failures of the past would simply be
a challenge for our Peoples to agree
to overcome; and whether by degree
or all at once, I say we start today!
Let's pool our talents now to pave the way.

And, really, is there any other way?
Or should we leave our offspring in dismay,
as our own fathers left us here today?
As clueless as to what it means to be
responsible to any small degree
for future inclinations to agree?

The only way ahead for us to be
without dismay (not even one degree)
is paved today on what we can agree.*​


----------



## Impenitent

Aberration
(Sonnet # 4)


Love flowed so easily from heart to hand 
My muse ...taunting, teasing, guiding, pleasing 
Stirring thoughts numerous as grains of sand
My songs ...wanting, dreaming, needing, scheming

But my hand can't write with an empty heart
And my heart was drained when my muse left me
A poet without words since her depart
I can't even compose my bereft plea

So this, you see, is my natural state
My poems insolubly general
No strut in my step, I sloth to my fate
Flash in the pan, all so ephemeral

I call i call, I beckon you, oh please
This my last gasp, I am down to my knees


----------



## protectionist

Protectionist Poem 1

BE DISCREET, BEAT THE HEAT                     by Protectionist

Hey Beethoven, get your gun
You bathtubs are overrun
Your fields are turning brown
And house paint's peelin in the sun.

Somebody's knockin on your door
It's not your song he's lookin for
There's no way your story's straight
Keep your papers in the drawer.

Telephone rings aren't cool
Someone from your old school
Keep the TV turned to sports
Use a footstool and whirlpool.

Park your car down the street
Try to be more discreet
Grow a mustache and a beard
Use AC and beat the heat.

No, your bank account's no good
They thought you were Robin Hood
Gave you to the IRS
And took their cut, in all likelihood.


----------



## protectionist

Protectionist Poem 2

COMMUNICATION            by Protectionist

All the King's horses
And all the King's men
Couldn't put Bob & Tawny together again.

No, all the Queen's jewels
And all the Queen's gems
Couldn't secure, make pure, manicure, reassure, lower temperature, provide literature or overture
For two year's problems.

But what chance has communication ?
In the absence of action
While to her beat
Strangers come and go ?

Would Beethoven, Byron, Shelly, Keats, or Shakespeare even know ?


----------



## protectionist

Protectionist Poem 3

PERCEPTION DECEPTION        by Protectionist

Whether on Christmas or New Year's Eve
Whether in Paris or Tel Aviv
There is never any reprieve
From my long-held beliefs worn on my sleeve

Long ago overcome conditioned, naive
False thoughts planted, intended to deceive
Me into thinking all was OK of that we perceive
Around us and what we might achieve

Only to later discover we'd been led to believe
Delusions of grandeur now buried, we grieve
And then had to pack up and reluctantly heave
Into the junk-heap of life's make-believe, underachieve
Scenarios we held in warm high esteem
But destined to fade, downgrade, unbraid, retrograde, and cascade
I'm afraid

To the sweetened fairy tale garden of Adam & Eve
Or elaborate tower of Queen Genevieve
Find hidden or whole through our concrete cracks
TV, radio, newspaper, or postage attacks
On our eye-lives, imagination, and spirit stacks.


----------



## protectionist

Protectionist Poem 4

COLOR'S PERSONALITIES                 by Protectionist

*PINK* is pretty. Young girls dresses, sunrises and sunsets, and flowery things.

*YELLOW*'S OK. Blonde hair, lemons, midday/afternoon, and the warmth that sunshine brings.

I like *BROWN* a lot - walnuts, tree trunks, my hair, horses' skin, wooden furniture, and other natural things.

But* BLUE* is DOWN. A bad trip, gloom & doom, being hurt & strung out. A dark room with wishes not come true. But I still like blue.

*RED* is up. Fast foward, alive/bright, high energy, strong action, sweet cherries, sporty cars and rendezvous.

*ORANGE* breezes by in taxi cabs, hangs heavy sunsets, wears old football jerseys, fills fruit bowls and refrigerators.

*GREEN* makes us happy. Groves of trees, limes, green apples, yeah O.K. - money, natural scents like fresh-cut grass, Spring buds and alligators.

*WHITE* has tennis clothes, clean sheets, daytime things, sand & surf, dogwood nights, and full moons.

*PURPLE* intrigues me. Unusual, sexy, provocative, naughty, cool, musical, has rhythm, good for parties, Saturday nights, and honeymoons with guitar tunes.


----------



## protectionist

Protectionist Poem 5

CLOUD'S PUFFS                   by Protectionist

The first cloud had its full form intact
Its whites, grays, blues, all matter-of-fact
Steady its course, ready to react
With all atmospheric bodies abstract
Or solid, moving, spinning, still
Hunchbacked, cracked, compact
Set and posed to interact
And draw a figure cold but alive
And reach down for my insomniaced
Visions loose but exact.

The second cloud, large and moving around
Still, but in motion, a sky merry-go-round
Up high above its lightning greyhound
To race through the air, to clouds or ground
To open bays, river, or sound.

And little puffs up here and there
Trap my eyes to full minute stare
Surrounded by blue, strange nothingness
Seeming to say "something's amiss"
Broken apart from their parent cloud
And hanging remote, aloof, enshroud, high-browed, proud.


----------



## Impenitent

You Never Can Tell

It was a screaming ranting, and he gave Obama hell
You could tell Impenitent was not under the Messiah's spell
And now the young pundit has rung Barry's bell - so well
'C'est la vie' says Poe's Law, 'it goes to show you never can tell"

He dropped the deceiver without so much as a farewell
He blew Barry away without even a single shell
Now Impenitent has seemingly rung his own death knell
"C'est  la vie' says Poe's Law, 'it goes to show you never can tell"

Birther Nation's talking points we can never quell
They pop back up faster than you can ever dispel
So if you think you understand this odd fairy tale
"C'est la vie' says Poe's Law, 'it goes to show you never can tell"


Poe's law - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia


----------



## Impenitent

Full of Love (Sonnet #6)

Love was around me, if i had a cup
I could have stopped to scoop a little up
I lusted as it sifted through my hand
My castles in the air were shifting sand

But now I have not even a toe hold
And find myself falling and growing old
I chose to do without the fight and fuss
No one to right me when I spit or cuss

All the lovers and the wife of one time 
Girls who committed long forgotten crimes
Love wasted in a misbegotten youth
Only now I fathom the bitter truth

If when old you want to be loved and nursed
When you are young, always fill those cups first


----------



## LadyGunSlinger

Dancing in the Razor Hail

Storm clouds black out the skies entirely
Look, the sky is falling, falling with me.
Thunder roars as the clouds begin to cry,
Here comes the pain, leaping from the dark sky.

As I fall within, this pale skin, 
Oh, Razor Hail, tear us down again.
Slashing and gashing, ripping and tearing
Reduce us to our Hearts and Nothing.
Tear away our skin in totality,
Reveal our true and pure beauty.

Dancing in the Razor Hail,
Caught amidst this vicious gale,
Swirling tempest, put me to the test,
(My sincere friends, do not let me rest.)
In the maelstrom I stand 
In this moment, I understand...

Dancing in the Razor Hail,
Puncturing me through as nails,
Tearing away the beautiful veil,
When superficial bulwarks fail,

I celebrate this agony,
This Splendid moment of Conflict.
Truth revealed through Cruelty,
Resilience proving Beauty,
Is more than just razor deep,
In my pain, I prove Honesty,
In my Cries, I prove Conviction,
In My Suffering, my Intention,
In my Determination, 
I prove my Passion is true.
(This is my Absolute Love for you)
I celebrate this Agony,
Oh, won't you come dance with me?


© Christopher Trenary D


----------



## Impenitent

"You Hide Yourself Within Your Flower"
(Sonnet #3)

I will neither shade my disappointment
Nor will I forge excuses of sour grapes
I've simply reached my end point, and I'm spent
Never getting my peek behind the drapes

The fruit is there, mystically eclipsed
Yet it's still intoxicating and sweet 
Tho I haven't held you or kissed your lips
But our hearts did caress however fleet

This ardor I will carry in my soul
To Heav'n, once from my body dissevered
My one good thing, though out of my control
Has created love, lasting us forever

When my soul ascends to Saint Peter's gate 
If spurned, i'll leave my love for you in wait


----------



## midcan5

'The Original Terrorists'

"The terrorists have been here a long time. The ones who took the slaves
The ones who ran and underbossed
the plantations. Especially those
who made money from them. They still at it.
They never stopped. These old guard terrorists. And
they still at it. Still terrorizing.
When slavery was sposed to be ended, they thought up the Klan
The Knights of the white Camelia!
When we was sposed to get reparations
They got Andrew Johnson
a barefoot white man
to stop it.  Every time we take a step
these terrorists appear.
They ain't never gone no where
But you take a step forward
they come out!
King spoke," I have a dream!"
and we paid for it
with the four little girls. Blown up in Birmingham. Before that
we won the bus boycott
the terrorists blew up Dr. King's house.
The real terrorists
been with us hundreds of years. DuBois
called it The Sisyphus Syndrome. You push the rock up the mountain
The terrorists appear and try to roll it back down.
Now Obama get in defeating
Cain's son, the one in the bible
live in Arizona where they shot that congresswoman
in the head, and now wanna ban Latino studies
these is them Terrorists. Still terrorizing.
That`s Goldwater's state
famously backward. A terrorist. McCain turned tail in Viet Nam
He come back a hero terrorist. Terrorist
just the same.
We get clear enough to elect Obama
the terrorists take off they Klan clothes
put on some suits , they the t party, now. TEA
The Evil Assholes, they terrorists & Nazi's
like always. They do anything to stop America's getting rid of it's craziness.
They never let all of us
be Americans. They terrorists
And the Republicans they even got negroes
Real Public Coons, they terrorists too
like Tom Ass Clarence & his evil wife
Citizens United , they terrorists, hurt us worse than
the Taliban. GOP, Grand Old Psychopaths.
What Al Queada can't do the Republicans can
Been doing it in one costume or another
for hundreds of years
Now they so frustrated, they Racist Addiction
coming down on them, Boehner's nose running,
Got new maniacs to please, old jones coming down, Ted Cruz, a Texas junkie
had a crying jag in Congress, , or the other nut, Ryan
trying to stop you from sending your kids to college
He's a real mullah for sure
Terrorists took over congress, listen to them
absolute nuts. What the Taliban can't do
they are doing, close down
the United States government.! Now who
would do that? Think about it. What
the Taliban and Al Quaeda couldn't do. Terrorists in the congress
locked down the govt because
the black dude there, just as they would in the 19th century
when a blood wanted to vote. We facing the sickness
of terrorists. Been terrorizing all of us
for hundreds of years. When we gonna catch em
and lock`em up! These terrorists. Catch em
and lock`em up! Then we can cure ourselves,
America, of what has always
Ailed us!"

Amiri Baraka 10/13/13


----------



## Capstone

*Somewhere in Gaza*

_*A tiny 'human shield' stood guard today,
too young to fully comprehend his role,
to see his home and future blown away

by heartless men in concrete camo-gray.
Reluctant witness to their death patrol,
a tiny human shield stood guard today,

to hear his dying mother softly pray
and cough and gurgle through her bullet hole,
to see his home and future blown away.

Unable to avoid the leaden spray
of automatic rifles on a roll,
a tiny human shield stood guard today.

At war (decades) before his first birthday
with enemies in merciless control,
to see his home and future blown away.

And now where badly mangled corpses lay,
including his among the murder toll,
a tiny human shield stood guard today
to see his home and future blown away.*_​


----------



## Impenitent

Why do we read and write poetry?

(Dead Poet's Society)

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=aS1esgRV4Rc


----------



## Capstone

_*The captured songster always hid his frown
from fans who'd flock to hear him in his cage, 
and when the manic bird took center stage
he never let those audiences down.
Who knew the Robin's song that made us smile
and laugh belied a deeper truth in him?
Who knew the bright performer on his limb
was crying out in sadness all the while?
So, where the multicolored feathers fell
and landed on their final resting place
inside a birdcage made of our disgrace,
the prisoner has bid us all farewell;

and we who cried in laughter at his song
now see the pain it covered all along. *_​


In memory of Robin Williams.


----------



## Impenitent

MacArthur Park - Jimmy Webb

Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance

Between the parted pages and were pressed
In love's hot, fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again, oh nooooo

I recall the yellow cotton dress
Foaming like a wave
On the ground around your knees
Birds like tender babies in your hands
And the old men playing checkers, by the trees

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again, oh noooooo

There would be another song for me
For I will sing it
There would be another dream for me
Someone will bring it

I will drink the wine while it is warm
And never let you catch me looking at the sun
And after all the loves of my life
After all the loves of my life, you'll still be the one

I will take my life into my hands and I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes and I will lose it
I will have the things that I desire
And my passion flow like rivers through the sky

And after all the loves of my life
Oh, after all the loves of my life
I'll be thinking of you - and wondering why

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh noooooo, o-oh no-ooooo


----------



## Impenitent

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Like a fish on the ground gasps and flips
Or a bird can't fly because his wings you clipped
So cruel if this was just one of your schemes
To awaken a poet from one of his dreams

In the real world, there is only black and white
No action is missed, either wrong or right
But the poet twists and turns, and dreams away
Creating his own reality, where night is day 

Would the Light Brigade's glory been wonder'd
If not with the poet, rode the six hundred
Or would there be an ode to a lover who speaks nevermore
Had not a dreamer seen a raven as the ghost of Lenore

I dreamt we were shipwrecked on a tropical isle
No hint of civilization had been seen in a long while
A mean old man too confused to know where to start
And a jaded young woman with a hole in her heart

The water from the spring flowed cool and sweet
Coconuts, fruit and small game provided at our feet
Your heartbreaks subsided during our struggle there
And every drink from the spring darkened my gray hair

Banter was light and easy, unreserved and so true
Souls you doubted, came to tell, they died loving you
I walked erect as well, my mind clear and wise
And I became a younger man, not merely in your eyes

Yes, it was a dream, where we were not star-crossed
Let me return there, before that construct is lost
Why are you looking more quizzical, softening your gaze
Could it be that you too, wish to escape through the haze

I couldn't be happy here, among your many Capulets
And my Montagues would cause you unforgivable upsets 
Which draws a foreboding picture here for posterity
Return with me to that island, now and for eternity


----------



## Capstone

*Plaid*

*God damn this strange affinity for plaid,
for which I'm at a loss to explicate,
except to say it speaks to the innate
ancestral links forever ironclad.

Examining the ways the lines are crossed
with colors often clashing on each swatch
and those that don't are neither Welsh nor Scotch
but Irish in the character they've lost.

Checkered relationships that so confine
the other colors, compartmentalized
(or segregated?), measured, analyzed;
but which as 'dominant' should we define?

Of all the fabric clothing that I've had,
none weaved a racial story quite like plaid.*​


----------



## Capstone

*Truth in Paisley*

_*Some find a wondrous world in paisley silk,
without a clue as to the noble ilk
of men and Kings of Kashmar-Khorasan
(the Land of Honey and of Flowing Milk)
for whom 'the Buteh' was more sacred than
the psychedelic paisleys that began
to flood the hippie markets of the west
in homage to the fabrics from Iran.
Not widely known, the image of the blessed--
a stylized impression of the best
and biggest ever planted Cypress Tree--
is in the droplets, pears, and all the rest

designed to show the truth you've come to see:
those paisley teardrop-shapes fell from a tree.*_​


----------



## Capstone

*Son' of Frankenstein 

His hideous monstrosity sewn from the written word,
with bolts protruding from its neck-less body un-interred
from deep within the cemetery of neglected plots
and strangely pieced together by this madman undeterred   

by 'men of science' shackled in convention's overwrought
desire not to stray from its accepted schools of thought,
lied on the table risen to the lightning stricken skies
above the laboratory on his castle's mountain lot

to be reanimated by a science gone awry
to serve the mad creator's will to never ever die,
immortalized by his creation, that for which he strives.
So come, you townsfolk, hearken to this crazy victor's cry,

and let your torches blaze against the blackness, "IT'S ALIVE!",
and raise your pitchforks to the beast, "MY SONNET IS ALIVE!"...*​


----------



## Capstone

An extended limerick about the meanings of life, adversity, and reward...

*Chasing Tail*

_*No longer a puppy, Spot switches
to a new kind of 'tail' that he itches
to chase down and sniff
when he catches a whiff
of the 'good-to-go' neighborhood bitches.

In his way stands a muscle-bound bully,
whose intentions seem kind of unduly
territorial-like,
for the pit-bull named Spike
has been neutered (Spot feels rather cruelly!).

So he quickly tells Spike of his sadness
that a fellow butt-sniffer is nad-less;
that he has a good friend
if he brings to an end
all of this territorial madness!

The pit-bull rewards Spot's endeavor
to be diplomatically clever
and wishes him well
on his mission to quell
the desires poor Spike's lost forever.

Having made a new friend, our Spot smiled
and continued on fully beguiled
by the odor of love
from the heavens above,
yet to answer the Call of the Wild.*_​


----------



## Capstone

*Prophets of the Fall​

Shades of sadness and anticipation in our children's eyes
prophesy to us of the impending Fall;
darkened clouds upon the canvases of ever-greyer skies;
howling winds that coldly mimic mourning cries--

 both descendents and ascendents from the polar regions' heights,
where the Borealis and Australis crawl,
swirling naked in the Southern or the famous Northern Lights
during ever shorter days and longer nights;

stolen hours fenced at Sundown in the alleys of the dark-- 
daylight auctioned by the equinox's call;
faded leaves prepared to leave behind their limbs in barren bark:
not all human-like but prophets, one and all.​​*​


----------



## FRIKSHUN

Impenitent said:


> A Midsummer Night's Dream
> 
> Like a fish on the ground gasps and flips
> Or a bird can't fly because his wings you clipped
> So cruel if this was just one of your schemes
> To awaken a poet from one of his dreams
> 
> In the real world, there is only black and white
> No action is missed, either wrong or right
> But the poet twists and turns, and dreams away
> Creating his own reality, where night is day
> 
> Would the Light Brigade's glory been wonder'd
> If not with the poet, rode the six hundred
> Or would there be an ode to a lover who speaks nevermore
> Had not a dreamer seen a raven as the ghost of Lenore
> 
> I dreamt we were shipwrecked on a tropical isle
> No hint of civilization had been seen in a long while
> A mean old man too confused to know where to start
> And a jaded young woman with a hole in her heart
> 
> The water from the spring flowed cool and sweet
> Coconuts, fruit and small game provided at our feet
> Your heartbreaks subsided during our struggle there
> And every drink from the spring darkened my gray hair
> 
> Banter was light and easy, unreserved and so true
> Souls you doubted, came to tell, they died loving you
> I walked erect as well, my mind clear and wise
> And I became a younger man, not merely in your eyes
> 
> Yes, it was a dream, where we were not star-crossed
> Let me return there, before that construct is lost
> Why are you looking more quizzical, softening your gaze
> Could it be that you too, wish to escape through the haze
> 
> I couldn't be happy here, among your many Capulets
> And my Montagues would cause you unforgivable upsets
> Which draws a foreboding picture here for posterity
> Return with me to that island, now and for eternity


----------



## Capstone

*Cut the Cord*

_*Since long before its god-forsaken birth,
the progeny of false religious zeal
has bitten at its feeder's hand and heel,
exempting neither 'friend' nor foe on Earth

within its grip of treacherous deceit:
the maimed or murdered by King David's bomb
that afternoon of broken British calm
in 1946's Summer heat;

civilian targets of its failed affairs,
the cinemas, the libraries, the schools
run by American and British fools
in 1954 caught unawares;

from Liberty to *Lockerbie and worse, 
the progeny's fulfilled the promised curse.*_​_


*Oh yes, Abu Nidal has long been established as one of the Mossad's many black ops assets. Never  forget to ask, "Cui bono?"..._


----------



## Capstone

*Consumerism, Hope, and Answered Prayer*

A day past Halloween the music starts
on half the stations on the radio,
with songs like _Jingle Bells_ and _Let it Snow_,
presumably to warm consumers' hearts...

as we blow every penny to our name
on tinsel, trees, and this year's trendy toys,
the _Bump'n Chuck'n Bumper Cars_ for boys,
the latest dolls of _Disney Princess_ fame,

those gifts for which our children hope and pray;
and parents share this common yearly goal,
despite repeated threats of lumps of coal:
to see their eyes light up on Christmas Day...

and feel the joy of answering their prayers
and showing them _our_ happiness is theirs.​


----------



## Treeshepherd

Better not bother
Better don't bother
To wind your watch
Eat a whole jar
Of habanero sauce
Step into yer boots
Put a fist up top
Don't notify the boss
Dive into the mosh
Spin yer own cloth
Brew yer own slosh

Get up on them tables
Open up them stables
Cain it to the Abel
Like Abe Lincoln's troubles
Like Shay's Rebellion tripled
Get up like yer crippled
Throw like Rob Dibble
Crossover dribble to da hizzle
Finish like Godzilla
Fukushima filth.

Cascadia Plate
Quakes in western states
Tornados on the plains
Eastern hurricanes
I'll drop an EMP in the sky of your brains.
Hear the Mother speak
Ghost armies underneath
Like a grizzly bear in heat
She'll bring the kitchen sink
Like we can't even think
Like we ain't got an inkling
Weather vane be spinning
But it really ain't no thaing.
I'll just drop an EMP in the sky of your brain.

- Treeshepherd


----------



## Treeshepherd

[I seem to have the option to edit some posts. Others not. Above post, not]

edit:

This is the Tree-hop rap. Just rappin' from the treetops, yo. Just chillin', just spillin', just livin', man.

...2-3-4, kick it!

Better not bother
Better don't bother
To wind your watch
Eat a whole jar
Of habanero sauce
Step into yer boots
Put a fist up top
Don't notify the boss
Dive into the mosh
Spin yer own cloth
Brew yer own slosh
Grow yer own stalks
Grow it in the Capitol
spit out that bite of Apple
'86 them maptuals
Tea Party them taxuals

FULLSTOP

and listen to my scratuals

Get up on them tables
Open up them stables
Cain it to the Abel
Like Abe Lincoln's troubles
Like Shay's Rebellion tripled
Get up like yer crippled
Throw like Rob Dibble
Crossover dribble to da hizzle
Finish like Godzilla
Fukushima filth.

Cascadia Plate
Quakes in western states
Tornados on the plains
Eastern hurricanes
I'll drop an EMP in the sky of your brains.
Hear the Mother speak
She'll bring the kitchen sink
Ghost armies underneath
Like a grizzly bear in heat
Shaking up my trees
Making me spill my drinkling
We ain't got no inkling
The hour glass be sprinkling
Weather vane be spinning
But it really ain't no thaing.
I'll drop an EMP in the sky of your brain.
I'll just drop an EMP in the sky of your brain.


----------



## Treeshepherd

Hello from the gutters in the streets of the New York City.
Hello.
Hello from the swamps of the survivors of the streets of the New Orleans.
Hello.
Hello from the wreckage beneath the bombing of the Oklahoma City.
Hello, hello, hello.
Hello, hello.
Hello from the filth in the sewers of California.
Hello. Hello.


----------



## midcan5

'Here'

"Nothing has changed. They have a welcome sign,
a hill with cows and a white house on top,
a mall and grocery store where people shop,
a diner where some people go to dine.
It is the same no matter where you go,
and downtown you will find no big surprises.
Each fall the dew point falls until it rises.
White snow, green buds, green lawn, red leaves, white snow.

This is all right. This is their hope. And yet,
though what you see is never what you get,
it does feel somehow changed from what it was.
Is it the people? Houses? Fields? The weather?
Is it the streets? Is it these things together?
Nothing here ever changes, till it does."

Joshua Mehigan

PS and don't forget to support poetry this giving season. (my 517th poetry post)


----------



## Mindful

Some rhyming couplets from Pope.

Look next on Greatness; say where Greatness lies?
‘Where but among the Heroes and the wise?’
Heroes are much the same, the point’s agreed,
From Macedonia’s madman to the Swede;
The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find
Or make, an enemy of all mankind!
No one looks backward, onward still he goes,
Yet ne’er looks forward further than his nose.

Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown,
Yet hate repose and dread to be alone…

Darkling I listen: and, for many a time
  I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
  To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
  To cease upon the midnight with no pain…

The muse but serv’d to ease some friend, not Wife,
To help me thro’ this long disease, my Life…


----------



## midcan5

Christmas favorite

"Nearing Xmas Eve! I don't know why--since I'm not a believer in the conventional sense--but every year around this time I end up standing here, pausing before this gray, hulking building with so many of its tall, stained glass windows darkened and lit only by floodlights from outside of it, but with twin spires still pointing towards heaven. Tonight I can see only a single light still shining--in a half-open casement window located on the second floor. "Hello, hello," I call out, "Anybody around up there?--anybody home tonight?" Silhouetted at the casement window, a head appears. "Sure, we're open all night tonight all right--but this isn't a church anymore," the head shouts back in a decidedly irritated voice. "Didn't you know?--our entire operation was finally taken over last year--we were shut down for a while and then re-opened again converted to a peanut-brittle factory," "But don't I recognize you, Sir," I call back--"aren't you the former Sexton?" "Yes," the head says, after we were converted the takeover people thought it would be wise for the sake of efficiency to retain some of the same personnel for a while, so together with some of my staff, I agreed to stay on for a bit." "Does that include God, too?" I hear myself calling back to the former Sexton. "Sure it does," the Sexton shouts back, "have a Merry Christmas!"--and his head disappears from the window. Then I see no silhouetted head much less face, and hear a far deeper and far more resonant voice: "My Son, my Son--we've been putting you on, my Son. But you know you should really come up here anyway--you know in your heart that for all He's ever meant to you, Christ might as well have been a part-time worker in a peanut-brittle factory!" Then suddenly the casement window slams shut. "Oh My God!" I hear myself cry out--"Could that have been God Himself up there? And if so, was He genuinely angry with me, personally?" On the way up the stairs to find out--trembling slightly I must confess--I meet an angel. He's coming down the stairs after apparently just knocking off from working on the night-shift somewhere upstairs. He's beaming radiantly; his wings are folded neatly behind him and he's licking his lips; his cheeks are covered up with peanut-butter and candy and look like two big chocolate chip cookies; and there's a big blob of marshmallow on the tip of his nose...."

Michael Benedikt


----------



## Barbasiewiczfan

*Funeral Poem.*

I know a crow.
But now....I knew.
I've seen him fly.
But now....he flew.
His body's still.
The one I knew.
But where's he go ?
The crow I know.


----------



## Capstone

*Tibetan Grammar Lesson

The unenlightened says, "There is a chair.",
convinced by everything I fail to see,
or so the Dalai Lama says to me,
"The 'object' you're perceiving isn't there.".

I argue that its attributes are clear,
"It has four legs, a cushioned back and seat
designed to pad where your own flesh could meet
to verify things are as they appear!".

"Well, in a sense", the Lama says, "that's true,
but with that truth you must remember this:
the vast infinity the senses miss
is not negated by your finite view.

The chair is not 'the object' that it seems
but is itself an attribute of One
composed of everything beneath the Sun,
no more or less objective than your dreams.".

He grins and winks and says, as he sits down,
"This is the key to sense perception's flaws.
The Universe is chair-like here, because
all adjectives describe a single noun."
*​


----------



## Impenitent

'My Big Fat Global Warming Allegory'

Another wintry blast!  They're calling the cold, "Polar Vortex," and the snow, "Lake Effect," but all I know is that my house will be crushed like the local Wal-Mart if I don't get this crap shoveled off my roof in a hurry!

We _got seven feet of 'Global Warming' (yet again!) in three day's time, and by God, if I so much as hear Al Gore's name mentioned on the news tonight, i'm gonna throw my beer bottle right through the TV screen!

 I believed!  Oh, I believed!  But this can't be!  Stop testing my faith, Al; I've already failed ...

What's all the big commotion?
It snowed just yesterday.
And the rising of the ocean
Is only dramatic overplay.
He's defrauding me with Science.
Defrauding me with Science!
And ignoring simple history.

When he's flying in his Learjet,
(Defrauding me with Science - Science!)
They say he leaves a footprint.
(Science, Science!)

But it's all a big promotion,
When it snowed just yesterday.
And I see no rising of the ocean.
On the young and naive he preys.
But he defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
And disregarded meteorology.

When Gore is flying ever nearer.
(Defrauding me with Science-Science, Science!)
I can see Al Jazeera.
(Defrauding me with Science - Science, Science!)

I thought he had such devotion,
But now he's mocking me.
He sold out the Arctic Ocean,
To pump and dump Current TV.
He defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
And got off on a technicality.

Good God Al Gore -
He's terrible.
I can't believe it!
There he goes again!
He's hidden his dossier,
And I must get an FOIA,
To see his inner secrets,
And little pet tricks.

It's simple harmonic motion,
When it snowed just yesterday.
And the rising of the ocean,
A cycle repeated every day.
But he defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
While promoting an immorality.

Without a "Wonderful Life" emotion,
A White Christmas he never sees.
He talks only in slow motion,
About polar vortex mysteries,
He defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
And failed in philanthropy.

I shoveled and struggled, and huffed and puffed my way through several mini-avalanches, until my roof was clear, about 8 P.M.   Finally resting and relaxing in front of my TV, beer in hand, who do I see but none other than Al Gore, presenting his first of 24 episodes of  “It’s Urgent to Rendezvous with Reality to Save the Future of Civilization."

I should have flipped him off when he began his soliloquy!   Too tired to react, or just too lazy, I heard him say this:

"Darkness falls across Greenland"

The ice gone, now only barren sand.
Animals crawl in search of food 
In packs or alone in two-legged broods.
And whosoever shall be found
That can't withstand the killing ground
Must face a million degrees of hell
And speak from inside a skeptic's shell.

The foulest chemicals are in the air,
The carbon dioxide of two hundred years.
A mere 24 hours from your tomb,
Six feet below to seal your doom.
The earth may fight to stay alive
But from pole to pole to pillar.
No force of nature can survive
The evil anthropogenic killer

Now he"a talking to a skeptic, and discussing the "Pause."  The skeptic thinks this is an indication of "Gobal Cooling," rather than warming!  It looks like Al has painted himself into a corner!  I'm gonna enjoy this!

Al:  Oh, Heaven, Dear Heaven!
If the trend is as you decry,
The Ice Age has already begun,
And we will all freeze and die.

You foresee a frozen earth,
And of humanity there is a dearth:
With frozen hearts bleeding red
Fallen, both cold and dead.

Even tho' your theories might belie
A forcing agent, a greenhouse gassing,
Would it not be worth a try
To forestall our frosty passing?

To form a blanket, with warmth abound
To defeat the impending crisis,
Before we all are found
Frozen stiff and lifeless!

Now can you not see how some
Want to save the planet we cherish;
Otherwise our home will become
A barren desert where all perish.

Al explains, We don't need catastrophic global warming to experience catastrophe.  We need only to get close.'  

'There will not be enough resources to sustain us all.  There will be oil wars, food wars, water wars. People will kill those who they perceive to stand in the way of their own survival.  Both the killers and the killed will be the wealthy and the poor, the educated and the illiterate,  the young and the old.  Alliances will be made and broken.  Chaos will ensue.

Will we survive?  Models don't tell us."_


----------



## Jarlaxle

_Ex Keraptis Cum Amore_ by Andy Miller, from  his Dungeons & Dragons module of the same name...


3 were taken, 3 I'll keep 
From the fiend who rules the north; 
Stolen far and hidden deep 
In lands where fire issues forth.

Seek ye out the melted fane 
Standing west of fiery stack; 
'Neath the god of blood and pain 
Bravely step and don't look back.

The gem is held with stony eyes 
By the beast in the burning pit; 
The wand beyond hot geysers lies 
Left where the undead sit.

The magic stone you've yet to find 
In tripled-double pyramid; 
All the fixed, and you are mine 
To serve or perish, as I bid.

I care not, mortal king or fool 
What men you deign to send; 
As slaves they'll heed my darkest rule 
Or meet their fiery end.


----------



## Capstone

*Shopping for Double Entendres* 

_*Pinching loaves and squeezing cheeses,
thumping melons, munching samples
(sniffing boxes as she pleases),
marveling at huge bananas,

torn between the morning juices─
Sunny D's or Tropicana's?
Minute Maid's the one she chooses
(least expensive with a coupon

from a book she never loses);
unrelenting on she carries,
even as her basket oozes...
(one too many broken cherries).*_​


----------



## Capstone

*To Live Within That Which Lives Within Us*

_*To know that the atoms of life here on Earth
are owed to the crucibles in former stars
that cooked up the seeds to humanity's birth
they sowed through the galaxy we claim as ours,

their elements scattered (both heavy and light)
to make up the nebulous gases that would
coalesce into matter designed to ignite
to warm the new planets in its neighborhood,

where life as we know it (though not very well)
took hold and evolved into creatures like us,
who ponder the nature of 'heaven' and 'hell',
experiencing both on this segmented crust,

is knowing the Cosmos in which we reside
resides within all those along for the ride.*_​


----------



## Capstone

*The Obligatory Get-togethers

Where teasers please and pleasers often tease,
with takers gifting, givers on the take,
and friends and family howl like enemies,
our Christmas get-togethers take the cake;

until, to start the New Year with a BANG,
we swiftly turn from presents to the booze,
with cries of joy and songs of 'auld' and 'lang',
as snow accumulates beneath our shoes;

then shortly past that winter-stormy blast,
we get together for St. Paddy's Day's
festivities (into the night they last,
as we all drift into a drunken haze);

then Summer's Garden Party's music rings,
like hairy buffalo it packs a punch,
amid percussion, woodwinds, horns, and strings,
and meals prepared (no need to pack a lunch);

then in the fall our laughter can be heard
in lessons taught among the tricks and treats
(beneath the stars our costumes look absurd,
as Nosferatu's family bites their sweets);

then Turkey Day's the final gig before
we're back to where we started for some more...*​


----------



## Barbasiewiczfan

Soda pop, is so delicious, so to speak so des ney ?


----------



## Asclepias

Voice of Survival


Voice in my head,,,I remember it said to live by these new tenets

“No matter where you turn for sho you gonna be knee deep in it.”

“Dont get played, the IQ test is invented by  those that subscribed to eugenics”

“Gotta navigate with a clear eye dog cause you know they gonna spin it”


“Keep your morals unquestionable and your character impeccable”

“Up all your peoples cause in truth  they are highly susceptible”.

“Make sho the stay skeptical. sometimes the game is barely perceptible”

“In time they will find that the real truth can be profound and still equitable”


The residue of the gold in my soul more valuable than Ft. Worth

i know in my blood flows the true rhythm and beats of mother earth

I now know that my peoples were the basis of Maats chosen first

Pineal gland pumpin the juice that incited the explosion of intellects birth


Time is startin over again after being stopped,  i was stunned.

We was here when it started,  gonna be here when its done

Invented by gods of the sun, studied the equinoxes for fun

We gots to keep pushin the pace, make sho the battle is won.​


----------



## Capstone

*Our blood has sworn an oath our wills can't break;
our veins are tributaries to the snake,
whose seed preceded Adam's within Eve
to spawn the Twins of Samael's mistake.

Or so the legends lead us to believe
(the propaganda Seth's descendents weave
into their false religious tapestry
which offers to our bloodline no reprieve).

Yet hidden from their fervent bigotry,
the long-held Secret 'true identity'
that's symbolized by two balls and a cane
enables us to trace our family tree...

back far enough to fully ascertain
our Patriarch was NOT the son of Cain.*​


----------



## midcan5

When I was a boy someone gave us a model 'artillery transport,' it was my first model and I thought I'll never be able to do this as you needed glue etc. We were dirt poor, but it was a real positive for today I can fix anything. Odd how sometimes a poem can bring back a forgotten memory. 

'Raising the Titanic'

"I spent the winter my father died down in the basement,
under the calm surface of the floorboards, hundreds

of little plastic parts spread out like debris
on the table. And for months while the snow fell

and my father sat in the big chair by the Philco, dying,
I worked my way up deck by deck, story by story,

from steerage to first class, until at last it was done,
stacks, deck chairs, all the delicate rigging.

And there it loomed, a blazing city of the dead.
Then painted the gaping hole at the waterline

and placed my father at the railings, my mother
in a lifeboat pulling away from the wreckage."

Robert Hedin


----------



## protectionist

Asclepias said:


> Voice of Survival
> 
> 
> Voice in my head,,,I remember it said to live by these new tenets
> 
> “No matter where you turn for sho you gonna be knee deep in it.”
> 
> “Dont get played, the IQ test is invented by  those that subscribed to eugenics”
> 
> “Gotta navigate with a clear eye dog cause you know they gonna spin it”
> 
> 
> “Keep your morals unquestionable and your character impeccable”
> 
> “Up all your peoples cause in truth  they are highly susceptible”.
> 
> “Make sho the stay skeptical. sometimes the game is barely perceptible”
> 
> “In time they will find that the real truth can be profound and still equitable”
> 
> 
> The residue of the gold in my soul more valuable than Ft. Worth
> 
> i know in my blood flows the true rhythm and beats of mother earth
> 
> I now know that my peoples were the basis of Maats chosen first
> 
> Pineal gland pumpin the juice that incited the explosion of intellects birth
> 
> 
> Time is startin over again after being stopped,  i was stunned.
> 
> We was here when it started,  gonna be here when its done
> 
> Invented by gods of the sun, studied the equinoxes for fun
> 
> We gots to keep pushin the pace, make sho the battle is won.​


The gold in YOUR soul is "fool's gold"  (AKA racism)


----------



## Capstone

*Build-a-Burger
*
_*No buns would satisfy the Wonder Bred;
pink dough would be the only way to go.
No ketchup would approach the shade of red
so easily extracted from "the po'".

No lettuce leaf would muster up the green
that's printed out of thin and poisoned air;
no mayo'd spread the in-ter-est they glean
from human suffering and mass despair.

No beef would get those snakes to open wide
their non-existent arms to set us free.
No burger could be built by bona fide
transmitters of their alien disease.*_​


----------



## Capstone

*Channel Surfing*

_*Tighty-whitey FTL's,
unrighteous, holey crotch;
a bowl of Chester Cheetah's balls,
and not a thing to watch.

A thousand-thirteen channels and
a massive plasma screen
won't take me to the promised land
of things I haven't seen.

No 'mysteries' for me to solve
or give the college try;
no 'dramadies' I can involve
to help me laugh or cry.

The magic wand is yet to bring
such comfort to my soul,
and yet my cheesy fingers cling
to that remote control.*_​


----------



## chao$

Capstone
Good stuff, I like your style. Somewhere in Gaza is freaking rad.


----------



## chao$

This is for the strong and independent women I was lucky enough to spend some time with.

matriarch
she isn't a possession
not submissive to any man
a middle aged mother
with an onslaught of menopause
her mood swings range from
rational to crazy, receptive to rage
never know what to expect
with the chromosome xx
she has a dozen male disciples
who jump at her every whim
they protect her from reality
never letting her guard down
when the gods are on the prowl
after all, she has her image to maintain
she thinks romance is for schoolgirls
that only leads to sorrow and pain
though she kept her eye on the alpha
with whom she wants to sustain
his blue eyes spoke to her
as they met for just a glance
she let him in her living room
for 20 questions and truth or dare
they drank until the birds chirped
then she took him by the hand
and led him to her bedroom
where no mortal has gone before
she smells like the ocean
and tastes like krispy kreme
her love is a regenerative cycle
with a beginning and an end
they hugged as they parted
she will always be a friend

~Chaos


----------



## chao$

mirage
the desert is a lonely place
seldom she will be kind
an illusion can surely pacify
and ease my tortured mind
i hear a voice it tells me run
this is where my trouble starts
the effects of too much sun
i try my best to concentrate
passing through this dusty haze
nothing here to fascinate
except a noxious malaise
my blood is hot my skin is scorched
i'm feeling succubus on my chest
it has to be the substance abuse
that would be my guess
the desert is an eerie sight
a spectacle as a montage
i hear your voice and see your face
but it's only a mirage

~Chaos


----------



## chao$

AngelsNDemons

I did a search for short stories but came up blank. I was going to start a new thread here in Writing but I want my frenemies to be able to flame me. Any suggestions?


----------



## April

chao$ said:


> AngelsNDemons
> 
> I did a search for short stories but came up blank. I was going to start a new thread here in Writing but I want my frenemies to be able to flame me. Any suggestions?


Well, that depends...if you want your 'frienemies' to flame you, then please begin it in the FZ.


----------



## chao$

AngelsNDemons said:


> chao$ said:
> 
> 
> 
> AngelsNDemons
> 
> I did a search for short stories but came up blank. I was going to start a new thread here in Writing but I want my frenemies to be able to flame me. Any suggestions?
> 
> 
> 
> Well, that depends...if you want your 'frienemies' to flame you, then please begin it in the FZ.
Click to expand...

 
Thanks, I'll start a Short Story thread here in Writing. The problem is that most of the people I know never leave the FZ.


----------



## April

chao$ said:


> AngelsNDemons said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> chao$ said:
> 
> 
> 
> AngelsNDemons
> 
> I did a search for short stories but came up blank. I was going to start a new thread here in Writing but I want my frenemies to be able to flame me. Any suggestions?
> 
> 
> 
> Well, that depends...if you want your 'frienemies' to flame you, then please begin it in the FZ.
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> Thanks, I'll start a Short Story thread here in Writing. The problem is that most of the people I know never leave the FZ.
Click to expand...

If you want them to see your story thread, @ them.


----------



## chao$

Angels, I guess I have to risk being here alone rather than spend 24/7 in the FZ. The FZ gets a little old when it's being done 7 days a week. Not complaining but I want to get to know more about USMB.

Thanks for the feedback.


----------



## April

chao$ 

I should also add, that if you want your 'frienemies' to flame you as you stated, they (and you) need to take it to the flame zone. 

Do not throw the flames in here.


----------



## April

chao$ said:


> Angels, I guess I have to risk being here alone rather than spend 24/7 in the FZ. The FZ gets a little old when it's being done 7 days a week. Not complaining but I want to get to know more about USMB.
> 
> Thanks for the feedback.


No problem.


----------



## chao$

AngelsNDemons said:


> chao$
> 
> I should also add, that if you want your 'frienemies' to flame you as you stated, they (and you) need to take it to the flame zone.
> 
> Do not throw the flames in here.


 
I'm a mellow dude. Most of my flames are intentional and done in good clean fun. I have no problem finding the FZ when I need to.


----------



## chao$

I wrote a lot of stuff in my life but this probably has the most meaning.​ 
chaos
to say i have no order is troublesome and untrue
the cosmos are systematic but not easy to construe
a dark shapeless void mating with the goddess night
our offspring in perfect harmony with the greek contrite
an early death comes to those whose science is at odds
disturbing the tranquil conjecture of these capricious gods

to say i am not disciplined makes you either naive or insane
you even blame a butterfly when clouds do not produce rain
forced rhythm is quite obvious in nature's synchronic behavior
this does not mean the hundredth monkey brings a new savior
the apocalypse taught by christian and islamic fundamentalist
had a waxing deliverance in analysis of heathen mythologist

to say i am of young intelligent design is absolutely perverse
nonfiction books provide another view of this old universe
start with something postmodern as in late twentieth century
then work your way back to the classical and rudimentary
hundreds of years before those ancient hebrew scribes
sumerian clay tablets were used by primitive tribes​ 
~Chaos​


----------



## Capstone

*The Rent Curtain*

The voice of one among 'the angry' calls
to those who listen with discerning ears:
_This anger in our hearts, these bitter tears
in flight where righteous indignation falls,

has found its proper place above the fray
of strings connected to those empty suits
adept at manufacturing disputes
(inept in almost every other way).

That place is not within the courts of Kings,
nor in the Houses of the 'ruling class';
it lies where candles flicker off the brass
behind the Wizard's curtain rods and rings._

_We've gotta find the nerve, the heart, the brain,
to END that false magician's hidden reign._​


----------



## chao$

You want to talk about your poems, Capstone, or keep doing drive-bys?


----------



## Capstone

chao$ said:


> You want to talk about your poems, Capstone, or keep doing drive-bys?



No offense intended, but I'm wary of noobs these days.


----------



## chao$

Capstone said:


> chao$ said:
> 
> 
> 
> You want to talk about your poems, Capstone, or keep doing drive-bys?
> 
> 
> 
> 
> No offense intended, but I'm wary of noobs these days.
Click to expand...

 
It's obvious that neither of us is new to writing.


----------



## Capstone

*Gods of Oz*

The politician claims to be
whatever gets the votes;
the banker inexplicably
puts faith in worthless notes;

the lobbyist will kneel and pray
to nothing but his cause;
their bosses, as the strawmen say,
are from the Land of Oz.

What diff'rence does it really make
whose 'gods' they claim to serve,
when thieves behind the curtains take
possession of their nerve...

and in the silent shadows reign
above the Laws of Man,
for whom the quest to find a brain
still lacks a master plan?

And though the hidden Wizard's rule's
been wrongful from the start,
the yellow brick still shines and fools
the tin man's missing heart.​


----------



## Capstone

*The Song of Life*

The Song of Life surrounds and serenades,
evolving over scores and signatures
of keys and tempos kept in integers
somewhere between the spaces life pervades.
As order over chaos promenades
in music as in art and literature,
some gifted to be more than titular
composers, each to their own palisades:

the ocean belts her chorus to the skies,
whose winds whip back and forth in harmony;
there land and sea and air jointly decree
the orchestrated habitats arise,
where lover sings to lover earnestly,
and mothers, to their babies, lullabies.​


----------



## chao$

moral numbness
tribal behavior slips the grip of reason
resulting in lawyers guns and money
comatose to the cost of perpetual war
denying your blood-drenched hands
we have enough of the facts obama
flesh and bone turn to dust
in god we trust

cowboy diplomacy commended
turn a blind eye to drone atrocities
dominate the planet through fear
detached and irreverent to autonomy
gated communities thrive
as the world economy takes a dive
moral numbness

coulda shoulda woulda
all the oughts the idle meant to do
following primal dichotomy
a distinction between action
and an omission to act
moral conscience or soul
don't taze me bro

collective mindset
manufactured consent
social convention replaces morality
utilitarian choices are made
excommunicate
unjust sanctions
the white list

undesirable members
ousted from this collaboration
the savage and the splendid
if it is really all about the children
then put down your mouse
and march in the streets
that are filled with militarized police
~Chaos


----------



## Mr. H.

chao$ said:


> I wrote a lot of stuff in my life but this probably has the most meaning.​
> chaos
> to say i have no order is troublesome and untrue
> the cosmos are systematic but not easy to construe
> a dark shapeless void mating with the goddess night
> our offspring in perfect harmony with the greek contrite
> an early death comes to those whose science is at odds
> disturbing the tranquil conjecture of these capricious gods
> 
> to say i am not disciplined makes you either naive or insane
> you even blame a butterfly when clouds do not produce rain
> forced rhythm is quite obvious in nature's synchronic behavior
> this does not mean the hundredth monkey brings a new savior
> the apocalypse taught by christian and islamic fundamentalist
> had a waxing deliverance in analysis of heathen mythologist
> 
> to say i am of young intelligent design is absolutely perverse
> nonfiction books provide another view of this old universe
> start with something postmodern as in late twentieth century
> then work your way back to the classical and rudimentary
> hundreds of years before those ancient hebrew scribes
> sumerian clay tablets were used by primitive tribes​
> ~Chaos​


You might want to add a copyright notice to these. The right songwriter could turn this one into a force of nature.


----------



## chao$

Mr. H. said:


> ​You might want to add a copyright notice to these. The right songwriter could turn this one into a force of nature.


 
The original version has a copyright but I did a little refining in '94 when I tried to make it spherical.


----------



## Capstone

*Bottom Dollar*

The only kind of banking worth a damn
involves the banks that are riparian,
where George and Benjamin and Abraham
could fish as revenants of paper men...

and reminisce together on the shore
away from troubled times they fought to end,
instead to have their faces evermore
disgraced on little notes to save and spend...

and keep the unwashed masses well in check,
to free the wealthy few to rusticate
at distances prescribed to save their necks,
when fifty bucks won't buy an ounce of bait.​


----------



## Capstone

*Insomniacal Horology*

I watch the movement's smooth hypnotic sweep
across the dial's outlined indices.
Another minute passes without sleep.

Too saddened (or too scared?) to count the sheep
misled by costumed wolven enemies,
I watch the movement's smooth hypnotic sweep

and dream awake of "jewels" designed to keep
the second hand concurrent with the ease
another minute passes without sleep.

The automatic diver plunges deep
into my psyche's tossed and tired seas.
I watch the movement's smooth hypnotic sweep.

Its luminescent markers almost leap
right off the timepiece as it yet decrees
another minute passes without sleep.

As daybreak through the curtain starts to creep
to mock me in the time of my disease,
I watch the movement's smooth hypnotic sweep;
another minute passes without sleep.​


----------



## chao$

I wrote a lot about Cyber Love but this is one of my favorites because of the rhyme pattern and the fact that Zada was so much fun. When I first got here I think I recognized a few posters from 10 or 15 years ago on the Thoughts and Poems site. It would be rad to hook up with the old gang.

red rose
she came to thoughts and poems the day tulips was exposed
the leader of the misfits at that romper room schoolgirl joes
five weeks straight we laughed cuz the liars club got caught
sizing up all of us while looking down her stringent nose
new vagina was here to stay, would it be substance or form
her carry on baggage and bitterness quickly became old
yet i could not stop from reading the notorious bellas rose

she even tried to control me and the adventures i composed
things got so crazy that our fights almost came to blows
the board wanted me arrested but the boob stood and fought
i continued to write about reality despite of all my foes
no matter how ugly things got we both road out the storm
once a stubborn woman is made they always break the mold
there is nothing i can say or do that will soothe the wild rose

she is big time into girl talk and my privacy was disclosed
whatever you tell an internet chick onto the board it goes
the price men pay for cyber love and lessons we are taught
will play no games or hold a grudge no matter what she shows
her heart towards me is so icy cold that i could never warm
if only she would quit her yapping and do what she is told
i moved on life is good but still i long for wayward zada rose

~Chaos


----------



## Capstone

*Never Forget*

Never mind the physics (molten steel
that ran like tears down stories never told)
of demolitions secretly controlled
and falsely waving flags to seal the deal.

Never mind the motives (black and gold)
of greedy hearts of war too sick to feel
the pain of innocents who'll never heal,
of those corrupt enough to be so bold.

Never mind the casualties, reveal
the truth that nine-eleven was foretold,
"_A new Pearl Harbor _" waiting to unfold
the flag of so-called "patriotic" zeal.

Just never grow so cold as to forget
the lies that fostered national regret.​


----------



## Capstone

*A 9/11 Invocation*

My God, look down upon this land
where truth has long since turned to dust
amidst the rubble of our trust
and _neither_ can no longer stand.

Remove the concrete from our eyes
and wash away the microspheres
with waves of molten iron tears
that beautifully disclose the lies.

Bring Justice down to bear on those
who planned to frame the innocent
and did so with that false event
I humbly pray You now expose.

Amen.​


----------



## theliq

A simple Love Poem to my Daughter Tenika when aged three.

Thy tiny footsteps on the sands of a remote and lonely shore
The twinkling of thine infant hands,the windswept golden hair you wore
That mingled look of love and glee
When we returned our gaze to thee


----------



## Capstone

*Reincarnation*

A stranger, true, familiar none the less,
imagine, had we met before our vows,
how powerful the flames we could arouse
within each other's trembling caress.
But HAVE we met and loved somewhere before?
Some distant place in time's eternal past?
Might we have shared a moment meant to last,
entwined in ecstasy, forevermore?
I know these thoughts should not be entertained,
but neither should the thought of missing out
on what this thing called "love" is all about -
transcending space and time to be attained.
Please, search your soul, My Past and Present Love,
before you mock these things I've written of.​


----------



## Capstone

*Sadly, "I Analyze".*

The stars foretold my destiny
(the sixth sign of the Zodiac)
to knowingly forever be
the butt of these wiseacre cracks:

"efficient little 'worker bee',
self-centered, repressed, (over) clean,
pedantic, _ruled_   by Mercury,
'perfectionist'...and sometimes mean.".

How could that shit not get to me,
when most of it I can't deny,
nor can I change the way I see,
no matter how hard I may try?!

Look, even in my poetry,
I'm prone to (over) analyze;
but, please, don't ever think of me
that I _enjoy_   these Virgo eyes.​


----------



## Abishai100

*The Affective Earth*

"An autumn leaf falls,
to the ground occupied by children.

An old man walks by and begins giggling,
and the old man is some kind of a witch or warlock.

'Knock, knock!' says Father Earth,
'Why are these leaves too cold or too warm?'
Some child states, 'We messed up ecology.'

Then the summer lemonade stand opens,
and all the kids are wearing sunglasses."





*Gaia Hypothesis*


----------



## Capstone

*Invisible*

Can you see your own reflection
in the vanished disaffection
that you're silently abhorring
with this deafening rejection?
Did you feel the strange adoring
was a genuine outpouring,
or'd you see through those advances
to the jester you're ignoring?
Under any circumstances,
without taking any chances,
you may find the answer lying
in the shade of lost romances...

in between what you're denying
and a distant love undying.​


----------



## theliq

Capstone said:


> *Invisible*
> 
> Can you see your own reflection
> in the vanished disaffection
> that you're silently abhorring
> with this deafening rejection?
> Did you feel the strange adoring
> was a genuine outpouring,
> or'd you see through those advances
> to the jester you're ignoring?
> Under any circumstances,
> without taking any chances,
> you may find the answer lying
> in the shade of lost romances...
> 
> in between what you're denying
> and a distant love undying.​


                                                     Life

Live for yourself and you will live in vain
Live for others and you will live again

theliq


----------



## Capstone

theliq said:


> Capstone said:
> 
> 
> 
> *Invisible*
> 
> Can you see your own reflection
> in the vanished disaffection
> that you're silently abhorring
> with this deafening rejection?
> Did you feel the strange adoring
> was a genuine outpouring,
> or'd you see through those advances
> to the jester you're ignoring?
> Under any circumstances,
> without taking any chances,
> you may find the answer lying
> in the shade of lost romances...
> 
> in between what you're denying
> and a distant love undying.​
> 
> 
> 
> Life
> 
> Live for yourself and you will live in vain
> Live for others and you will live again
> 
> theliq
Click to expand...

So true. Apart from any notion of reincarnation, selflessness in action is said to be the key to immortality. In a very real sense, it is what 'lives on' in the hearts and minds of "others" long after one's body has returned to ashes and dust.


----------



## IlarMeilyr

Capstone said:


> *Invisible*
> 
> Can you see your own reflection
> in the vanished disaffection
> that you're silently abhorring
> with this deafening rejection?
> Did you feel the strange adoring
> was a genuine outpouring,
> or'd you see through those advances
> to the jester you're ignoring?
> Under any circumstances,
> without taking any chances,
> you may find the answer lying
> in the shade of lost romances...
> 
> in between what you're denying
> and a distant love undying.​



Don't know what any of that means.

But I like it.

Or do I?


----------



## Capstone

IlarMeilyr said:


> Don't know what any of that means.
> 
> But I like it.
> 
> Or do I?


It was intended to evoke introspection on the human tendency to _look the other way_  when faced with certain uncomfortable realities, especially those with the potential to turn our _present_ lives upside down. Beyond the intended meaning, on a more deeply personal level, I can tell you that a great deal of genuine emotion and spiritual pain went into that piece.

But ascribe to it whatever meaning you'd like. Or, if you'd rather, let it mean nothing to you at all. That's the beauty of poetry. It doesn't have to be a _one size fits all_  proposition in terms of meaning.

Thanks for reading and commenting.

I think.


----------



## Capstone

What is this strange phenomenon of Light
reflected through the cold hexag'nal plates
of icy crystals caught in captive states
above the sunrise, vanquishing the night?

These pillars frozen in the atmosphere,
to illustrate the power of their climb,
destroy the bound'ries of the paradigm
from which they've risen proudly without fear.

I've seen those shining towers once before;
they rose into the skies of days long past
and consummated feelings meant to last,
defying space and time, forevermore.

Too beautiful to selfishly desire
to have and hold again 'til rebirth part.
I'll whisk away that longing from my heart
with glowing dreams of distant ice and fire.​


----------



## Capstone

For some background on the imagery used above, click here.

And with that, I'll move on to another muse. Thanks, to Pills, for being such a good sport.


----------



## Capstone

*The Dream*

Aesopian the fable and interpretive the dance,
we spin the yarn together on a wave of circumstance,
denying what we can't accept, no matter that the truth
defines the age-old held delusions taught us in our youth.
We only grasp the 'morals' of those fictions we were told
as bedtime stories by our Mothers pushing "streets of gold"
long after life and 'education' shatter all our dreams
and leave us in a pool of tears to drown-out all the screams.
The tortoise never beats the hare, despite the famous tale,
because they're both a part of One, thus neither can prevail.
The same holds true of "you" and "I" within the grander scheme.
"We" never really live nor die; we're figments of The Dream.​


----------



## Dhara

*At The Fishhouses - **by Elizabeth Bishop*

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown. 

Elizabeth Bishop


----------



## IsaacNewton

_Here dead we lie 
Because we did not choose 
To live and shame the land 
From which we sprung. 

Life, to be sure,  
Is nothing much to lose, 
But young men think it is, 
And we were young._

A E Housman


----------



## Dhara

*December 31st*
BY RICHARD HOFFMAN

All my undone actions wander
naked across the calendar,

a band of skinny hunter-gatherers,
blown snow scattered here and there,

stumbling toward a future
folded in the New Year I secure

with a pushpin: January’s picture
a painting from the 17th century,

a still life: Skull and mirror,
spilled coin purse and a flower


----------



## Dhara

*She Dreamed of Cows*
by Norah Pollard

I knew a woman who washed her hair and bathed
her body and put on the nightgown she'd worn
as a bride and lay down with a .38 in her right hand.
Before she did the thing, she went over her life.
She started at the beginning and recalled everything—
all the shame, sorrow, regret and loss.
This took her a long time into the night 
and a long time crying out in rage and grief and disbelief—
until sleep captured her and bore her down.

She dreamed of a green pasture and a green oak tree.
She dreamed of cows. She dreamed she stood 
under the tree and the brown and white cows 
came slowly up from the pond and stood near her. 
Some butted her gently and they licked her bare arms 
with their great coarse drooling tongues. Their eyes, wet as 
shining water, regarded her. They came closer and began to 
press their warm flanks against her, and as they pressed
an almost unendurable joy came over her and 
lifted her like a warm wind and she could fly.
She flew over the tree and she flew over the field and 
she flew with the cows.

When the woman woke, she rose and went to the mirror.
She looked a long time at her living self.
Then she went down to the kitchen which the sun had made all
yellow, and she made tea. She drank it at the table, slowly,
all the while touching her arms where the cows had licked.


----------



## Dhara

LITTLE DOG’S RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT

By Mary Oliver

He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws
 in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

“Tell me again.”

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.


----------



## Dhara

“Fire” by Judy Brown.




What makes a fire burn
is the space between the logs,
a breathing space.
Too much of a good thing,
too many logs
packed in too tight
can douse the flames
almost as surely
as a pail of water would.
So building fires
requires attention
to the spaces in between,
as much as to the wood….


----------



## Dhara

*THE LITTLE DUCK*
_By Donald C. Babcock_

Now we are ready to look at something pretty special.
It is a duck riding the ocean a hundred feet beyond the surf.
No, it isn’t a gull.
A gull always has a raucous touch about him.
This is some sort of duck, and he cuddles in the swells.
He isn’t cold, and he is thinking things over.
There is a big heaving in the Atlantic,
And he is part of it.
He looks a bit like a mandarin, or the Lord Buddha meditating under the Bo tree.
But he has hardly enough above the eyes to be a philosopher.
He has poise, however, which is what philosophers must have.
He can rest while the Atlantic heaves, because he rests in the Atlantic.
Probably he doesn’t know how large the ocean is.
And neither do you.
But he realizes it.
And what does he do, I ask you. He sits down in it.
He reposes in the immediate as if it were infinity—which it is.
That is religion, and the duck has it.
He has made himself a part of the boundless, by easing himself into it just where it
touches him.


----------



## midcan5

Haven't been back here in a while, hope all are well. Make sure you support poetry, buy a book. This is my 520 post in this thread - even have a few of my own. 

'Hate Poem'

"I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped 
      in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
      from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
      hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
      symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
      under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
      practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
      to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
      individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
      of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine."

Julie Sheehan


Who says Gov doesn't do some good things.  Hate Poem, by Julie Sheehan - Poem 127 | Poetry 180: A Poem a Day for American High Schools, Hosted by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate, 2001-2003 (Poetry and Literature, Library of Congress)


----------



## Dhara

When the shoe strings break
On both your shoes
And you're in a hurry-
That's the blues.

When you go to buy a candy bar
And you've lost the dime you had-
Slipped through a hole in your pocket somewhere-
That's the blues, too, and bad!




Langston Hughes


----------



## Dhara

*This Is Just To Say*

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

*William Carlos Williams*


----------



## Dhara

Famous

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,   
which knew it would inherit the earth   
before anybody said so.   

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds   
watching him from the birdhouse.   

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.   

The idea you carry close to your bosom   
is famous to your bosom.   

The boot is famous to the earth,   
more famous than the dress shoe,   
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it   
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.   

I want to be famous to shuffling men   
who smile while crossing streets,   
sticky children in grocery lines,   
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,   
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,   
but because it never forgot what it could do.


----------



## Dhara

a song in the front yard

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS


I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.   
A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now   
And maybe down the alley,
To where the charity children play.   
I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine
How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.   
My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae   
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace   
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.


----------



## Dhara

Doors opening, closing on us

By Marge Piercy

Maybe there is more of the magical
in the idea of a door than in the door
itself. It’s always a matter of going
through into something else. But

while some doors lead to cathedrals
arching up overhead like stormy skies
and some to sumptuous auditoriums
and some to caves of nuclear monsters

most just yield a bathroom or a closet.
Still, the image of a door is liminal,
passing from one place into another
one state to the other, boundaries

and promises and threats. Inside
to outside, light into dark, dark into
light, cold into warm, known into
strange, safe into terror, wind

into stillness, silence into noise
or music. We slice our life into
segments by rituals, each a door
to a presumed new phase. We see

ourselves progressing from room
to room perhaps dragging our toys
along until the last door opens
and we pass at last into was.


----------



## Dhara

Poetry is a combat sport

You have to look no further 
than a recent news story from Russia
 where a former teacher stabbed an acquaintance to death
 in a dispute about literary genres. 
The victim insisted that "the only real literature is prose," 
while the murderer favored poetry. 

And just last week, poets protested 
outside London's Pentonville prison 
against the UK ban 
on 
sending books
 to prisoners.


----------



## Impenitent

"Who Do You Blame?"

32 dead in Virginia is his record
Now forgotten and ignored
He killed 26 at Sandy Hook
Won't you please take a look
He put a bullet in a Congresswoman's brain

Honey,  now tell me who do you blame?  
Who Do You Blame?

Who Do You Blame?
Who Do You Blame?

You can talk the talk
But can you walk the walk
When the gun companies call the shots
Come on baby, connect the dots
Aren't you on to his game?

Now tell me, who do you blame?
Who Do You Blame?

Who Do You Blame?
Who Do You Blame?

He runs the NRA
And he tells you what to think and say
When he announces to his minions
These are your new opinions 
Darlin'  I know you can tell me his name

Now tell me who do you blame?
Who Do You Blame?

Who Do You Blame?
Who Do You Blame?


----------



## Impenitent

"Fear and Loathing in USMB"

Ladies and gentlemen this is Massacre number 5!

One, two, three, four, five, everybody in the car so come on let's ride... 
To the gun store around the corner. 
The boys say they want some action and ammo but I really don't wanna
Turkey-shoot like I had last week. 
I must stay deep 'cause talk is cheap. 
I like Bushmaster, Remington, Colt, and Beretta
And as I continue, you know they're getting better
So what can I do? I really beg you my Lord. 
To me shooting is just a sport. 
Anything, let it fly, it's all good let me pump it. 
Please set it up and i'll thump it

A little bit of Lanza in my life, 
A little bit of Harris by my side. 
A little bit of Klebold's all I need, 
A little bit of Seung-hui Cho is who i see 
A little bit of Whitman in the sun, 
A little bit of Loughner all night long. 
A little bit of Major Hasan here I am, 
A little bit of Holmes makes me your man! 
Massacre number five!

Jump up and down and load all your rounds . 
Shake your head to the sound,
Talk to the voices that you found
Adjust those holsters left and right 
One to the front and one to the side. 
Check your clips once and check your clips twice 
And if it looks like this you're ready 
To stand your ground all night 

A little bit of Lanza in my life, 
A little bit of Harris by my side. 
A little bit of Klebold's all I need, 
A little bit of Seung-hui Cho is who i see 
A little bit of Whitman in the sun, 
A little bit of Loughner all night long. 
A little bit of Major Hasan here I am, 
A little bit of Holmes makes me your man!

Thump it, Thump it
Massacre number five, ha, ha, ha. 

A little bit of Lanza in my life, 
A little bit of Harris by my side. 
A little bit of Klebold's all I need, 
A little bit of Seung-hui Cho is who i see 
A little bit of Whitman in the sun, 
A little bit of Loughner all night long. 
A little bit of Major Hasan here I am, 
A little bit of Holmes makes me your man!

I do all to show my love for Jodie Foster, but

A whole lot of tyranny is what I see
Ruby Ridge made a big impression on me 
You'll learn, in Waco the wrong men died
Since you can't run and you can't hide. 
You and me gonna touch the sky. 

Massacre number five!


----------



## Dhara

MORE THAN A WOMAN

Ever since I woke up today,
a song has been playing uncontrollably
in my head--a tape looping

over the spools of the brain,
a rosary in the hands of a frenetic nun,
mad fan belt of  a tune.

It must have escaped from the radio
last night on the drive home
and tunneled while I slept

from my ears to the center of my cortex.
It is a song so cloying and vapid
I won’t even bother mentioning the title,

but on it plays as if I were a turntable
covered with dancing children
and their spooky pantomimes,

as if everything I had ever learned
was slowly being replaced
by its slinky chords and the puff-balls of its lyrics.

It played while I watered the plants
and continued when I brought in the mail
and fanned out the letters on a table.

It repeated itself when I took a walk
and watched from a bridge
brown leaves floating in the channels of a current.

Late in the afternoon it seemed to fade,
but I heard it again at the restaurant
when I peered at the lobsters

lying on the bottom of an illuminated
tank which was filled to the brim 
with copious tears.

Billy Collins


----------



## Impenitent

"Deserved Rewards"

I'm off to  be a singin' cowboy in the movies
With my lariat and requisite white hat
Ropin' the bad guys and all my groupies
Guitar ever in tune and I'm never singin' flat

Impy ridin' across the silver screen
The fairest cowgirls in his arms you'll see
A troubadour buckaroo just like Roy or Gene
And you'll be smilin' when you think of me

I'll be on to my deserved rewards
Far west of the golden prairie sky
Jon, help me with these chords
Up the cloudy draw with sundown nigh

But amid the tumblin' tumbleweeds of El Paso
Ghost riders said "Impy not quite yet"
And snared me away with their lassos
Guitars will be a-strummin' don't you fret

I knew from the herd I had strayed
But I didn't know how far I'd gone wrong
How I wish in your heart I had stayed
Now i can only leave you with this song

I'll be on to my deserved rewards
Far west of the golden prairie sky
Jon, help me with these chords
Up the cloudy draw with sundown nigh




Marty Robbins "El Paso"


"Tumbling tumbleweeds"  Roy Rogers


Ghost riders in the sky Burl Ives


----------



## Dhara

ee cummings, “let it go”

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear
so comes love


----------



## Gracie

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If you are a Buddhist
I'm a master of Kung Fu.


----------



## Dhara

Anne Sexton, “Admonitions to a Special Person”

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.


----------



## Dhara

Anna who was mad, 
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection? 
Did I make you go insane? 
Did I make the sounds go sour? 
Did I tell you to climb out the window? 
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.

Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.

Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane? 
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through? 
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart? 
Did I make you go insane? 
From the grave write me, Anna! 
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write. 
Anne Sexton


----------



## Gracie

Roses are red, 
violets are blue, 
I have five fingers and 
this one's for you


----------



## Dhara

The Fury Of Hating Eyes - Poem by Anne Sexton


I would like to bury 
all the hating eyes 
under the sand somewhere off 
the North Atlantic and suffocate 
them with the awful sand 
and put all their colors to sleep 
in that soft smother. 
Take the brown eyes of my father, 
those gun shots, those mean muds. 
Bury them. 
Take the blue eyes of my mother, 
naked as the sea, 
waiting to pull you down 
where there is no air, no God. 
Bury them. 
Take the black eyes of my love, 
coal eyes like a cruel hog, 
wanting to whip you and laugh. 
Bury them. 
Take the hating eyes of martyrs, 
presidents, bus collectors, 
bank managers, soldiers. 
Bury them. 
Take my eyes, half blind 
and falling into the air. 
Bury them. 
Take your eyes. 
I come to the center, 
where a shark looks up at death 
and thinks of my heart 
and squeeze it like a doughnut. 
They'd like to take my eyes 
and poke a hatpin through 
their pupils. Not just to bury 
but to stab. As for your eyes, 
I fold up in front of them 
in a baby ball and you send 
them to the State Asylum. 
Look! Look! Both those 
mice are watching you 
from behind the kind bars. 
Anne Sexton


----------



## Gracie

Roses are red, 
shit is brown, 
shut the fuck up,
and sit the fuck down.


----------



## Dhara

Personal
BY TONY HOAGLAND

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.


----------



## Dhara

I Have News For You - 

Poem by Tony Hoagland


There are people who do not see a broken playground swing
as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don't interpret the behavior
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process.

There are people who don't walk past an empty swimming pool
and think about past pleasures unrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings

do not send their sinuous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others' emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half-inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?
There are some people, unlike me and you, 

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as
unattainable as that moon;
thus, they do not later
have to waste more time
defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you—
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies. 
Tony Hoagland


----------



## Dhara

Lie Down with a Man

In those days I thought I had to 
do everything I was afraid of,
so I lay down with a man.

It was one item on a list--
sleeping in the graveyard, under the full moon,
not looking away from the burned girl's stricken face,
strapping myself into the catapult
of some electric blue pill.

It was the seventies, a whole generation of us
was more than willing to chainsaw through
the branch that we were sitting on
to see what falling felt like--bump bump bump.

Knowing the worse about yourself
seemed like self-improvement then,
and suffering was adventure.

So I lay down with a man,
which I really don't remember
except that it was humorless.

Curtains fluttered in the breeze
from the radio's black grill. Van Morrison
filled up the room like astral aftershave.

I lay my mass of delusions
next to his mass of delusions
in the dark room where I struggled
with the old adversary, myself


--in the form, this time, of a body--
someplace between heaven and earth,
two things I was afraid of.

Tony Hoagland


----------



## Dhara

Good And Evil - Poem by Khalil Gibran

And one of the elders of the city said, "Speak to us of Good and Evil." 

And he answered: 

Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. 

For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? 

Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters. 

You are good when you are one with yourself. 

Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil. 

For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house. 

And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom. 

You are good when you strive to give of yourself. 

Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself. 

For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast. 

Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, "Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance." 

For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root. 

You are good when you are fully awake in your speech, 

Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose. 

And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue. 

You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps. 

Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping. 

Even those who limp go not backward. 

But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, deeming it kindness. 

You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good, 

You are only loitering and sluggard. 

Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles. 

In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you. 

But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest. 

And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore. 

But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, "Wherefore are you slow and halting?" 

For the truly good ask not the naked, "Where is your garment?" nor the houseless, "What has befallen your house?" 

Khalil Gibran


----------



## Dhara

On thing I admire, nay two things 
always strike me as admirable: 
The way evil characters always 
laugh with total happy abandon 

About their plots to overthrow the 
world, and the way they always
love their cats, mostly white with 
blue eyes – given the importance 

Of joyous laughter in our lives, 
people having pets living longer, 
healthy lives - this phenomenon 
is deserving of attention

I am thinking of a scheme to overthrow 
the world so I can throw back my head 
to laugh long and hard and happily, 
Hollywood has this down pat 

By making villains keep taped laughter 
in a box – preferably on a wheel-chair’s 
side – as villains are mostly sitting there, 
having lost a limb or two

They turn it on for special effect upon 
pronouncing their next evil event – luckily 
my cell-phone announces incoming messages 
with a bout of hysterical laughter

I always irritate my wife by laughing along; the 
cat I already have, an evil creature, trying to 
scratch me whenever I pass - I’m sure to 
enjoy all the advantages of evil 

Laughter; keeping an arch-villain cat as the 
basis of the evil plot that is my life! 

Evil Laughter By Robert Smith


----------



## Dhara

Peanut Butter
BY EILEEN MYLES

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know           
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you & you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. &
so I work
behind your
back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
good about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair

why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.


----------



## Dhara

From “Roll Call”:

thick and road worn,
dirt stained, jacked up 4 wheeler
truck behind us
one hand
on my mother’s shoulder

“You better watch your little black bitch”

I could smell his breath
tobacco plaque tangy
from across the front seat
and even then, I didn’t know
he was talking about me

Kirya Traber


----------



## Dhara

Tweet This You Small Minded Motherfucker

By StaceAnn Chin

Obviously
you are a rotting dick/an ass wipe
an open sore existing
among the worst tumors that plague humanity

you are an apology someone should have made
to women
centuries ago

today you remain
a very good reason abortions should be legal
and available
to every woman who finds herself
carrying the figurative fetus of your fetid misogyny

get the fuck out of my womb
you hater of your own origin
you forget you came from some woman’s ****
the pussy you so deride
provided path for you
to get here spewing such sick soliloquy

your existence
makes a good argument for capital punishment
only I hold myself
accountable to a more compassionate code of ethics
so I refrain from advocating
for the archaic quartering of you
I will also resist the urge
to imagine you shackled in sequestered servitude
kneeling at the altar of some woman’s holy ****
washing her feet with your mouth
only
I would not wish her the degradation
of your tongue on her flesh
your feet on her floors

you are the thing I will spend my entire life
trying to protect my daughter
from/the slime of your ignorance
the sweat of your hate
coward that you are
hiding behind the intangible shroud of the virtual
your keystrokes are the only ones with any power
impotent
unimportant little man
you splatter the male identity
with the putridity you exude
rotting apple/gonorrheal wound
refusing to heal/you would have us conclude
that most people with penises are like you

but for the stellar examples of men in my life
I would think you the norm
your actions would inform the love I cradle
for the small boys in my circle
earnestly learning
how to be better than the monster you are

far and away
fairytales and fiction pervade what they know of vaginas
valuing virginity over the virtue of being fair
bravado over advocating for equality
you make me wish I had a son
to personally prove your antithesis possible

Frankenstein
you frighten me
with your ability to keep breathing
your inclination to replicate
to recruit
to keep pressing the boot of your discrimination
upon the necks of generation after generation
after generation

the only thing that prevents me from raising arms
and going guerilla after you with guns
is our collective dedication
to the eradication of your kind
across all the borders of feminism
and race
and spaces held wire against the throat of equality
women resist heart and body
***** and collarbones
kitchens and bedrooms
we rebuke all you offer as fact
the act of tweeting something does not make true

you are only a narrow opinion
constructed poorly
one hundred forty characters/your cavalry
is not nearly as committed as mine
you and your cronies were contrived
to keep the best parts of us broken
these poems you and your drones continue to encourage
these litanies I continue to compose
will stand as evidence your crumbling tyranny
time will hold your actions
your utterances
as shameful

as it was with every disease before you
the strongest/most admirable parts of being human
will keep adapting/over and over
history has already shown us
what doesn’t kill us/will make our resistance stronger
however unpleasant
the uphill task of surviving you as pandemic
can only make our species more immune


----------



## Dhara




----------



## Dhara

THE FURY OF OVERSHOES

They sit in a row 
outside the kindergarten, 
black, red, brown, all 
with those brass buckles. 
Remember when you couldn't 
buckle your own 
overshoe 
or tie your own 
overshoe 
or tie your own shoe 
or cut your own meat 
and the tears 
running down like mud 
because you fell off your 
tricycle? 
Remember, big fish, 
when you couldn't swim 
and simply slipped under 
like a stone frog? 
The world wasn't 
yours. 
It belonged to 
the big people. 
Under your bed 
sat the wolf 
and he made a shadow 
when cars passed by 
at night. 
They made you give up 
your nightlight 
and your teddy 
and your thumb. 
Oh overshoes, 
don't you 
remember me, 
pushing you up and down 
in the winter snow? 
Oh thumb, 
I want a drink, 
it is dark, 
where are the big people, 
when will I get there, 
taking giant steps 
all day, 
each day 
and thinking 
nothing of it? 

Anne Sexton


----------



## Gracie

Wow. The Tweet poem is very Buddhistic.


----------



## Dhara

The Witches Life

When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.

I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire. 

Anne Sexton


----------



## Impenitent

"Some Kind of Wonderful"
(satirizing the  republican position)

He gives me whole lots of money
Enough to buy a big fine car
Color TV, Obamaphone, and cold AC
I got more than I could ask for
I don't have a second job at night
I don't have to work at all !
Cause I got a Messiah for a President
And he knows just how to treat me right

Well my Messiah, he's alright,
Well my Messiah, he's clean out-of-sight.
Don't you know that he's ... he's some kind of wonderful.
He's some kind of wonderful ... yes he is, he's
He's some kind of wonderful, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeahhh ...

When I hold those food stamps in my hands 
I know where I can trade them for some blow
Oooh, when Messiah blesses me,
I can be a good baby daddy to my ho
When he wraps his lovin' arms around me,
He knows he's got my vote by design 
Yeah, when Messiah kisses me
A thrill run up and down my spine.

My Messiah he's alright ,
My Messiah's clean...
He's clean, articulate, and bright !
Don't you know that he is ... 
He's some kind of wonderful.
He's some kind of wonderful ...
Yes he is,
He's some kind of wonderful, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeahhh ...

Now is there anybody, can prove those scandals - he's a-lyin'
Solyndra, Fast-n-Furious, Benghazi, IRS, NSA - prove he's a-lyin'
Can't you get a witness?
Can't you get a witness?
Can't you get a witness? Yeah...
Can't you get a witness? Ohhh...
Can't you get a witness? Yeah...
Can't you get a witness? Hell No!

I'm talkin', talkin' 'bout Obama Yeah.
He's  some kind of wonderful.
Talkin' 'bout Obama
He's  some kind of wonderful.
Talkin' 'bout Obama
He's some kind of wonderful.
I'm talkin' 'bout Obama, Obama, Obama
He's  some kind of wonderful.
I'm talkin' about Obama, Obama, Obama
He's  some kind of wonderful.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, ... Obama, Obama
He's some kind of wonderful.
Talkin' 'bout Obama, Obama, Obama
He's some kind of wonderful.
I'm talkin' 'bout Obama, Obama, Obama
He's some kind of wonderful.
(repeat to fade)


----------



## Dhara

It makes me really happy to see this thread so active.  I started it with a friend in 2008.  So many, many poems.  All kinds of poems.

Here's another....

Mercury in Retrograde
BY SHERYL LUNA
The day ended badly with a broken ankle,
a jinxed printer, and a dead car. The dry yellow grass
against the sunset saved me. Roosters

pranced across a lawn of shit, proudly plumed
in black feathers, bobbing before the gray goats.
It was the first day I saw god in the quiet,

and found a mustard seed was very small.
There I had been for years cursing “why?”
and all the gold in the sun fell upon me.

There was a white mare in the midst
of brown smog, majestic in the refinery
clouds. Even the radio wouldn’t work!

My mother limps and her hair falls out.
The faithful drive white Chevy trucks
or yellow Camrys, and I’m here golden

on the smoking shock-less bus.
I lost language in this want, each poem
dust, Spanish fluttered

as music across the desert, even weeds
tumbled unloved. The police sirens seared
the coming night, dogs howled helplessly
sad.

Lo I walk the valley of death, love
lingers in my hard eyes. Mañana never
comes just right. I mend myself in the folds

of paper songs, ring my paper bells
for empty success. Quiero Nada,
if I sing long enough, I’ll grow dreamlike
and find a flock of pigeons, white under
wings lifting awkward bodies like doves
across the silky blue-white sky.


----------



## Dhara

Keep reading.  It's always a treat to see how creative expression can heal  the heart.


----------



## Dhara

Midcan-- We need ya!  Keep going Penitent.  

"Bones" by Sheryl Luna

Once, as a girl, she saw a woman shrink 
inside herself, gray-headed and dwarf-sized, 
as if her small spine collapsed. Age 
and collapse were something unreal, like war 
and loss. That image of an old woman sitting 
in a café booth, folding in on herself, was forgotten 
until her own bones thinned and hollowed, 
music-less, un-fluted, empty.

She says she takes shark cartilage before she sleeps, 
a tablet or two to secure flexibility and forget
that pain is living and living is pain.

And time moves like a slow rusty train 
through the desert of weeds, and the low-riders 
bounce like teenagers young and forgiving 
in her night’s dream. She was sleek in a red dress

with red pumps, the boys with slick hair, tight jeans. 
She tells me about 100-pound canisters of lard 
and beans, how she could dance despite her fifth 
child, despite being beaten and left
in the desert for days, how she saw an angel 
or saint glimmer blonde above her, how she rose 
and walked into the red horizon despite 
her husband’s sin.

I’m thinking how the women 
in my family move with a sway, with a hip 
ache, and how they each have a disk 
slip. The sky seems sullen, gray, and few birds 
whisk. It’s how the muse is lost 
in an endless stream of commercials, how people 
forget to speak to one another as our ending skulks 
arthritically into our bones, and the dust 
of a thousand years blows across the plain, 
and the last few hares sprint across a bloodied 
highway. Here in the desert southwest, loss 
is living and it comes with chapped lips,
long bumpy bus rides and the smog of some man’s 
factory trap. And there are women everywhere 
who have half-lost their souls 
in sewing needles and vacuum-cleaner parts.
In maquiladoras there grows a slow poem, 
a poem that may only live a moment sharply 
in an old woman’s soul, like a sudden broken hip.

And yet, each October, this old woman rises 
like the blue sky, rises like the fat turkey vultures 
that make death something beautiful, something 
towards flight, something that circles in a group 
and knows it is best not to approach death alone.

Each October she dances, the mariachis yelp 
and holler her back to that strange, flexible youth, 
back to smoky rancheras and cumbias—songs 
rolling in the shadows along the bare Mexican hills. 
She tells me, “It’s in the music, where I’ll always 
live.” And somehow, I see her jaw relax, 
her eyes squint to a slow blindness 
as if she can see something I can’t.

And I remember that it is good to be born of dust, 
born amid cardboard shanties of sweet gloom. 
I remember that the bare cemetery stones 
in El Paso and Juárez hold the music, and each spring 
when the winds carry the dust of loss there is a howl, 
a surge of something unbelievable, like death, 
like the collapse of language, like the frail bones 
of Mexican grandmothers singing.


----------



## Dhara

Find the poem that suits you.  I love them all.


----------



## Dhara

Here's a cute one:


----------



## Dhara

People judge us on our looks or rumors they heard
Same with books.

You do not know what it is about, 
Until you read it. The cover is just cover art.
That does not mean it is based on the book.
It is to make the book look pretty.

You do not know a person, 
Until you actually talk to them.

You can never realize is a person is good or bad, 
Until you get to know them. 

Most people bully others, because: 
They just love to feel satisfy 
Of seeing the other cry or feel pain.

What if the person being bullied was you? 
You would not like at all, 
Would you? 

Coner Girard


----------



## Dhara

For My Love, M

My children are sleeping, wife's
on the phone,
It's warm in the kitchen,
It's quiet and warm.

I'm savoring all the goodness,
I've ever to known
My heart is so full
I'm no longer alone.

Once I was fragile,
Easily broke,
Words could unravel me, 
Ugly, mean folk.

Now I just pull back
Relax
Let them be.
Peace in my heart
Wishes for thee.

Dhara


----------



## Dhara

Why I Am Obsessed with Horses

Michael McGriff

Because when I saw a horse
cross a river
separating two countries
and named it Ghost Rubble
it said No my name is 1935
because it also spoke in tongues
as it crossed the black tongue
of the water
because it still arcs through me
with its zodiac
of shrapnel-bright stars
because the river’s teeth
still gnash
against its flank
and its eyes
still have the luster
of black china
glowing black-bright
in the glass hutch of memory
because a horse’s skull
is a ditch of wildflowers
because a horse’s skull
is a box of numbers
a slop bucket
resting upside down
under barn eaves
wind in an empty stockyard
orange clay that breaks
shovel handles with a shrug
because a horse is the underwriter
of all motion
because a horse is the first
and last item
on every list
of every season
and because that night the air
smelled green as copper
and lath dust
and that night as it scrambled
up the bank and stamped past me
it said Unlike you
I am the source of all echoes.


----------



## Dhara

I am the wall at the lip of the water
I am the rock that refused to be battered
I am the dyke in the matter, the other
I am the wall with the womanly swagger
And I have been many a wicked grandmother
and I shall be many a wicked daughter.

Judy Grahn


----------



## Dhara

Another great one by Judy Grahn


Here, the sea strains to climb up on the land
and the wind blows dust in a single direction.
The trees bend themselves all one way
and volcanoes explode often
Why is this? Many years back
a woman of strong purpose
passed through this section
and everything else tried to follow


----------



## Impenitent

Dhara said:


> It makes me really happy to see this thread so active.  I started it with a friend in 2008.  So many, many poems.  All kinds of poems.
> 
> Here's another....
> 
> Mercury in Retrograde
> BY SHERYL LUNA
> The day ended badly with a broken ankle,
> a jinxed printer, and a dead car. The dry yellow grass
> against the sunset saved me. Roosters
> 
> pranced across a lawn of shit, proudly plumed
> in black feathers, bobbing before the gray goats.
> It was the first day I saw god in the quiet,
> 
> and found a mustard seed was very small.
> There I had been for years cursing “why?”
> and all the gold in the sun fell upon me.
> 
> There was a white mare in the midst
> of brown smog, majestic in the refinery
> clouds. Even the radio wouldn’t work!
> 
> My mother limps and her hair falls out.
> The faithful drive white Chevy trucks
> or yellow Camrys, and I’m here golden
> 
> on the smoking shock-less bus.
> I lost language in this want, each poem
> dust, Spanish fluttered
> 
> as music across the desert, even weeds
> tumbled unloved. The police sirens seared
> the coming night, dogs howled helplessly
> sad.
> 
> Lo I walk the valley of death, love
> lingers in my hard eyes. Mañana never
> comes just right. I mend myself in the folds
> 
> of paper songs, ring my paper bells
> for empty success. Quiero Nada,
> if I sing long enough, I’ll grow dreamlike
> and find a flock of pigeons, white under
> wings lifting awkward bodies like doves
> across the silky blue-white sky.


I didn't realize you were the OP.

Nice thread!


----------



## Impenitent

Roses are red
Violets are blue
She never said
I love you

But what unsaid
Things she'd do
Straight to my head
My heart knew

Roses now dead
Wilted, it's true
Baby has fled
We are through



Our love was sweeter than candy
Intoxicating like brandy
Red/blue merely clothes we wore
We always left them at the door

She loved sailing around the world 
We'd dock at every bay
Until eve engaged in playful repartee
When to my arms she came and whirled

I loved her flavor, unknown before
Anticipating, trembling to touch her
My precious queen - my voracious whore
I would part with neither, nor dream of another

But love can be fickle and fleeting
A betrayer she was secretly meeting
Laughing at love letters, planning a coup
Who in the long run she betrayed, too


----------



## Dhara

Sticks

Thomas Sayers Ellis

 My father was an enormous man
Who believed kindness and lack of size
Were nothing more than sissified
Signs of weakness. Narrow-minded,

His eyes were the worst kind
Of jury — deliberate, distant, hard.
No one could out-shout him
Or make bigger fists. The few

Who tried got taken for bad,
Beat down, their bodies slammed.
I wanted to be just like him:
Big man, man of the house, king.

A plagiarist, hitting the things he hit,
I learned to use my hands watching him
Use his, pretending to slap mother
When he slapped mother.	 

He was sick. A diabetic slept 
Like a silent vowel inside his well-built,
Muscular, dark body. Hard as all that
With similar weaknesses

— I discovered writing,
How words are parts of speech
With beats and breaths of their own.
Interjections like flams. Wham! Bam!

An heir to the rhythm
And tension beneath the beatings,
My first attempts were filled with noise, 
Wild solos, violent uncontrollable blows.

The page tightened like a drum
Resisting the clockwise twisting
Of a handheld chrome key,
The noisy banging and tuning of growth.


----------



## Dhara

The Secret

Denise Levertov

Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.

I who don't know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me

(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even

what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,

the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can't find,

and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that

a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines

in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for

assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.


----------



## Impenitent

"Money for Nothing"
(Dire Straits)

 Now look at them yo-yo's that's the way you do it
You play the analyst on Fox TV
That ain't ' workin'  that's the way you do it
Corporations ain't people 
And money ain't speech

Now that ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Lemme tell ya them guys ain't dumb
Maybe get a diamond for your little finger
Maybe get stupid donors under your thumb

We gotta shake hands and knock on doors
50 state strategy
We gotta register new voters
We gotta get them picture ID's

See the bigot with the comb over and the makeup
Yeah buddy that's his own hair
That loudmouth bigot got his own jet airplane
That loudmouth bigot he's a billionaire

We gotta shake hands and knock on doors
50 state strategy
We gotta register new voters
We gotta get them picture ID's

I shoulda learned to play the con
I shoulda learned to play them marks
Look at that mama, She got it stickin' in the camera
Man we could have some fun
And he's up there, what's that?
Obamacare and free stuff?
Bangin' on Benghazi like a set of bongos
That ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Corporations ain't people
And money ain't speech

We gotta shake hands and knock on doors
50 state strategy
We gotta register new voters
We gotta get them picture ID's,
Lord

Now that ain't workin' that's the way you do it
You play the analyst on Fox TV
That ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Corporations ain't people
And money ain't speech
Corporations ain't people
And money ain't speech

I want my
I want my
I want my Fox TV

I want my
I want my
I want my Fox TV


----------



## Dhara

The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death forevermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door
Bolted down forevermore.
None can reenter there, -
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick
Steal in by window, chink or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked
Insert a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend eternal Fact. 


The Past By Ralph Waldo Emerson


----------



## Dhara

And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship." 

Your friend is your needs answered. 

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. 

And he is your board and your fireside. 

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. 

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay." 

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; 

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed. 

When you part from your friend, you grieve not; 

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. 

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. 

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught. 

And let your best be for your friend. 

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. 

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? 

Seek him always with hours to live. 

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. 

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. 

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. 

Khalil Gibran


----------



## Dhara

Peace, my heart, let the time for
the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain
into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end
in the folding of the wings over the
nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be
gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a
moment, and say your last words in
silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp 
to light you on your way. 

Peace, My Heart By Rabindranath Tagore


----------



## Dhara

When you look for peace
then the peace lies within you
When you search for peace
then it is not hard to find
When you want to keep peace alive
then you allow white doves to fly over you
When you make peace with others
then the whole world live in your heart
When you let peace be in the world
then you live in wonderful world
When you allow peace flow around the world
then your hateness will go and love will flow
When you open the door for peace
then peace welcome to your lives.
Let the peace prevail in our wonderful world 


Ravi Sathasivam


----------



## Impenitent

I was channeling Edgar Allen Poe
Lookin' for reason and a bit of rhyme
When Ed busted in - he was good to go
"Really' I implored.  'You don't mind the mime?"
"No' he underscored. 'As long as you make a good show"


----------



## Dhara

The Storm

Now through the white orchard my little dog
romps, breaking the new snow
with wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
the pleasures of the body in this world. 
Oh, I could not have said it better

- Mary Oliver


----------



## Dhara

Black Oaks

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I’m pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can’t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a 
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another — why don’t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,

I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.

- Mary Oliver


----------



## Impenitent

"Ode to Cynthia Ann Parker"

She and her only daughter
Her precious Prairie Flower
Wrested from Elysium so ardently
Only to be imprisoned for all eternity




Denied their return to the wanderers
Away from these heartless conquerors 
Back to the husband and loving father
And to Quanah,  Prairie Flower's noble brother

Dreaming of escape from walls that surround her
And cursing the searchers who unwittingly found her
Nadua resolute as Indian, body and soul
While white man's greed and disease takes its toll

From the Rio Grande to the Cimarron is a land of splendor
Comanches defend it, having no word for surrender
Adding up to a fight to the death against the invasion
And death would be the final sum of Nadua's equation

Nothing she fears, but no weapon to hide
Nadua seeks retribution for the Comanche genocide
Unknowingly becoming a martyr for an Indian nation
Cynthia Ann Parker chooses death by starvation 

Honor the woman who endured lifetime travails 
Honor the woman who in death yet prevails
Honor the woman who was a sacrificed pawn
Honor the woman of an Indian life long ago gone


Cynthia Ann Parker - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia


----------



## Dhara

25 THINGS MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME

1. My mother taught me TO APPRECIATE A JOB WELL DONE.
'If you're going to kill each other, do it outside.
I just finished cleaning.'

2. My mother taught me RELIGION.
'You better pray that will come out of the carpet.'

3. My mother taught me about TIME TRAVEL.
'If you don't straighten up, 
I'm going to knock you into the middle of next week! '

4. My mother taught me LOGIC.
“Because I said so, that's why.'

5. My mother taught me MORE LOGIC.
'If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, 
you're not going to the store with me.'

6. My mother taught me FORESIGHT.
'Make sure you wear clean underwear, 
in case you're in an accident.'

7. My mother taught me IRONY.
'Keep crying and I'll give you something to cry about.'

8. My mother taught me about the science of OSMOSIS.
'Shut your mouth and eat your supper.'

9. My mother taught me about being a CONTORTIONIST.
'Will you look at that dirt on the back of your neck'

10. My mother taught me about STAMINA.
'You'll sit there until all that spinach is gone.'

11. My mother taught me about WEATHER.
'This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it.'

12. My mother taught me about HYPOCRISY.
'If I told you once, I've told you a million times.
Don't exaggerate! '

13. My mother taught me the CIRCLE OF LIFE.
'I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.'

14. My mother taught me about BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION.
'Stop acting like your father! '

15. My mother taught me about ENVY.
'There are millions of less fortunate children in the world who
don’t have wonderful parents like you do.'

16. My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION.
'Just wait until we get home.'

17. My mother taught me about RECEIVING.
'You are going to get it when you get home! '

18. My mother taught me MEDICAL SCIENCE.
'If you don't stop crossing your eyes, 
they are going to get stuck that way.'

19. My mother taught me about ESP.
'Put your sweater on; don't you think I know when you are cold? '

20. My mother taught me HUMOR.
'When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, 
don't come running to me.'

21. My mother taught me HOW TO BECOME AN ADULT.
'If you don't eat your vegetables, you'll never grow up.'

22. My mother taught me GENETICS.
'You're just like your father.'

23. My mother taught me about my ROOTS.
'Shut that door behind you.
Do you think you were born in a barn? '

24. My mother taught me WISDOM.
'When you get to be my age, you'll understand.'

And my favorite: 

25. My mother taught me about JUSTICE.
'One day you'll have kids, 
and I hope they turn out ten times worse than you' 

Howard Kern


----------



## Dhara

Be With Those Who Help Your Being

Be with those who help your being.
Don’t sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don’t try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it’s too late for all you could become.

Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?

Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks


----------



## Dhara

If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,

how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind? From where then

is love to come—love for your enemy
that is the way of liberty?
From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go

free of you, and you of them;
they are to you as sunlight
on a green branch. You must not

think of them again, except
as monsters like yourself,
pitiable because unforgiving.

Wendell Berry


----------



## Dhara

I have no parents:

I make the heavens and the earth my parents.

I have no home:

I make awareness my home.

I have no life or death:

I make the tides of breathing my life and death.

I have no divine power:

I make honesty my divine power:

I have no means:

I make understanding my means.

I have no magic secrets:

I make character my magic secret.

I have no body:

I make endurance my body.

I have no eyes:

I make the flash of lightning my eyes.

I have no ears:

I make sensibility my ears.

I have no limbs:

I make promptness my limbs.

I have no strategy:

I make “unshadowed by thought” my strategy.

I have no designs:

I make seizing opportunity by the forelock my design.

I have no miracles:

I make right action my miracles.

I have no principles:

I make adaptability to all circumstances my principles.

I have no tactics:

I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.

I have no talents:

I make ready with my talent.

I have no friends:

I make my mind my friend.

I have no enemy:

I make carelessness my enemy.

I have no armour:

I make benevolence and righteousness my armour.

I have no castle:

I make immovable mind my castle.

I have no sword:

I make absence of self my sword.



Anonymous Samurai

14th Century


----------



## Dhara

This Poem Belongs to You

This poem
  belongs to you
    and is already finished,

it was begun years ago
     and I put it away

knowing it would come
   into the world
     in its own time.

In fact
   you have already read it,
     and closing the pages 
       of the book,

you are now 
  abandoning the projects
     of the day and putting on
       your shoes and coat 
         to take a walk.

It has been long years
   since you felt like this.

You have remembered
   what I remembered,
     when I first began to write.

  -- David Whyte
      from The House of Belonging 
      ©2007 Many Rivers Press


----------



## Dhara

Everything is Waiting for You

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

  -- David Whyte
      from Everything is Waiting for You 
     ©2003 Many Rivers Pre


----------



## Impenitent

Dhara said:


> If you are not to become a monster,
> you must care what they think.
> If you care what they think,
> 
> how will you not hate them,
> and so become a monster
> of the opposite kind? From where then
> 
> is love to come—love for your enemy
> that is the way of liberty?
> From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go
> 
> free of you, and you of them;
> they are to you as sunlight
> on a green branch. You must not
> 
> think of them again, except
> as monsters like yourself,
> pitiable because unforgiving.
> 
> Wendell Berry


I've seen you forgive your enemies, and turn the other cheek.


----------



## Dhara

Impenitent said:


> Dhara said:
> 
> 
> 
> If you are not to become a monster,
> you must care what they think.
> If you care what they think,
> 
> how will you not hate them,
> and so become a monster
> of the opposite kind? From where then
> 
> is love to come—love for your enemy
> that is the way of liberty?
> From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go
> 
> free of you, and you of them;
> they are to you as sunlight
> on a green branch. You must not
> 
> think of them again, except
> as monsters like yourself,
> pitiable because unforgiving.
> 
> Wendell Berry
> 
> 
> 
> I've seen you forgive your enemies, and turn the other cheek.
Click to expand...


----------



## Dhara

The Cabin in the Woods

He sat there in his very favorite chair all comfy and warm.
The wind howled outside rattling the large windows.
There was no reason to feel anything but happy.
He was reading one of his most cherished books.

The fire was roaring in the huge fireplace.
The logs had been cut and split before the snow flew.
The house smelled of fresh cut wood and heavenly candles.
It was almost time to tend to the fire again.

The days were passed like this in the winter, in Oklahoma.
One needed to prepare out here in the forest.
The cupboards were full with all sorts of goodies.
Everything needed was near at hand.

The snow was now drifting two feet in depth.
It was blowing horizontally at times.
This was the time of year he loved like no other.
The isolation and desolation made him smile inside.

When the tree fell nobody heard the sound.
The loud crack and splintering was a foreboding
Of the soon to be disaster; as the immense oak headed down.
It hit that lonely house in the forest with a mighty crash.

The peace and feelings of pleasure turned to pain; 
As the tree smashed through the house destroying everything
In its path; including the fireplace, and cutting the house in half.
He knew what would happen now that the calm was destroyed.

Death came soon to the lonely cabin, and its owner, in the woods.
The mighty oak had severed his arm and he knew, even without pain, 
The end was near, no power, no heat, no cabin, no chance.
He had no regrets that fateful day; it had been a good life, 
The one he had chosen to live, out here by himself.

It was calm again, out here in the woods, now that the cabin was gone.
Mother Nature had eaten the remains, as well as his flesh in
This lonely spot in the woods; where he had built his home sweet home.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we'll all be gone, of that you can trust. 

J.B. LeBuert


----------



## Dhara

Sekhmet, The Lion Headed Goddess of War

He was the sort of man
who wouldn't hurt a fly.
Many flies are now alive
while he is not.
He was not my patron.
He preferred full granaries, I battle.
My roar meant slaughter.
Yet here we are together
in the same museum.
That's not what I see, though, the fitful
crowds of staring children
learning the lesson of multi-
cultural obliteration, sic transit
and so on.

I see the temple where I was born
or built, where I held power.
I see the desert beyond,
where the hot conical tombs, that look
from a distance, frankly, like dunces' hats,
hide my jokes: the dried-out flesh
and bones, the wooden boats
in which the dead sail endlessly
in no direction.

What did you expect from gods
with animal heads?
Though come to think of it
the ones made later, who were fully human
were not such good news either.
Favour me and give me riches,
destroy my enemies.
That seems to be the gist.
Oh yes: And save me from death.
In return we're given blood
and bread, flowers and prayer,
and lip service.

Maybe there's something in all of this
I missed. But if it's selfless
love you're looking for,
you've got the wrong goddess.

I just sit where I'm put, composed
of stone and wishful thinking:
that the deity who kills for pleasure
will also heal,
that in the midst of your nightmare,
the final one, a kind lion
will come with bandages in her mouth
and the soft body of a woman,
and lick you clean of fever,
and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck
and caress you into darkness and paradise. 

Margaret Atwood


----------



## Impenitent

Hurricane
(new lyrics to Michael Jackson's Billie Jean)

Disasters come more often it seems
And so Pat Robertson and I prayed
Everybody knows exactly what it means
It had to be that gay parade - that party on Fire Island - that nightclub down in Queens

It was worse than a disaster scene
You see on the movie screen
I said, pardon me, what do you mean, 
by  'anthropogenic global warming?"
She said, 'That is why the hurricane came aground'
That is why - the hurricane - came aground

She told me the hurricane's name was Sandy
And it was the corporate modus operandi 
They pump carbon dioxide in the air
Then these come aground
They pump - in the air - these come aground

Now I've always trusted corporations are careful what they do
They don't pump poisons in the air 
I don't think the problem could be co2
Or that the corporations - just don't care

Hurricanes are not global warming
She's just a girl who claims 
They caused this one
But Sandy is not Koch's spawn
She says they are the one 
But the hurricane is not their son

Hurricanes are not global warming
She's just a girl who claims
They caused this one
But Sandy is not Koch's spawn
She says they are the one
But the hurricane is not their son

For Bush's two terms,
The law was on our side
But who can stand with Obama in charge and his business death march
But then  - this hurricane - came aground

I went back to my corporate job
But what she said laid heavy on my heart
When I looked at the smoke stacks
My head began to throb - i thought about those slobs - and longed to join their mob!

Now I feel revulsed and conflicted
To this life of excess I've become addicted
I sold my soul as if money was eternal youth
Now that lie is - an inconvenient truth

All Man's wealth comes from cheap fossil fuel
I jumped at that because I'm nobody's fool
Now that cost has come home to roost, as deadly as a viper 
And now we've got to pay - pay the piper

So take my strong advice
Just remember to always think twice
Do think twice -  do think twice

She told my baby, we were swimming til three
Then she looked at me, and showed me a photo
My baby cried, her family had died, oh no
All because - this hurricane - came aground

Hurricanes are not global warming
She's just a girl who claims 
They caused this one
But Sandy is not Koch's spawn

Hurricanes are not global warming
She's just a girl who claims
They caused this one

She says they caused this one
But the hurricane is not Koch's spawn

She says they caused this one
But the hurricane is not Koch's spawn

Hurricanes are not global warming
She's just a girl who claims
They caused this one
But Sandy is not Koch's spawn

She says they caused this one
But Sandy is not Koch's spawn

She says they caused this one
She says they caused this one
She says they caused this one

Hurricanes are not global warming
Hurricanes are not global warming
Hurricanes are not global warming

...


----------



## Dhara

Keeping Hands Full

You are always grasping, my friend
Says my therapist
You must learn to let go:
Whenever your hands are not full
You want to get hold of something
Or indeed anything
Now a bird in your left hand
And a bunch of flowers in your right
That’s why you are unhappy all this time
Because you do not have more hands
To grasp more things
Like green backs, purple ribbons
tall titles, soft sex and charming children
If you empty your left hand to catch the ribbons
You became unhappy about the departure of the bird
If you put down the flowers to take the greenbacks
You feel unlucky about the loss of beauty
But if you let go
Just let go
Whatever you are grasping
You can get happiness whenever you can
Since your hands are free

Changming Yuan


----------



## Dhara

Maya Jewell Zeller

HONESTY

It’s true I drove an SUV once
through Fresno with a backseat full
of college boys to whom I found myself
having to explain you could still catch herpes
even while wearing a condom. One of them
in particular was incredulous, he was listening to his iPod
and he removed his headphones and said he had
a few more questions. These were my husband’s
varsity runners, and I was a volunteer, so I was awarded
the new rental with only four miles on it when we left
the lot. I’m not going to lie—
I liked driving it. It was nothing
like riding coach or making love
with protection. There were so many buttons
to push, and they all did something satisfying,
like drop from the ceiling a DVD player
for passengers or warm the driver’s legs
in just the right places. The seats were leather,
the kind you feel guilty just sitting on,
the good kind of guilty when you can’t help
but imagine parking somewhere with someone
so you can watch the stars rise over the city,
take time to check out all the automatic features.
The boy you’re with will want to know
how things work, and you’ll end up showing him,
because he is young, because he has a bag of sour apple
or peach fruit rings he’s willing to share, because his face
can look so becoming in the streetlights.
But mostly it’s because you can no longer remember
where you were going. Was it to dinner?
Were you taking him back to his hotel, where
he’ll sleep, dream of winning?
Or maybe it was a nighttime snack
run. The SUV is black
and the night is blacker. You can feel it
closing, like a fist around a steering wheel.
You’re not the fist. You’re the wheel.


----------



## Dhara

Courtney Kampa

SELF-PORTRAIT BY SOMEONE ELSE

The afternoon we traced our 2nd grade bodies
with poster paint, legs V-shaped on paper
like the outlines of victims at a crime scene,
I was the only girl stuck partnered with a boy—
his fists filthy from prying back scalps
of onion grass, bug shells crushed up in his teeth
because he’d liked the sound. He refused
all paint-colors but blue. Leaned over me,
complaining loudly to his friends. Then his lip,
heavy with focus. And the red wing
of his tongue. Dragging his paintbrush
like a match in a room of gasoline. The week before
Debbie Kaw passed a note saying babies
came from standing too close to a boy,
or if one sweat on you, or spat
in your direction. So the girls called it brave, what I did,
letting one trace me. And I let them think so—
let them run ahead in the carpool line,
the blood still returning to my knees.
Let my mother hang it full length on the refrigerator.
The white space something I’d stepped from.
Its thick blue line sort of wobbly
between my thighs, where his hands shook.
In the mornings my little sister would stand
on one foot, looking at it. Her groggy pajamas.
Her hands playing in her lunatic hair.


----------



## Dhara

A Community of the Spirit

There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight

of walking in the noisy street

and being the noise.

Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.

Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.

Sit down in the circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd’s love filling you.

At night, your beloved wanders.
Don’t accept consolations.

Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.

You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”
Twenty more will come.

Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.

RUMI


----------



## Gracie

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet. 

Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses? ……What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man, … …not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .… … . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .….… and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice …the things that you do.
And forever is losing … …… A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not … … lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding … .The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am … . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .… . as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .… .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen … .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now …… a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty … ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now … . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide … And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .… . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other …. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. …Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children … . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me … . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future … … . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .… young of their own.
And I think of the years … And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man … … .. and nature is cruel.
It’s jest to make old age … … . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone … where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again … . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys … . .. . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living … … . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few …. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact … that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .… . .… open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer … . see .. .…. …. . ME!!


----------



## Dhara

Self-Observation Without Judgment 

By Danna Faulds

Release the harsh and pointed inner
voice. it's just a throwback to the past,
and holds no truth about this moment.

Let go of self-judgment, the old,
learned ways of beating yourself up
for each imagined inadequacy.

Allow the dialogue within the mind
to grow friendlier, and quiet. Shift
out of inner criticism and life
suddenly looks very different.

i can say this only because I make
the choice a hundred times a day to release the voice that refuses to
acknowledge the real me.

What's needed here isn't more prodding toward perfection, but
intimacy - seeing clearly, and
embracing what I see.

Love, not judgment, sows the
seeds of tranquility and change.


----------



## Dhara

A PLACE TO SIT

By Kabir

Don't go outside your house to see flowers.
My friend, don't bother with that excursion. 
Inside your body there are flowers. 
One flower has a thousand petals. 
That will do for a place to sit. 
Sitting there you will have a glimpse of beauty
inside the void and out of it, 
before the gardens and after garden


----------



## Dhara

The Gift By Hafiz

We Have not Come to Take Prisoners
We have not come here to take prisoners
But to surrender ever more deeply 
to freedom and joy.
We have not come into this exquisite world 
to hold ourselves hostage from love.
Run, my dear,
from anything that may not strengthen
your precious budding wings,
Run like hell, my dear,
from anyone likely to put a sharp knife 
into the sacred, tender vision
of your beautiful heart.
We have a duty to befriend 
those aspects of obedience 
that stand outside of our house
and shout to our reason
"o please, o please
come out and play."
For we have not come here to take prisoners,
or to confine our wondrous spirits,
But to experience ever and ever more deeply 
our divine courage, freedom, 
and Light!


----------



## Dhara

You shall be free indeed 
not when your days are 
without a care nor your nights 
without a want and a grief, 
but rather when these things 
girdle your life and 
yet you rise above them 
naked and unbound.

(Kahlil Gibran)


----------



## Dhara

Karaniya Metta Sutta

This is what should be done
By those who are skilled in goodness,
And who know the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech. 
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied.
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: in gladness and safety, 
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born “ 
May all beings be at ease!
Let none deceive another,
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will
Wish harm upon another.
Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child, 
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings;
Radiating kindness over the entire world;
Spreading upward to the skies,
And downward to the depths;
Outward and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will. 
Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down, 
Free from drowsiness,
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding.
By not holding to fixed views, 
The pure-hearted one, having clarity of vision,
Being freed from all sense desires,
Is not born again into this world.

 Buddha


----------



## Dhara

There was a little turtle.
He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.
He caught the flea.
He caught the minnow.
But he didn't catch me. 

The Little Turtle By Vachel Lindsay


----------



## Impenitent

Schadenfreude Schadenfreude
Every evening you deplore  me
Sharp and  fleet
Precise and neat
You seem so happy to gore me
Hatred though
Destroys the soul
It will grow forever
Schadenfreude Schadenfreude
A self defeating endeavor


----------



## Dhara

Love Poem at Edge of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch


Not a solid, sweetheart. Nothing we could land a plane on. 
More like plastic soup spinning in a salt-stun cauldron—

flip-flops and orphaned toothpaste caps, pill bottles with 
Hindi labels, the ones I ordered off the internet in college.

Like sex, like Xanex, the soup has ways of making us dumb 
and chatty all afternoon on deck, the sleeves of your ochre

windbreaker darkening with spray. Mt. Everest must look 
cathartic from outer space, all those empty oxygen bottles

rusting at the summit, you say. The world is very small, 
suddenly, and duct tape is not biodegradable. Still, God is love

and love is the mercury swimming through my bloodstream. 
With this finger under your tongue, I can almost taste your

temperature. With this finger, I can conjure Travel & Leisure 
beaches peppered with paper lanterns and the kinds

of creatures that make marine biologists hold their breath. 
So, let us follow the converging paths of bikini lines

and fortune cookies: You will enter an age of abundance. 
If abundance is a oceanic desert on a dune-colored planet,

then a standing ovation. Maybe this is no place for ceremony. 
Maybe this is the only place for it—here, where everything

we waste aches with phantom music, the sexual squeals 
of toothless eels writhing beneath the waves. 

When the albatross, envious of our stamina, drops a disposable 
razor on your brow, we will dream the coming parousia,

just the two of us—skewed edges of an abyss, the last, lonely 
pathogens loosed from the chamber of a secondhand syringe.

By Kara Condito


----------



## Impenitent

"Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening"

As I was walking down the road
Two witches I did meet 
I should have known what this forebode
As they were the first to greet 

Had I seen their brother so dear?
T'where this path went along
With him they had been walking near
Then pooft, and he was gone

Their countenance was a mixed bag
Eerily more than good and bad
Tho one certainly displayed my flag
A common evil they both had

"Brother penned pussy little rhymes, in yonder glen
As do you, tho bright and blue
And hadn't you landed thereabouts, about then?
With those socks merely changing hue?"

As i learned, brother had been the black sheep
Friendly and well thought
While sisters were most dark and bleak
Had brother vanished, by their hands t'was wrought 

Had brother returned with motives untoward?
His new words more strident and stringent 
This could reverberate thru the board
What if he is seeking vengeance?

Could this transfiguration become complete
Beyond my will or knowledge?
But I awoke with rhyme and meter replete
With focused anger I've yet to acknowledge


----------



## Capstone

*The Lactating Ewe*
(Imbolc 2016)

Now dance and make the torches twirl
to symbolize the Sun,
and trace its image in the snow
where Brigid has begun

to loosen Winter's deadly grip
of unforgiving cold
and promulgate regeneration
of both young and old!

Imbolc, the milk of ewes, is said
to hail the longer days
in which the Sun can kiss the crops
and livestock that we raise.

So come together, one and all,
to celebrate and feast,
for light and warmth the Goddess pours
on every man and beast!​


----------



## Impenitent

Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran out of the clock
His job was to make it spin
But with radiation rolling in
He knew all time would stop

Oil, coal, and atoms, poisons in any guise
Forsake this deceit of the devil, otherwise
You'll all be dead
and then God said
I gave you the sun, the wind, the tides...

Gave us an intellect to act on his behest
And animals an instinct were so blessed
We are his stewards you see
And he commands you and me
Thou shalt not **** in your own nest


----------



## Dhara

Bazonka
by Spike Milligan


Say Bazonka every day
That's what my grandma used to say
It keeps at bay the Asian Flu'
And both your elbows free from glue.
So say Bazonka every day
(That's what my grandma used to say)

Don't say it if your socks are dry!
Or when the sun is in your eye!
Never say it in the dark
(The word you see emits a spark)
Only say it in the day
(That's what my grandma used to say)

Young Tiny Tim took her advice
He said it once, he said it twice
he said it till the day he died
And even after that he tried
To say Bazonka! every day
Just like my grandma used to say.

Now folks around declare it's true
That every night at half past two
If you'll stand upon your head
And shout Bazonka! from your bed
You'll hear the word as clear as day
Just like my grandma used to say!


----------



## Dhara

For The Foxes

by Charles Bukowski

Don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
'love.'

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.


----------



## Dhara

The Pig

By Roald Dahl

In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
"They want my bacon slice by slice
"To sell at a tremendous price!
"They want my tender juicy chops
"To put in all the butcher's shops!
"They want my pork to make a roast
"And that's the part'll cost the most!
"They want my sausages in strings!
"They even want my chitterlings!
"The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
"That is the reason for my life!"
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch
"That he might have me for his lunch.
"And so, because I feared the worst,
"I thought I'd better eat him first."


----------



## Impenitent

Dhara said:


> The Pig
> 
> By Roald Dahl
> 
> In England once there lived a big
> And wonderfully clever pig.
> To everybody it was plain
> That Piggy had a massive brain.
> He worked out sums inside his head,
> There was no book he hadn't read.
> He knew what made an airplane fly,
> He knew how engines worked and why.
> He knew all this, but in the end
> One question drove him round the bend:
> He simply couldn't puzzle out
> What LIFE was really all about.
> What was the reason for his birth?
> Why was he placed upon this earth?
> His giant brain went round and round.
> Alas, no answer could be found.
> Till suddenly one wondrous night.
> All in a flash he saw the light.
> He jumped up like a ballet dancer
> And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
> "They want my bacon slice by slice
> "To sell at a tremendous price!
> "They want my tender juicy chops
> "To put in all the butcher's shops!
> "They want my pork to make a roast
> "And that's the part'll cost the most!
> "They want my sausages in strings!
> "They even want my chitterlings!
> "The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
> "That is the reason for my life!"
> Such thoughts as these are not designed
> To give a pig great piece of mind.
> Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
> A pail of pigswill in his hand,
> And piggy with a mighty roar,
> Bashes the farmer to the floor…
> Now comes the rather grizzly bit
> So let's not make too much of it,
> Except that you must understand
> That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
> He ate him up from head to toe,
> Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
> It took an hour to reach the feet,
> Because there was so much to eat,
> And when he finished, Pig, of course,
> Felt absolutely no remorse.
> Slowly he scratched his brainy head
> And with a little smile he said,
> "I had a fairly powerful hunch
> "That he might have me for his lunch.
> "And so, because I feared the worst,
> "I thought I'd better eat him first."


A poem for the flame zone!


----------



## Dhara

Impenitent said:


> Dhara said:
> 
> 
> 
> The Pig
> 
> By Roald Dahl
> 
> In England once there lived a big
> And wonderfully clever pig.
> To everybody it was plain
> That Piggy had a massive brain.
> He worked out sums inside his head,
> There was no book he hadn't read.
> He knew what made an airplane fly,
> He knew how engines worked and why.
> He knew all this, but in the end
> One question drove him round the bend:
> He simply couldn't puzzle out
> What LIFE was really all about.
> What was the reason for his birth?
> Why was he placed upon this earth?
> His giant brain went round and round.
> Alas, no answer could be found.
> Till suddenly one wondrous night.
> All in a flash he saw the light.
> He jumped up like a ballet dancer
> And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
> "They want my bacon slice by slice
> "To sell at a tremendous price!
> "They want my tender juicy chops
> "To put in all the butcher's shops!
> "They want my pork to make a roast
> "And that's the part'll cost the most!
> "They want my sausages in strings!
> "They even want my chitterlings!
> "The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
> "That is the reason for my life!"
> Such thoughts as these are not designed
> To give a pig great piece of mind.
> Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
> A pail of pigswill in his hand,
> And piggy with a mighty roar,
> Bashes the farmer to the floor…
> Now comes the rather grizzly bit
> So let's not make too much of it,
> Except that you must understand
> That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
> He ate him up from head to toe,
> Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
> It took an hour to reach the feet,
> Because there was so much to eat,
> And when he finished, Pig, of course,
> Felt absolutely no remorse.
> Slowly he scratched his brainy head
> And with a little smile he said,
> "I had a fairly powerful hunch
> "That he might have me for his lunch.
> "And so, because I feared the worst,
> "I thought I'd better eat him first."
> 
> 
> 
> A poem for the flame zone!
Click to expand...

Ya know, I didn't even think of that until reading this poem a second time! That's funny though, since those folks think I post the poems for them, specifically, LOL. Unrequited love and all.

I dedicate this poem, To Whom It May Concern:


----------



## Dhara

Flaming Red - 


Her smile
captured

taken prisoner by the little compact mirror

snapped shut
put back in the bag

her frown
made more noticeable

by yet another application
of scarlet lipstick

her words smudged
by its shade

FLAMING RED! 

worse still
when no words are said.

I rummage
in her bag

snap open
the compact mirror

release her smile

by applying
FLAMING RED

to my own 
lips

I kiss her
leave a large lipstick kiss
on each cheek.

'You cheeky bugger! '
she laughs.

'It's so hard to stay mad at you! '

'Come here & I'll show you
how it's done properly(improperly) ! 

She kisses me she kisses me she kisses me. 

Dónall Dempsey


----------



## Impenitent

"Our House"

I'll schedule the vote
You call our caucus members
We'll repeal Obamacare again today

Uncaring as we conspire
For hours and hours
Over and over by rote
We'll shove these wrongs
Down their throats
All day long

Paul, I'll show you how
In our smoke filled room
Stall with me now
Relax over this bourbon
As we change from representative legislators
To constitution desecrators 
With fiery gems
For a President we intend to screw 

Our house is a very, very fine house
With two Texas blowhards
Nancy's record was unmarred
Now everything is kinda sleazy
Because of what we do
And our la,la,la, la,la, la, la, la, la, la, la..... 

Our house is a very, very fine house
With two Texas blowhards
Nancy's record was unmarred
Now every thing is kinda sleazy
Because of what we do
And Our ...

I'll schedule the vote
You call our caucus members
We'll repeal Obamacare again today...


----------



## Impenitent

Down in Kansas City where the workers all go
There's a big steelworker named Soptic Joe
Married his high school sweetheart, his perfect match
She had a  heart of gold and was so pretty, what a catch
Soptic Joe, now look at him go
Soptic, Soptic
Soptic Joe, go man go
Oh, oh, oh, oh Soptic Joe

She snuggled up to him when they went down the road
They bought a little house, and he happily carried the load
An old fixer upper, making their time together a bit more fun
And had a big back yard, where their little ones could run
Soptic Joe, now look at him go
Soptic, Soptic
Soptic Joe, go man go
Oh, oh, oh , oh Soptic Joe

One day they called him to the office, to see the clerk
They offered him a buyout, but Joe said, buddy, I'd rather work
Work was hard but steady,  he wasn't told things had changed
He didn't know the truth, until the day the gate was chained
Soptic Joe, now look at him go
Soptic, Soptic
Soptic Joe, go man go
Oh, oh, oh, oh Soptic Joe

Soptic Joe was out of work, for six months straight
Before he took a low paying job, for his family's sake
He'd have to pay for the health coverage, it was very crude
But Joe had other obligations, like shelter and food
Soptic Joe, now look at him go
Soptic, Soptic
Soptic Joe, go man go
Oh, oh, oh, oh Soptic Joe

It was tough but they lived on love, she was no ordinary chick
Until the day his sweet wife said, honey I feel sick
She kept it to herself, while she gave and gave
Until the doctors told Joe, she was impossible to save
Soptic Joe, now look at him go
Soptic, Soptic
Soptic Joe, go man go
Oh, oh , oh, oh Soptic Joe

/


----------



## Dhara

I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own. 


Maya Angelou


----------



## Dhara

Watching The Mayan Women
 by Luisa Villani


I hang the window inside out
like a shirt drying in a breeze
and the arms that are missing come to me
Yes, it's a song, one I don't quite comprehend
although I do understand the laundry.
White ash and rain water, a method
my aunt taught me, but I'll never know
how she learned it in Brooklyn. Her mind
has gone to seed, blown by a stroke,
and that dandelion puff called memory
has flown far from her eyes. Some things remain.
Procedures. Methods. If you burn
a fire all day, feeding it snapped
branches and newspapers--
the faces pressed against the print
fading into flames-you end up
with a barrel of white ash. If
you take that same barrel and fill it
with rain, let it sit for a day,
you will have water
that can bring brightness to anything.
If you take that water,
and in it soak your husband's shirts,
he'll pause at dawn when he puts one on,
its softness like a haunting afterthought.
And if he works all day in the selva,
he'll divine his way home
in shirtsleeves aglow with torchlight.


----------



## Dhara

Death to the Cynics

I like to think of the cynic as the person who once was optimistic.
And was so optimistic and so let down by it
That it turned around on the fly.

The cynic is there
He shoots dialogue into
The air
He murmurs things of trust and treason
He'll criticise and adore every season
For the same damn reasons you and I do.

The cynic in me likes to believe that despite my bid for greatness
Despite my winning lottery tickets I'll never fly in space, weightless
As good a pop song as I might write, 
It'll always seem
Too weird
Too direct
Too off-kilter
Too old
To really make a difference.

The cynic is very fickle, can be very gentle but prefers to kill things with his words
He loves what he loves, hates what she hates and all else BE DAMNED.
This attitude comes with failed romance
And having ten jobs and from all
GETTING CANNED.

Yes, the best cynics are the old ones.
Because the only reason they are cynical in the end
Is an act.
As I see it
If you're cynical to death
You're not going to last very long.
You have to let the joy out sometime. 

Gary Diamond


----------



## Dhara

Resumé - 

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live. 

Dorothy Parker


----------



## Dhara

The Dream of a Common Language
Leigh Stein

after Adrienne Rich

On Wednesdays I take the train past Yankee Stadium,
to a place where it is never a given that I speak the language,
to a place where graffiti covers the mural they painted to hide
the graffiti, to a place where the children call me Miss Miss
Miss Miss Miss and I find in one of their poems, a self-portrait,
the line I wish I was rish. The dream of a common language

is the language of one million dollars, of basketball, of plátanos.
Are the kids black? my boyfriend wants to know. Dominican.
It’s different. When asked to write down a question
they wish they could ask their mom or dad, one boy writes,
Paper or plastic? A girl in the back of the class wants to know
Why don’t I have lycene, translating the sound of the color

of my skin into her own language. The best poet
in sixth grade is the girl who is this year repeating
sixth grade. When I tell her teacher of her talent
she says, At least now we know she’s good
at something. To speak their language, I study
the attendance list, practice the cadence of their names.

Yesterday I presented a black and white portrait of a black man,
his bald head turned away from us, a spotted moth resting
on one shoulder. I told them this is a man serving a life
sentence in Louisiana. Is this art? Without hesitation,
one girl said no, why would anybody
want to take a picture
of that.


----------



## Dhara

The Hand
by Mary Ruefle

 The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom 
who knows the answer, because the person
in question is yourself, and on that 
you are the greatest living authority,
but you don’t raise your hand.
You raise the top of your desk
and take out an apple.
You look out the window.
You don’t raise your hand and there is
some essential beauty in your fingers,
which aren’t even drumming, but lie 
flat and peaceful.
The teacher repeats the question. 
Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,
a robin is ruffling its feathers
and spring is in the air.


----------



## Impenitent

Clarence Spoke in Court Today
(Pearl Jam)

At home
Watching pictures
Of crotch shots
With him on top
Legs raised in a V
Kicking away the ladder of opportunity 

The Yalie's gave too much attention
To the fact he was Affirmative Action
King Clarence the wicked
Ruled his world

Clarence spoke in court today
Clarence spoke in court today

Clearly I remember
Mocking his accent
Seemed a mindless twit
But we unleashed a lion
Clenched his fists
As he blamed Thurgood for his standing

How could I forget
He was against voting rights
My jaw dropped wide open
Just like the day
Like the day I heard

He showed he was more right
Than his white classmates
He would have more wealth and might
King Clarence had no legacy
But he ruled his world

Clarence spoke in court today
Clarence spoke in court today

Try to forget this...
Try to erase this...
From the blackboard.


----------



## Impenitent

Werewolves of Congress

♬ I saw a werewolf with the farm bill in his hand
Walking the streets of OKC in the rain
He was looking for the Sooner hungry and damned
Gonna give 'em a piece of personal disdain

Ah-oooh, werewolves of Congress
Ah-oooh

If you hear him howling about runaway entitlements
Better not re-elect him
Little old lady starved late last night
Werewolves of Congress again

Ah-oooh, werewolves of Congress
Ah-oooh

He's the tightfisted gent 
who filibustered to raise your rent
He'd rather cut taxes for the rich, Than have money for welfare spent

Better stay away from him
He'll repossess your new heart, Jim
And replace it with despair
Werewolves of Congress 

Ah-oooh, werewolves of Congress
Ah-oooh

I saw the incumbent hit the landing strip
He was screaming for more red meat
Came straight from The Fellowship
Werewolves of Congress playing trick or treat

-----______________


----------



## Dhara

Dear invisible men,
Who tweet women endless threats of rape,
Who are you?
Are you married fathers of two?
Are you teens crowded round a friend’s phone in a canteen or KFC?
Are you pausing between texting your first love,
To set yourself up as an egg,
And post fresh hate?
Where are you as you type this?
Is your girlfriend asleep in your arms,
As you peer over her shoulder at your phone?
How did this become your sport?
You are not proud of what you do;
If you were, you would not care who knew.
This is strange:
You loudly announce pride in your prejudice
But your invisibility suggests your shame.
There is such an anger in you
That it cannot be cloaked with jokes.
I pity the mirror that has to reflect your misery,
Since it must see so much.
Because the women are everywhere now,
Aren’t they?
They weren’t just content in your beds,
Now they’re not just in your clubs,
Or in the eyes and hearts of other men;
The women are in your classrooms, boardrooms and DJ booths,
They are obstructing you, or ignoring you,
Not needing you to improve.
Swiftly, they are sweeping you from every stage,
And the only place you feel safe
Is in one-hundred and forty characters of rage.
I doubt that, as you type, you will ever pause
To think that, while you promise terror,
The greatest fear is yours.

Musa Okwonga


----------



## Dhara

Atlantis - 

by Mark Doty


1. FAITH

“I’ve been having these
awful dreams, each a little different,
though the core’s the same—

we’re walking in a field,
Wally and Arden and I, a stretch of grass
with a highway running beside it,

or a path in the woods that opens
onto a road. Everything’s fine,
then the dog sprints ahead of us,

excited; we’re calling but
he’s racing down a scent and doesn’t hear us,
and that’s when he goes

onto the highway. I don’t want to describe it.
Sometimes it’s brutal and over,
and others he’s struck and takes off

so we don’t know where he is
or how bad. This wakes me
every night now, and I stay awake;

I’m afraid if I sleep I’ll go back
into the dream. It’s been six months,
almost exactly, since the doctor wrote

not even a real word
but an acronym, a vacant
four-letter cipher

that draws meanings into itself,
reconstitutes the world.
We tried to say it was just

a word; we tried to admit
it had power and thus to nullify it
by means of our acknowledgement.

I know the current wisdom:
bright hope, the power of wishing you’re well.
He’s just so tired, though nothing

shows in any tests, Nothing,
the doctor says, detectable;
the doctor doesn’t hear what I do,

that trickling, steadily rising nothing
that makes him sleep all day,
vanish into fever’s tranced afternoons,

and I swear sometimes
when I put my head to his chest
I can hear the virus humming

like a refrigerator.
Which is what makes me think
you can take your positive attitude

and go straight to hell.
We don’t have a future,
we have a dog.
Who is he?

Soul without speech,
sheer, tireless faith,
he is that-which-goes-forward,

black muzzle, black paws
scouting what’s ahead;
he is where we’ll be hit first,

he’s the part of us
that’s going to get it.
I’m hardly awake on our morning walk

—always just me and Arden now—
and sometimes I am still
in the thrall of the dream,

which is why, when he took a step onto Commercial
before I’d looked both ways,
I screamed his name and grabbed his collar.

And there I was on my knees,
both arms around his neck
and nothing coming,

and when I looked into that bewildered face
I realized I didn’t know what it was
I was shouting at,

I didn’t know who I was trying to protect.”


2. REPRIEVE

I woke in the night
and thought, It was a dream,

nothing has torn the future apart,
we have not lived years

in dread, it never happened,
I dreamed it all. And then

there was this sensation of terrific pressure
lifting, as if I were rising

in one of those old diving bells,
lightening, unburdening. I didn’t know

how heavy my life had become—so much fear,
so little knowledge. It was like

being young again, but I understood
how light I was, how without encumbrance,—

and so I felt both young and awake,
which I never felt

when I was young. The curtains moved
—it was still summer, all the windows open—

and I thought, I can move that easily.
I thought my dream had lasted for years,

a decade, a dream can seem like that,
I thought, There’s so much more time ...

And then of course the truth
came floating back to me.

You know how children
love to end stories they tell

by saying, It was all a dream? Years ago,
when I taught kids to write,

I used to tell them this ending spoiled things,
explaining and dismissing

what had come before. Now I know
how wise they were, to prefer

that gesture of closure,
their stories rounded not with a sleep

but a waking. What other gift
comes close to a reprieve?

This was the dream that Wally told me:
I was in the tunnel, he said,

and there really was a light at the end,
and a great being standing in the light. 

His arms were full of people, men and women,
but his proportions were all just right—I mean

he was the size of you or me.
And the people said, Come with us,

we’re going dancing. And they seemed so glad
to be going, and so glad to have me 

join them, but I said,
I’m not ready yet. I didn’t know what to do,

when he finished,
except hold the relentless

weight of him, I didn’t know
what to say except, It was a dream,

nothing’s wrong now,
it was only a dream.


3. MICHAEL’S DREAM

Michael writes to tell me his dream:
I was helping Randy out of bed,
supporting him on one side
with another friend on the other,

and as we stood him up, he stepped out
of the body I was holding and became
a shining body, brilliant light 
held in the form I first knew him in.

This is what I imagine will happen,
the spirit’s release. Michael,
when we support our friends,
one of us on either side, our arms

under the man or woman’s arms,
what is it we’re holding? Vessel,
shadow, hurrying light? All those years
I made love to a man without thinking

how little his body had to do with me;
now, diminished, he’s never been so plainly
himself—remote and unguarded,
an otherness I can’t know

the first thing about. I said,
You need to drink more water 
or you’re going to turn into 
an old dry leaf. And he said,

Maybe I want to be an old leaf.
In the dream Randy’s leaping into
the future, and still here; Michael’s holding him
and releasing at once. Just as Steve’s

holding Jerry, though he’s already gone,
Marie holding John, gone, Maggie holding
her John, gone, Carlos and Darren
holding another Michael, gone,

and I’m holding Wally, who’s going.
Where isn’t the question,
though we think it is;
we don’t even know where the living are,

in this raddled and unraveling “here.”
What is the body? Rain on a window,
a clear movement over whose gaze?
Husk, leaf, little boat of paper

and wood to mark the speed of the stream?
Randy and Jerry, Michael and Wally
and John: lucky we don’t have to know
what something is in order to hold it.


4. ATLANTIS

I thought your illness a kind of solvent
dissolving the future a little at a time;

I didn’t understand what’s to come
was always just a glimmer

up ahead, veiled like the marsh
gone under its tidal sheet

of mildly rippling aluminum.
What these salt distances were

is also where they’re going:
from blankly silvered span

toward specificity: the curve
of certain brave islands of grass,

temporary shoulder-wide rivers
where herons ply their twin trades

of study and desire. I’ve seen
two white emissaries unfold

like heaven’s linen, untouched,
enormous, a fluid exhalation. Early spring,

too cold yet for green, too early
for the tumble and wrack of last season

to be anything but promise,
but there in the air was white tulip,

marvel, triumph of all flowering, the soul
lifted up, if we could still believe

in the soul, after so much diminishment ...
Breath, from the unpromising waters,

up, across the pond and the two-lane highway,
pure purpose, over the dune,

gone. Tomorrow’s unreadable
as this shining acreage;

the future’s nothing
but this moment’s gleaming rim.

Now the tide’s begun
its clockwork turn, pouring,

in the day’s hourglass,
toward the other side of the world,

and our dependable marsh reappears
—emptied of that starched and angular grace

that spirited the ether, lessened,
but here. And our ongoingness,

what there’ll be of us? Look,
love, the lost world

rising from the waters again:
our continent, where it always was,

emerging from the half-light, unforgettable,
drenched, unchanged.


5. COASTAL

Cold April and the neighbor girl
—our plumber’s daughter—
comes up the wet street

from the harbor carrying,
in a nest she’s made
of her pink parka,

a loon. It’s so sick,
she says when I ask.
Foolish kid,

does she think she can keep
this emissary of air?
Is it trust or illness

that allows the head
—sleek tulip—to bow
on its bent stem

across her arm?
Look at the steady,
quiet eye. She is carrying

the bird back from indifference,
from the coast
of whatever rearrangement

the elements intend,
and the loon allows her.
She is going to call

the Center for Coastal Studies,
and will swaddle the bird
in her petal-bright coat

until they come.
She cradles the wild form.
Stubborn girl.


6. NEW DOG

Jimi and Tony
can’t keep Dino,
their cocker spaniel;
Tony’s too sick,
the daily walks
more pressure
than pleasure,
one more obligation
that can’t be met.

And though we already
have a dog, Wally
wants to adopt,
wants something small
and golden to sleep
next to him and
lick his face.
He’s paralyzed now
from the waist down,

whatever’s ruining him
moving upward, and
we don’t know
how much longer
he’ll be able to pet
a dog. How many men
want another attachment,
just as they’re
leaving the world?

Wally sits up nights
and says, I’d like 
some lizards, a talking bird,
some fish. A little rat.

So after I drive
to Jimi and Tony’s
in the Village and they
meet me at the door and say,
We can’t go through with it, 

we can’t give up our dog,
I drive to the shelter
—just to look—and there
is Beau: bounding and
practically boundless,
one brass concatenation
of tongue and tail,
unmediated energy,
too big, wild,

perfect. He not only
licks Wally’s face
but bathes every
irreplaceable inch
of his head, and though
Wally can no longer
feed himself he can lift
his hand, and bring it
to rest on the rough gilt

flanks when they are,
for a moment, still.
I have never seen a touch
so deliberate.
It isn’t about grasping;
the hand itself seems
almost blurred now,
softened, though
tentative only

because so much will
must be summoned,
such attention brought
to the work—which is all
he is now, this gesture
toward the restless splendor,
the unruly, the golden,
the animal, the new. 

Mark Doty


----------



## Impenitent

"Killer" 
(Thriller)

It's close to midnight
Mount McKinley with no snow looks so stark
Under the moonlight
The waves are rollin past last night's mark
You're drenched in sweat
You know there's no high ground left to take it
You try to scream
But terror takes the sound before you make it
You're paralyzed

'Cause its a killer
Killer this very night
And no one's gonna save you
When the steamy brine gets full height
You know it's a killer
Killer coming at you so many ways
You're fighting for your life
The heat's a killer
Killer tonight, yeah

You feel the waves slap
And realize there's nowhere left to run
You pray for a cold snap
Then realize it's too late - you're undone
You close your eyes
And hope that this is just imagination
But all the while
You feel the temperature continue to climb
You're outta time

'Cause it's a killer
Killer at night
There ain't no second chance 
Against co2's St. Vitus dance
Against the Killer
Killer at night
You're fighting for your life
Outside a killer
Killer tonight

Someone tripped a sensor 
Who'd kill you for a can of beans
Where's your Roy Spencer
He and Lindzen and other men with means
Are on Antartica it seems 
They get to pass on man's genes
Free from starvation and cutthroats
And these stinking bodies afloat
But what about you and me
Now gimme that can of beans
And you will see

That we caused an anthropogenic killer
Killer in the air, the land, and the sea
What good is a balanced budget
And personal responsibility
If merely to stay alive
A man becomes a 
Killer in the night
A judge and jury
In his own right
In this anarchy

Gore soliloquy:
"Darkness falls across Greenland
The ice gone, now only barren sand
Animals crawl in search of food 
In packs or alone in two-legged neighborhoods
And whosoever shall be found
Without the soul for the killing ground
Must stand and face the million degrees of hell
And speak from inside a skeptic's shell'

'The foulest chemicals are in the air
The carbon dioxide of two hundred years
A mere 3 degrees can put you in your tomb
And it's closing in to seal your doom
And though you fight to stay alive
Everybody dies in this thriller
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the anthropogenic killer"

------------___________


[


----------



## Dhara

February -  Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, 
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries 
to get onto my head. It's his
way of telling whether or not I'm dead.
If I'm not, he wants to be scratched; if I am 
He'll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, 
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, 
declaring war. It's all about sex and territory, 
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here 
should snip a few testicles. If we wise 
hominids were sensible, we'd do that too, 
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it's love that does us in. Over and over 
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing 
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits 
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries 
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You're the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring. 


Margaret Atwood


----------



## Impenitent

Romney Rash

I was in my quiet room late one night
When my eyes beheld a young gun
of the right
He wrote a marvelous budget and his star began to rise
Name of Paul Ryan and much to my surprise 

He had the rash
He had the Romney Rash
The Romney Rash
It was a Wall Street smash
He had the rash
He caught it in a flash
He had the rash
He had the Romney Rash

It's something in your past that's icky and itchy
And you don't dare explain 'cause it's sticky and fishy
A guy like that could be another jokester and funster
And on top of that, he looks just like ...Eddie Munster

Suddenly they were all in my room
Celebrating what Ryan caught so soon
The also-rans so clueless and confused on facts
Crawling out the doors of Ann's two Cadillacs

There's Rick Santorum with Michele Bachmann
Without her husband but with her eyes wide open
Newt Gringrich and his Booty Callista
Brought her favorite party favor, a game of twister

There was Rick Perry, all forgiving with no regret
Trying hard to remember the Texas Two Step
And Herman Cain was looking so fine
Ready to Tea Party like it's 18-999

I put on a lampshade, made of magic underwear
We partied all night and nobody mentioned Romneycare
I was glad the gang was all there and getting down
For what is a circus without all the clowns

They had the rash
The Romney Rash
They brought the cash
The Romney cash 
It's in my stash 
The Romney stash
We're ready to bash
At the Romney Bash

Sarah Palin fell out of the dumbwaiter with a scream
Seems she was troubled by just one thing
She looked around the room and shook her fist
And said, "Whatever happened to my Peppermint Twist?"

We'll take back the White House, wait and see
Who wouldn't vote for an Anglo-Saxon like me?
We'll win on Tuesday without much hullabaloo 
Then there'll be no more Watusi or Boogaloo

The USA will have the Rash
They'll have the Romney Rash
The Romney Rash
It was a Wall Street smash
It caught on in a flash
Since we  had the cash
To buy the white trash
The Romney white trash


----------



## Dhara

Inter-relationship

By Thich Nhat Hanh

You are me and I am you. 
Isn't it obvious that we inter-are?
You cultivate the flower in yourself 
so that I will be beautiful. 
I transform the garbage in myself
so that you do not have to suffer.
I support you you support me. 
I am here to bring you peace 
you are here to bring me joy.


----------



## Dhara

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; 

   Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee 
Into ever-widening thought and action--

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

-Gitanjali


----------



## Impenitent

"Me and Chris Down by the Jersey Shore"

Mitt rolled out the Libya surprise at midnight
Obama shut down free speech was his accusation
When Darrell Issa found out he began to shout
And he started the investigation

It's against the law
It was against the law
What the Mittens saw
It was against the law

Then Issa looked down and spit on the ground
Every time Barry's name gets mentioned
Jim Dement said oy if I get that boy
I'm gonna break him like he's on a plantation

Mitt's Sandy relief truck is on it's way
He don't know where it's going
It's on it's way but he's taking his time
Got to take more pictures
Here in Ohio
New York is sunk,
But this is a swing state

Sean and Rush can hardly miss
Seeing Barry and Chris
Down by the Jersey Shore
Seeing  Michael, Barry And Chris
Workin it out on the Jersey Shore

In a couple of days they come and
Take Mitt away
But the press let the story leak
Seems the Romneys have long been dead
Now a family of Zomneys have replaced them instead
You oughtta see their picture in Newsweek!

Goodbye  Annie, no more FLOTUS
Seeing Barry and Chris down on the Jersey Shore

Tho you people said it was Ann's  turn
Asleep or undead was hard to discern
On a puppet like Ms Piggy, Ernie or Bert
But it looks she'll spend eternity in a thousand $ t-shirt


----------



## Impenitent

Gilligan's Island

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, 
A tale of a fateful trip 
That started from the living room
Of terrorists Bill and Bernadette

The candidate was a former organizer
His mate absorbed in hate
Together they all hatched a plan
On that ominous date

His writing started getting rough, 
The terrible script was tossed, 
If not for the dreams of the fearless crew 
The Messiah would be lost, the Messiah would be lost. 

The book would be written in a most unusual way
With Barack Obama,
Michelle too, 
The millionaire and his wife, 
The Reverend Wright
Weathermen Ayers and Dohrn
All sharing a dream for a day

So this is the tale of the castaways
They're in for the long, long haul 
They'll have to make they best of things, 
It's an uphill climb. 

The Messiah and Michelle too, 
Will do their very best, 
To keep the others anonymous 
In this ruled by radicals quest

No photos, no recordings, no paper trail
An unusual Obama enterprise 
Not built on fail
An enterprise not built on fail

So join us here each week my friends 
You're sure to get a smile, 
From seven underhanded castaways, 
We'll be here for a long, long while


----------



## Dhara

Denice Frohman, Spoken Word Poet, Slams 'Dear Straight People,' Incredible Queer Performance (VIDEO)


----------



## Dhara

Dear Straight People,

Who do you think you are?

Do you have to make it so obvious that I make you uncomfortable?

Why do I make you uncomfortable?

Do you know that makes me uncomfortable?

Now we’re both uncomfortable.

Dear Straight People,

You’re the reason we stay in the closet.

You’re the reason we even have a closet.

I don’t like closets, but you made the living room an unshared space

and now I’m feeling like a guest in my own house.

Dear Straight People,

Sexuality and gender? Two different things

combined in many different ways.

If you mismatch your socks, you understand.

Dear Hip-Hop,

Why are you fascinated with discovering gay rappers?

Gay people rap. Just like gay people ride bikes and eat tofu.

Dear Straight People,

I don’t think God has a sexual orientation,

but if she were straight, she’d be a dope ally.

Why else would she invent rainbows?

Dear Straight Women,

I mean, “Straight Women.”

Leave me the fuck alone!

Dear Straight Men,

If I’m flirting with you

it’s because I think it’s funny. Just laugh.

Dear Straight People,

I’m tired of proving that my love is authentic. So I’m calling for reparations.

When did you realize you were straight? Who taught you?

Did it happen because your parents are divorced?

Did it happen because your parents are not divorced?

Did it happen because you sniffed too much glue in 5th grade?

Dear Straight People,

Why do you have to stare at me when I’m holding

my girlfriend’s hand like I’m about to rob you?

Dear Straight People,

You make me want to fuckin’ rob you!

Dear Straight Allies,

thank you, more please!

Dear Straight Bullies,

You’re right. We don’t have the same values.

You kill everything that’s different.

I preserve it.

Tell me, what happened to

Jorge Mercado?

Sakia Gunn?

Lawrence King?

What happened to the souls alienated

in between too many high school walls,

who planned the angels of their deaths in math class,

who imagined their funerals as ticker-tape parades,

who thought the afterlife was more like an after party.

Did you notice that hate

is alive and well in too many lunch rooms,

taught in the silence of too many teachers,

passed down like second hand clothing

from too many parents.

Dear Queer Young Girl,

I see you.

You don’t want them to see you

so you change the pronouns in your love poems to “him” instead of “her.”

I used to do that.

Dear Straight People,

You make young poets make bad edits.

Dear Straight People,

Kissing my girlfriend in public without looking to see who’s around

is a luxury I do not fully have yet.

But tonight, I am drunk in my freedom,

grab her hand on the busiest street in Philadelphia,

zip my fingers into hers and press our lips firmly,

until we melt their stares into a standing ovation, imagine

that we are in a sea of smiling faces,

even when we’re not

and when we’re not,

we start shoveling,

digging deep into each other’s eyes we say,

“Hey Baby, can’t nothing stop this tonight”

because tonight, this world is broken

and we’re the only thing

that’s going to keep it together.

Denice Frohman


----------



## Dhara

English
BY YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA

When I was a boy, he says, the sky began burning,
& someone ran knocking on our door
one night. The house became birds
in the eaves too low for a boy's ears.

I heard a girl talking, but they weren't words.
I knew one good thing: a girl
was somewhere in our house,
speaking slow as a sailor's parrot.

I glimpsed Alice in Wonderland.
Her voice smelled like an orange,
though I'd never peeled an orange.
I knocked on the walls, in a circle.

The voice was almost America.
My ears plucked a word out of the air.
She said, Friend. I eased open the door
hidden behind overcoats in a closet.

The young woman was smiling at me.
She was teaching herself a language
to take her far, far away,
& she taught me a word each day to keep secret.

But one night I woke to other voices in the house.
A commotion downstairs & a pleading.
There are promises made at night
that turn into stones at daybreak.

From my window, I saw the stars
burning in the river brighter than a big
celebration. I waited for her return,
with my hands over my mouth.

I can't say her name, because it was
dangerous in our house so close to the water.
Was she a boy's make-believe friend
or a beehive breathing inside the walls?

Years later my aunts said two German soldiers
shot the girl one night beside the Vistula.
This is how I learned your language.
It was long ago. It was springtime.


----------



## Dhara

Troll Zone

They sit under the bridge in darkness,

Their ugly minds working overtime.

How to catch their prey from their

Lazy perches?

They can't be seen in the light of day,

Hungry, always hungry.

They feast on the past,

They make slurs their repast,

But they're never satisfied.

Sad, wasted lives

And then they die.

M. K.


----------



## Dhara

Invisible Men (and women)

Musa Okwonga

Dear invisible men,
Who tweet women endless threats of rape,
Who are you?
Are you married fathers of two?
Are you teens crowded round a friend’s phone in a canteen or KFC?
Are you pausing between texting your first love,
To set yourself up as an egg,
And post fresh hate?
Where are you as you type this?
Is your girlfriend asleep in your arms,
As you peer over her shoulder at your phone?
How did this become your sport?
You are not proud of what you do;
If you were, you would not care who knew.
This is strange:
You loudly announce pride in your prejudice
But your invisibility suggests your shame.
There is such an anger in you
That it cannot be cloaked with jokes.
I pity the mirror that has to reflect your misery,
Since it must see so much.
Because the women are everywhere now,
Aren’t they?
They weren’t just content in your beds,
Now they’re not just in your clubs,
Or in the eyes and hearts of other men;
The women are in your classrooms, boardrooms and DJ booths,
They are obstructing you, or ignoring you,
Not needing you to improve.
Swiftly, they are sweeping you from every stage,
And the only place you feel safe
Is in one-hundred and forty characters of rage.
I doubt that, as you type, you will ever pause
To think that, while you promise terror,
The greatest fear is yours.


----------



## Dhara




----------



## Dhara

Recreation
BY AUDRE LORDE

Coming together   
it is easier to work   
after our bodies   
meet
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not
but as your body moves
under my hands   
charged and waiting   
we cut the leash
you create me against your thighs   
hilly with images
moving through our word countries   
my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me.

Touching you I catch midnight   
as moon fires set in my throat   
I love you flesh into blossom   
I made you
and take you made
into me.


----------



## HenryBHough




----------



## Dhara

To This Day

 by Shane Koyczan

When I was a kid
I used to think that pork chops and karate chops
were the same thing
I thought they were both pork chops
and because my grandmother thought it was cute
and because they were my favourite
she let me keep doing it

not really a big deal

one day
before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees
I fell out of a tree
and bruised the right side of my body

I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it
because I was afraid I’d get in trouble
for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been

a few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise
and I got sent to the principal’s office
from there I was sent to another small room
with a really nice lady
who asked me all kinds of questions
about my life at home

I saw no reason to lie
as far as I was concerned
life was pretty good
I told her “whenever I’m sad
my grandmother gives me karate chops”

this led to a full scale investigation
and I was removed from the house for three days
until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises

news of this silly little story quickly spread through the school
and I earned my first nickname

pork chop

to this day
I hate pork chops

I’m not the only kid
who grew up this way
surrounded by people who used to say
that rhyme about sticks and stones
as if broken bones
hurt more than the names we got called
and we got called them all
so we grew up believing no one
would ever fall in love with us
that we’d be lonely forever
that we’d never meet someone
to make us feel like the sun
was something they built for us
in their tool shed
so broken heart strings bled the blues
as we tried to empty ourselves
so we would feel nothing
don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
that an ingrown life
is something surgeons can cut away
that there’s no way for it to metastasize

it does

she was eight years old
our first day of grade three
when she got called ugly
we both got moved to the back of the class
so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls
but the school halls were a battleground
where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day
we used to stay inside for recess
because outside was worse
outside we’d have to rehearse running away
or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there
in grade five they taped a sign to her desk
that read beware of dog

to this day
despite a loving husband
she doesn’t think she’s beautiful
because of a birthmark
that takes up a little less than half of her face
kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer
that someone tried to erase
but couldn’t quite get the job done
and they’ll never understand
that she’s raising two kids
whose definition of beauty
begins with the word mom
because they see her heart
before they see her skin
that she’s only ever always been amazing

he
was a broken branch
grafted onto a different family tree
adopted
but not because his parents opted for a different destiny
he was three when he became a mixed drink
of one part left alone
and two parts tragedy
started therapy in 8th grade
had a personality made up of tests and pills
lived like the uphills were mountains
and the downhills were cliffs
four fifths suicidal
a tidal wave of anti depressants
and an adolescence of being called popper
one part because of the pills
and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty
he tried to kill himself in grade ten
when a kid who still had his mom and dad
had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression
is something that can be remedied
by any of the contents found in a first aid kit

to this day
he is a stick on TNT lit from both ends
could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends
in the moments before it’s about to fall
and despite an army of friends
who all call him an inspiration
he remains a conversation piece between people
who can’t understand
sometimes becoming drug free
has less to do with addiction
and more to do with sanity

we weren’t the only kids who grew up this way
to this day
kids are still being called names
the classics were
hey stupid
hey spaz
seems like each school has an arsenal of names
getting updated every year
and if a kid breaks in a school
and no one around chooses to hear
do they make a sound?
are they just the background noise
of a soundtrack stuck on repeat
when people say things like
kids can be cruel?
every school was a big top circus tent
and the pecking order went
from acrobats to lion tamers
from clowns to carnies
all of these were miles ahead of who we were
we were freaks
lobster claw boys and bearded ladies
oddities
juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle
trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal
but at night
while the others slept
we kept walking the tightrope
it was practice
and yeah
some of us fell

but I want to tell them
that all of this shit
is just debris
leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought
we used to be
and if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself
get a better mirror
look a little closer
stare a little longer
because there’s something inside you
that made you keep trying
despite everyone who told you to quit
you built a cast around your broken heart
and signed it yourself
you signed it
“they were wrong”
because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click
maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything
maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth
to show and tell but never told
because how can you hold your ground
if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it
you have to believe that they were wrong

they have to be wrong

why else would we still be here?
we grew up learning to cheer on the underdog
because we see ourselves in them
we stem from a root planted in the belief
that we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway
and if in some way we are
don’t worry
we only got out to walk and get gas
we are graduating members from the class of
fuck off we made it
not the faded echoes of voices crying out
names will never hurt me

of course
they did

but our lives will only ever always
continue to be
a balancing act
that has less to do with pain
and more to do with beauty.


----------



## Dhara

The Fifth Fact
BY SARAH BROWNING

For Ben’s project he must research five facts
about his African-American hero and write them
on posterboard. He chooses Harriet Tubman,
whose five facts are: Her father’s name was Ben.
Her mother’s name was Old Rit. She was born
in 1820 and died in 1913. She was born in Maryland
and died in New York. Ben asks for advice
about his fifth fact and I suggest: She led more than
300 people to freedom. Ben sighs the way he does
now and says, Everyone knows that, Mom.

So I try to remember the book we read yesterday,
search for the perfect fact, the one that will match
his four facts and satisfy his almost-seven mind.
Remember, I ask, she was a spy for the North
during the Civil War? It’s a hit! He writes it:
Harriet Tubman was a spy for the north during
the civil war. It was a war between the north
which is where the slaves were trying to get
and the south which is where they were.
Before the war, Abraham Lincoln signed a form
that said All the slaves everywhere are free!
which is one of the reasons they were fighting.

On summer mornings, Lincoln rode his horse
to work down the Seventh Street Turnpike
close to my new home. Down Georgia Avenue
past The Hunger Stopper and Pay Day 2 Go and liquor
stores and liquor stores. Past Cluck-U-Chicken
and Fish in the ’Hood and Top Twins Faze II
Authentic African Cuisine and the newish Metro station
and all those possibilities gleaming in developers’ eyes.

There goes Lincoln’s horse down Georgia Avenue
from the Soldier’s Home to the White House –
much cooler up here in the country, in the neighborhood,
at the hospital. And there’s Walt Whitman, the sworn poet
of every dauntless rebel the world over, hanging around
his street corner every morning to bow to the president
at Thomas Circle by the homeless guys. It’s 100 years now
since any president summered at the Soldier’s Home.
But I was born only 50 years after Harriet Tubman died,
all these centuries we drag into the next century and the next.

And sometimes I see the ghosts of Harriet Tubman
and Lincoln and Uncle Walt and the true stories
and sometimes our own despair like Washington’s
summer malaria, her 40 war hospitals, Whitman moving
from bed to bed, stroking the hair of so many dying boys.

Head north up Georgia Avenue now to our own
soldiers’ home – Walter Reed – where the boys and now
girls too mourn the ghosts of their own legs and arms
and capacity for love. Where is their sworn poet?
I write here in my new neighborhood, the city old
and new around me, Harriet Tubman born so close,
all these heroes under our feet.


----------



## Impenitent

"Dirty Dancing"

Barack: Now I've told the lie of my life
No I never told one like this before
Yes, we'll ride this through
and I owe it all to you

Hillary: : 'Cause I've told the lie of my life
and I owe it all to you

Barack: I've been waiting for so long
Now I've finally found someone
To stand by me

Hillary: We saw the writing on the wall
As we covered up this incredible travesty 

Both: Now with ambition in our eyes
As we try so hard to disguise it secretly
So we take each other's hand
'Cause we both understand the urgency

Barack: just remember

Hillary:  Just this the one thing

Barack: To keep our story straight

Hillary:  So I'll tell you something

Both:  This could work because

(CHORUS)
Both: I've told the lie of my life
No I never told one like this before
Yes we'll ride this one through
And I owe it all to you
'Cause I've told the lie of my life
And I've closed every open door
To hide the truth
And I owe it all to you

Hillary:  With my body and my soul
I want to be President more than you'll ever know

Barack: So we can't just let it go
We don't dare lose control

Hillary: Yes I know whats on your mind
When you say:
"Your election depends on the certainty of mine"

Barack: Just remember
There just the one thing

Hillary: To keep our story straight

Barack: So I'll tell you something

Both: This could work because

(CHORUS)
Both: 'Cause I told the lie of my life
No I've never told one like this before
Yes I we'll ride this one through
And I owe it all to you
'Cause I've told the lie of my life
And I've closed every open door
To hide the truth
and I owe it all to you

*Instrumental*

Barack: Now I've told the lie of my life
No I never told one like this before

(Hillary: Never felt this way)

Barack: Yes I'll swear it's the truth
and I owe it all to you

Both: 'Cause I told the lie of my life
And I've closed every open door
To hide the truth
and I owe it all to you

Both: "cause I've told the lie of my life
No I've never told one like this  before
Yes, I'll swear it's the truth 
And I owe it all to you"


----------



## Dhara

You Whose Name

You whose name is aggressor and devourer. 
Putrid and sultry, in fermentation. 
You mash into pulp sages and prophets, 
Criminals and heroes, indifferently. 
My vocativus is useless. 
You do not hear me, though I address you, 
Yet I want to speak, for I am against you. 
So what if you gulp me, I am not yours. 
You overcome me with exhaustion and fever. 
You blur my thought, which protests, 
You roll over me, dull unconscious power. 
The one who will overcome you is swift, armed: 
Mind, spirit, maker, renewer. 
He jousts with you in depths and on high, 
Equestrian, winged, lofty, silver-scaled. 
I have served him in the investiture of forms. 
It's not my concern what he will do with me.

A retinue advances in the sunlight by the lakes. 
From white villages Easter bells resound. 

Czeslaw Milosz


----------



## Dhara

Human Family - by Maya Angelou

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.

Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.

The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.

I've sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I've seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.

I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I've not seen any two
who really were the same.

Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.

We love and lose in China,
we weep on England's moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.

We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we're the same.

I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.


----------



## Dhara

Movement Song

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck 
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.

Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof 
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators 
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh 
and now
there is someone to speak for them 
moving away from me into tomorrows 
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning 
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us 
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle 
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
watching
you move slowly out of my bed 
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves. 

Audre Lorde


----------



## Dhara

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time 
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. 

Langston Hughes


----------



## Dhara

A Father To HIs Son
 By Carl Sandburg

A father sees his son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
'Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.'
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum monotony
and guide him among sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
'Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.'
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire. 
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives. 
Tell him too much money has killed men
and left them dead years before burial:
the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
has twisted good enough men
sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use against other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.


----------



## Dhara

The gathering family
throws shadows around us,
it is the late afternoon
Of the family.

There is still enough light
to see all the way back,
but at the windows
that light is wasting away.

Soon we will be nothing
but silhouettes: the sons'
as harsh
as the fathers'.

Soon the daughters
will take off their aprons
as trees take off their leaves
for winter.

Let us eat quickly--
let us fill ourselves up.
the covers of the album are closing
behind us. 

Linda Pashtan


----------



## Dhara

Victory

All night the ways of Heaven were desolate,
Long roads across a gleaming empty sky.
Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I,
Alone, serene beyond all love or hate,
Terror or triumph, were content to wait,
We, silent and all-knowing. Suddenly
Swept through the heaven low-crouching from on high,
One horseman, downward to the earth's low gate.

Oh, perfect from the ultimate height of living,
Lightly we turned, through wet woods blossom-hung,
Into the open. Down the supernal roads,
With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung,
Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving,
Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.

Rupert Brooke


----------



## Dhara

Victory

a poem by Justin Christopher Laud

Take every emotion
Anger, Frustration, Pain
Take every experience
Failure, Rejection, Disappointment
Bottle it up 
Till you’re ready to burst like a powder keg

Then it’ll happen,
Your mind goes dark and empty
Like nighttime in the desert.
You don’t know why you’re doing it,
But you’re doing it to the best of your abilities.

You run, hit, tackle
You don’t feel a thing
But you know the other team’s
Feeling every little bit of it.

Like a hungry wolf gorging itself
You don’t want to,
You need to.
When it’s over
And you’re standing over your opponent
Like a victorious Warrior
You feel eerily satisfied.

This is why you spend your summers 
In the blistering heat,
Why you make your winter home the weight room
All this to feel like a God
All this to gain Victory.


-


----------



## Dhara

Poems about Victory

by Sri Chinmoy

Victory usually means  
Temporary peace. 
But peace is  
Eternity’s victory.

~

Victory comes and victory goes.  
Defeat weeps and defeat lingers.  
Experience soars and experience lasts. 
God smiles and God dances.

~

The body’s victory   
Is often  
The soul’s tremendous loss.
The soul’s victory  
Is always  
The body’s amazing progress.

~

I felt the victory   
Of the world-saviour: Peace. 
Therefore  
I smiled and danced.  

I see the victory  
Of the world-devourer: War. 
Therefore  
I sigh and die.

~

Yesterday    
your victory’s crown  
was possession.  
Today  
your victory’s crown  
is renunciation.  
Tomorrow  
your victory’s crown 
shall be liberation.

~

In the inner world   
Each victory is a help. 
Each defeat is a help, too. 
But each surrender to God’s Will 
Is a victory unparalleled, 
A victory invincible.

~

God’s Smile is the victory   
Of today’s man.  
Man’s smile is the Victory  
Of Eternity’s God.

~

The victory of human love is confusing.   
The victory of divine love is illumining. 
The victory of supreme love is fulfilling.

~

Victory and defeat are interwoven. 
Do not try to separate them,  
But try to go beyond them  
If your heart longs for abiding peace.


----------



## Dhara

I Ask You

What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside--
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.

But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.

No, it's all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles--
each a different height--
are singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt--
frog at the edge of a pond--
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches. 

Billy Collins


----------



## Dhara

Coyote Song
BY MARSHA DE LA O

Inside the night, this hospital, asylum,
this party for those undone by desire, forever
unslaked, inside a house inside the night,
I'm inside

this house with eight beams and moonlight
pulling on the past through skylights, this house
of white noise, wind and dry heat, lonely
house on a ridge line, house of ordinary
shame,

my sister's house with corrals and outbuildings
around it, and beyond that, the dog
patrolling, and beyond that, skirts and folds
of the mountain rising in rumpled geologic
scrolls into the range.

At the center
beneath the moon's silence that nothing
ever changes, muffled in blankets with fear
beside me on my little bench of sleep,
I can hear their voices,

could be three or twenty-three,
unhinged saints gabbling to their shadows,
or panty-sniffers, drug-trippers in all flavors
past vanilla, could be Birnam wood
on the move, the shriek of its roots thirsty
and air-brushed, or a pack of lunatics
crooning norteño songs.

What is certain is advent.
They're coming down,
                             coming towards
the heart beneath the feathers,
coming for
what can't be protected,
on a beam of dread,
riding that ray.

I'm listening, my eyes snapped-open
inside darkness, other people in other rooms
who know how to sleep through a night
like this night, thrown against the roundness
of the world which is desire.

The old bitch guards this night on the ranch,
half shepherd, half other, this is her watch,
she gallops the perimeter, anxious to sound like
more than one dog, though she's going arthritic
and her paws strike the hard ground.

Now they quiet, penitents, lunatics,
marauders and ragpickers, quiet.
Only one left behind and the moon
                           is his hieroglyph,
one creature padding
                down the mountain,
coming closer.

Coyote knows a good joke,
he only wants to let her in on it.
He can't stop laughing, can't stop
crying, can't stop licking the crevices
clean, licking safety and duty
until they're empty.

I hear the dog listening, ears lifted.
Coyote's tongue slides into night
air, pressing narcotic vowels through
wonder, through longing
and longing and wonder awaken. She's close
to that edge, that border in the night
where one thing becomes another and even
an old dog who's worked a ranch eleven years
feels the urge to let loose, blow this little
settlement, go wild.

Clouds loose and blue in the arms
of the moon, slant light on this mountain raking
us, the dog and I, we feel the pull. Imagine
a woman trying to come between
coyote and the female he's after
when she knows

what is dark and offers itself and vanishes
has come for her at last? The body wants
what it can't have, to follow the path
of thirst through the rent in the wire
beyond the corral.

The dog doesn't move, but who knows
better than she the small outpost
death has set up in her, maybe she's all
desire now to slip under the moon
and chase down that lure.

Coyote wheedles and croons another minute
or two, then lopes off, calling over his shoulder
in a language even I can understand,
the right names for things
not kept in heaven.


----------



## Dhara

A Poem for Myself

I was born in Mississippi; 
I walked barefooted thru the mud.
Born black in Mississippi, 
Walked barefooted thru the mud.
But, when I reached the age of twelve
I left that place for good.
My daddy chopped cotton
And he drank his liquor straight.
Said my daddy chopped cotton
And he drank his liquor straight.
When I left that Sunday morning
He was leaning on the barnyard gate.
Left my mama standing
With the sun shining in her eyes.
Left her standing in the yard
With the sun shining in her eyes.
And I headed North
As straight as the Wild Goose Flies, 
I been to Detroit & Chicago
Been to New York city too.
I been to Detroit & Chicago
Been to New York city too.
Said I done strolled all those funky avenues
I'm still the same old black boy with the same old blues.
Going back to Mississippi
This time to stay for good
Going back to Mississippi
This time to stay for good-
Gonna be free in Mississippi
Or dead in the Mississippi mud. 

Etheridge Knight


----------



## Dhara

He Sees Through Stone

He sees through stone
he has the secret
eyes this old black one
who under prison skies
sits pressed by the sun
against the western wall
his pipe between purple gums

the years fall
like overripe plums
bursting red flesh
on the dark earth

his time is not my time
but I have known him
in a time gone

he led me trembling cold
into the dark forest
taught me the secret rites
to make it with a woman
to be true to my brothers
to make my spear drink
the blood of my enemies

now black cats circle him
flash white teeth
snarl at the air
mashing green grass beneath
shining muscles

ears peeling his words
he smiles
he knows
the hunt the enemy
he has the secret eyes
he sees through stone 

Etheridge Knight


----------



## Impenitent

Another wintry blast!  
They're calling the cold, "Polar Vortex," 
and the snow, "Lake Effect," 
but all I know is that my house will be crushed like the local Wal-Mart
if I don't get this crap
Shoveled off my roof in a hurry!

We got seven feet of 
'Global Warming' (yet again!)
 in three day's time, 
and by God, if I so much as hear Al Gore's name mentioned on the news tonight, 
i'm gonna[ throw my beer bottle right through the TV screen!

I believed!  How I believed!  
But this can't be! 
Stop testing my faith; 
I've already failed ...

What's all the big commotion?
It snowed just yesterday.
And the rising of the ocean
Is only dramatic overplay.
He's defrauding me with Science.
Defrauding me with Science!
And ignoring simple history.

When he's flying in his Learjet,
(Defrauding me with Science - Science!)
They say he leaves a footprint.
(Science, Science!)

But it's all a big promotion,
When it snowed just yesterday.
And I see no rising of the ocean.
On the young and naive he preys.
But he defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
And disregarded meteorology.

When Gore is flying ever nearer.
(Defrauding me with Science-Science, Science!)
I can see Al Jazeera.
(Defrauding me with Science - Science, Science!)

I thought he had such devotion,
But now he's mocking me.
He sold out the Arctic Ocean,
To pump and dump Current TV.
He defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
And got off on a technicality.

Good God Al Gore -
He's terrible.
I can't believe it!
There he goes again!
He's hidden his dossier,
And I must get an FOIA,
To see his inner secrets,
And little pet tricks.

It's simple harmonic motion,
When it snowed just yesterday.
And the rising of the ocean,
A cycle repeated every day.
But he defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
While promoting an immorality.

Without a "Wonderful Life" emotion,
A White Christmas he never sees.
He talks only in slow motion,
About polar vortex mysteries,
He defrauded me with Science.
He defrauded me with Science!
And failed in philanthropy.

I shoveled and struggled, 
and huffed and puffed my way through several mini-avalanches, until at last my roof was clear, around 8 P.M.  
Finally resting and relaxing in front of my TV, 
beer in my hand, 
Who did I see but none other than Al Gore, 
presenting his first of 24 episodes of  “It’s Urgent to Rendezvous with Reality to Save the Future of Civilization."

I should have flipped him off when he began his soliloquy!  
Too tired to react, or just too lazy,
Again I heard the song that was so familiar:

'Darkness falls across Greenland"

The ice gone, now only barren sand.
Animals crawl in search of food 
In packs or alone in two-legged broods.
And whosoever shall be found
That can't withstand the killing ground
Must face a million degrees of hell
And speak from inside a skeptic's shell.

The foulest chemicals are in the air,
The carbon dioxide of two hundred years.
A mere 24 hours from your tomb,
Six feet below to seal your doom.
The earth may fight to stay alive
But from pole to pole to pillar.
No force of nature can survive
The evil anthropogenic killer

Now he"a talking to a skeptic,
 and discussing the "Pause."  
The skeptic thinks this is an indication of "Gobal Cooling," rather than warming!  
It looks like Al has painted himself into a corner!  
I'm gonna enjoy this!

Al:  Oh, Heaven, Dear Heaven!
If the trend is as you decry,
The Ice Age has already begun,
And we will all freeze and die.

You foresee a frigid earth,
And of humanity there is a dearth:
With frozen hearts bleeding red
Fallen, both cold and dead.

Even tho' your theories might belie
A forcing agent, a greenhouse gassing,
Would it not be worth a try
To forestall our frosty passing?

To form a blanket, with warmth abound
To defeat the impending crisis,
Before we all are found
Frozen stiff and lifeless!

Now can you not see how some
Want to save the planet we cherish;
Otherwise our home will become
A barren desert where all perish.

Al explains, 
We don't need catastrophic global warming to experience catastrophe.
  We need only to get close.'  

'There will not be enough resources to sustain us all.  
There will be oil wars, food wars, water wars.
 People will kill those who they perceive to stand in the way of their own survival.
  Both the killers and the killed 
will be the wealthy and the poor, 
the educated and the illiterate, 
 the young and the old.  
Alliances will be made and broken.  
Chaos will ensue.

Will we survive?
Models don't tell us."

But I was already dead asleep where I was sitting, 
buried under ten more feet of snow.


----------



## Dhara

Dedicated to Transphobic Bigots

Prejudice is a pernicious virus, 
the sinister germ of a hideous disease.
It mushroomed from an old papyrus 
and spread around the world with ease.

Now bigotry corrupts the mind, 
it poisons the soul, perverts the spirit.
Alas, good medicine is not easy to find, 
no painless cure for the malady to quit.

You cannot stamp out prejudice by logic.
You cannot eradicate racism by reason.
Intolerance defies wisdom and is allergic
to critical thinking in every season.

Stilll we must persist and cherish a hope 
in educating youth, so new generations
will fare fairer and have a purer scope, 
untainted by bigoted misconceptions. 

Four Quatrains On Bigotry By


Paul Hartal


----------



## Capstone

*Spirits O' the Season*

Affectionately known as St. Paddy's
is a day for the lasses and laddies
to savor the head
of the Killian's Red
sans the grief from their mommies and daddies.​


----------



## Dhara

Leprechauns peeking,
Around a willow tree,
Pussy willows waking,
Longing to be free.
Colleens and shamrocks
And castles old and gray,
Put them all together
To make St. Patrick's Day.


----------



## OldLady

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900. 

254. *Song of the Universal* 

1 
COME, said the Muse,
Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,
Sing me the Universal.

In this broad Earth of ours,
Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, 
Enclosed and safe within its central heart,
Nestles the seed Perfection.

By every life a share, or more or less,
None born but it is born—conceal’d or unconceal’d, the seed is waiting. 

.....


----------



## Dhara

Heavenly Grass 

My feet took a walk in heavenly grass. 
All day while the sky shone clear as glass. 
My feet took a walk in heavenly grass, 
All night while the lonesome stars rolled past. 
Then my feet come down to walk on earth, 
And my mother cried when she give me birth. 
Now my feet walk far and my feet walk fast, 
But they still got an itch for heavenly grass. 
But they still got an itch for heavenly grass. 


Tennessee Williams


----------



## Dhara

Pairs of Shoes 

My future lives come to me in dreams 
Come silently with torn soles. 
I am like a skilled shoemaker 
Greeting the wandering breath of these feet. 

These dreams-my other selves 
Sprawl out to sleep like a litter of puppies, 
Pinches of ashy fur standing up in tufts 
Their young hair like hens fluffed feathers 
They lie on their stomachs, pressing against my shadow. 

Pairs of shoes from yesterday will come tomorrow 
Am I their native land, or a land foreign to them? 
Their house, or an inn? 
Which road guided them to me? 

Tonight I decide to open myself to these dreams, 
As anxious for their arrival as a child yearning for milk. 
Perhaps fireflies will draw them in a different direction 
And perhaps the shoes are no longer ripped. 

I feel as empty as a new-born creatire. 
I spread out like a homeless evening 
To meet these footprints turning toward me. 


- Nguyen Quyen


----------



## Dhara

The Children
BY MARK JARMAN

The children are hiding among the raspberry canes.   
They look big to one another, the garden small.   
Already in their mouths this soft fruit   
That lasts so briefly in the supermarket   
Tastes like the past. The gritty wall,   
Behind the veil of leaves, is hollow.
There are yellow wasps inside it. The children know.   
They know the wall is hard, although it hums.
They know a lot and will not forget it soon.

When did we forget? But we were never   
Children, never found where they were hiding
And hid with them, never followed   
The wasp down into its nest
With a fingertip that still tingles.
We lie in bed at night, thinking about
The future, always the future, always forgetting
That it will be the past, hard and hollow,   
Veiled and humming, soon enough.


----------



## Dhara

Alone

By Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.


----------



## Dhara

Dream Variations

By Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.


----------



## Dhara

The First Good Friday -

 Poem by ENOCH JOHN


So there had been a trial of sorts, more of a farce, 
So much so that Pilate hypocritically washed his hands, 
Meaning to free himself from the blood of this man, 
But then Pilate had asked a very pertinent question of Jesus, 
Regarding his kingship.This was important to the Roman governor, 
And to his superiors in Rome and indeed to Jewry and the wider world.

The death sentence was imposed so that the journey up the hill began, 
It might have been a day when an ochre sky hung lazily over Jerusalem, 
And the weary stones in the streets remained cold and silent, 
As the fate of humanity hung in the balance.
Peter that great apostle and many others were absent from the hill or stood afar off, 
But then Jesus had already found it expedient to die for the world: 
''Dulce et decorum est pro patrice mori.''

So this notable day was laden with phantasmagoria: 
The long trek up Golgotha, the Messiah being nailed to a crude cross, 
The taunts mixed with the jeers and the genuine sorrow of his followers, 
His yielding up the ghost and His final utterances of anguish and forgiveness, 
Climaxed by the earthquake and the renting of the veil in the temple.

So that on the Morning of Christ's Nativity became not just a Miltonic verse
That resonated through the hills of Judah, 
But this first Good Friday painted the canvas of the sky sombre, 
For it was like a supanova going out in a moment- -
The choreography of angels was gone, there were no shepherds as witnesses, 
But then on Easter Sunday He arose from the dead proving who He is.


----------



## Dhara

Good Friday Poem
Jesus had no servants, yet they called Him Master.
Had no degree, yet they called Him Teacher.
Had no medicines, yet they called Him Healer.
Had no army, yet kings feared Him.
He won no military battles, yet He conquered the world. 
He committed no crime, yet they crucified Him.
He was buried in a tomb, yet He lives today.

 Stephen Harper


----------



## Dhara

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


----------



## Dhara

The Peace of Wild Things

By Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.


----------



## Dhara

The tempest calmed after bending the branches of the trees and leaning heavily upon the grain in the field. The stars appeared as broken remnants of lightning, but now silence prevailed over all, as if Nature's war had never been fought. 

At that hour a young woman entered her chamber and knelt by her bed sobbing bitterly. Her heart flamed with agony but she could finally open her lips and say, "Oh Lord, bring him home safely to me. I have exhausted my tears and can offer no more, oh Lord, full of love and mercy. My patience is drained and calamity is seeking possession of my heart. Save him, oh Lord, from the iron paws of War; deliver him from such unmerciful Death, for he is weak, governed by the strong. Oh Lord, save my beloved, who is Thine own son, from the foe, who is Thy foe. Keep him from the forced pathway to Death's door; let him see me, or come and take me to him." 

Quietly a young man entered. His head was wrapped in bandage soaked with escaping life. 

He approached he with a greeting of tears and laughter, then took her hand and placed against it his flaming lips. And with a voice with bespoke past sorrow, and joy of union, and uncertainty of her reaction, he said, "Fear me not, for I am the object of your plea. Be glad, for Peace has carried me back safely to you, and humanity has restored what greed essayed to take from us. Be not sad, but smile, my beloved. Do not express bewilderment, for Love has power that dispels Death; charm that conquers the enemy. I am your one. Think me not a specter emerging from the House of Death to visit your Home of Beauty. 

"Do not be frightened, for I am now Truth, spared from swords and fire to reveal to the people the triumph of Love over War. I am Word uttering introduction to the play of happiness and peace." 

Then the young man became speechless and his tears spoke the language of the heart; and the angels of Joy hovered about that dwelling, and the two hearts restored the singleness which had been taken from them. 

At dawn the two stood in the middle of the field contemplating the beauty of Nature injured by the tempest. After a deep and comforting silence, the soldier said to his sweetheart, "Look at the Darkness, giving birth to the Sun." 

Peace Xviii
Khalil Gibran


----------



## IsaacNewton

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death. 

- William Butler Yeats -


----------



## IsaacNewton

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking

If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain

Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain. 

- Emily Dickinson -


----------



## Dhara

I’ll Open the Window
BY ANNA SWIR

Our embrace lasted too long.
We loved right down to the bone.   
I hear the bones grind, I see   
our two skeletons.

Now I am waiting
till you leave, till
the clatter of your shoes
is heard no more. Now, silence.

Tonight I am going to sleep alone   
on the bedclothes of purity.
Aloneness
is the first hygienic measure.   
Aloneness
will enlarge the walls of the room,   
I will open the window
and the large, frosty air will enter,   
healthy as tragedy.
Human thoughts will enter
and human concerns,
misfortune of others, saintliness of others.   
They will converse softly and sternly.

Do not come anymore.   
I am an animal   
very rarely.


----------



## Dhara

Windchime
BY TONY HOAGLAND

She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It’s six-thirty in the morning
and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she’s trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.

She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn’t making
because it wasn’t there.

No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands upon the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.


----------



## Dhara

Video Blues
BY MARY JO SALTER

My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy,
and likes to rent her movies, for a treat.
It makes some evenings harder to enjoy.

The list of actresses who might employ
him as their slave is too long to repeat.
(My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy,

Carole Lombard, Paulette Goddard, coy
Jean Arthur with that voice as dry as wheat ...)
It makes some evenings harder to enjoy.

Does he confess all this just to annoy
a loyal spouse? I know I can’t compete.
My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy.

And can’t a woman have her dreamboats? Boy,
I wouldn’t say my life is incomplete,
but some evening I could certainly enjoy

two hours with Cary Grant as my own toy.
I guess, though, we were destined not to meet.
My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy,
which makes some evenings harder to enjoy.


----------



## Dhara

The destruction is injected and all worries disappear 
Your addiction unnoticed total annihilation is near 
The first time with a needle in your arm is no big thing 
you just want to feel that so talked about unforgettable sting 
so eventually you will try it a few more times 
cuz the feeling you get is incrediable times five 
And now its just a never again acheivable high 
It has not became a problem yet 
your obssesion and curiosity have not been met 
You have to take it to the limits 
Just to say no and when to quit 
So with every injection goes a little more 
She is slowly invading and replacing who you are 
But the pain to have her will be ignored 
The signs are there and as plain as day 
Yet the hold she has on you your unable to turn away 
So now you have a hungerthat can not be fed 
This is where most junkies wish they were dead 
All desire and hope have died 
Just to feel that encrediable feeling inside 
Your soul is numb and you no longer feel 
Now your life aint lived and your reality aint real 
Your attitude is as mean and as cold as ice 
but as long as she runs through you youll never think twice 
People who love you wish they could have you back 
But as long as she is with you your only loyal to your sack 
You lost everything you held near 
But a day without her is all that you fear 
So now your in denial 
and you choose to play with death for awhile 
And now you have a choice 
Either continue to die inside 
Or do what is right 
But your attempts to stay clean never last 
And its back to doing big +@* blasts 
You live and you breath just to stay high 
Just to feel her evil inside 
And no matter what you do or what you need 
She is always with you so you continually 
stick in that @%%%! and start to bleed 
And now you realize this is your most precious and valued thing 
This is what you need to survive she has ruined who you are 
yet she is the death you choose to call life

Author Unknown


----------



## Dhara

Cloony The Clown by Shel Silverstein

I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.
His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.
He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.
And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.
And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.
And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.
And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.
And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.
One day he said, "I'll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown."
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.
He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees."
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.
The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, 'cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.
And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.
And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -
I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT."
And while the world laughed outside.
Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.


----------



## Dhara

*sisters*

*by Lucille Clifton, 1936 - 2010*


me and you be sisters.
we be the same.

me and you
coming from the same place.

me and you
be greasing our legs
touching up our edges.

me and you
be scared of rats
be stepping on roaches.

me and you
come running high down purdy street one time
and mama laugh and shake her head at
me and you.

me and you
got babies
got thirty-five
got black
let our hair go back
be loving ourselves
be loving ourselves
be sisters.

only where you sing,
I poet.


----------



## IsaacNewton

“BLOODY LIPS

The bloody wound
Of the gladiator
Gurgles out life's end.

The cries of acclimations from the stands
Fill the sky with raging tigers.

Waving their arms about to incite the masses
The aging notables add an air of dignity to the arena.
Making their separate entries
they
K
N
E
E
L
over the still-warm corpses
Of the young. Their withered lips they pose
Upon the fresh flowing wounds
And, to prolong their lives – so they believe,
Suck, ravenously suck out the blood, blood, blood.

Fresh blood from the sun
Flowing into filthy veins
As into sewage pipes,

And thus the Heart of the Nation is abandoned.”
- Visar Zhiti, The Condemned Apple: Selected Poetry -

Posted for educational purposes.


----------



## Dhara

Bad Dreams are Good by

Joni Mitchell

The cats are in the flower beds
A red hawk rides the sky
I guess I should be happy
Just to be alive
But
We have poisoned everything
And oblivious to it all
The cell-phone zombies babble
Through the shopping malls
While condors fall from Indian skies
Whales beach and die in sand
Bad Dreams are good
In the Great Plan
And you cannot be trusted
Do you even know you are lying?
It’s dangerous to kid yourself
You go deaf, dumb, and blind
You take with such entitlement
You give bad attitude
You have No grace
No empathy
No gratitude
You have no sense of consequence
Oh, my head is in my hands
Bad Dreams are good
In the Great Plan
Before that altering apple
We were one with everything
No sense of self and other
No self-consciousness
But now we have to grapple
With this man-made world backfiring
Keeping one eye on our brother’s deadly selfishness
Everyone’s a victim here
Nobody’s hands are clean
There’s so very little left of wild Eden Earth
So near the jaws of our machines
We live in these electric scabs
These lesions once were lakes
We don’t know how to shoulder blame
Or learn from past mistakes
So who will come to save the day?
Mighty Mouse. . . ? Superman. . . ?
Bad Dreams are good
In the Great Plan
In the dark
A shining ray
I heard a three-year-old boy say
Bad Dreams are good
In the Great Plan


----------



## Capstone

*One Night Stand* (acrostic)

Ominous, the light is breaking,
Morning peeks from that horizon
East of where the night's love-making
Never sees the Sun is rising.


----------



## Dhara

*The Just*


Whoever settles a matter by violence is not just. 
The wise calmly considers what is right and what is wrong. 
Whoever guides others by a procedure
that is nonviolent and fair
is said to be a guardian of truth, wise and just.

A person is not wise simply because one talks much. 
Whoever is patient, free from hate and fear, 
is said to be wise.

A person is not a supporter of justice
simply because one talks much. 
Even if a person has learned little, 
whoever discerns justice with the body
and does not neglect justice is a supporter of justice.

A person is not an elder
simply because one’s head is gray. 
Age can be ripe, but one may be called “old in vain.” 
The one in whom there is truth, 
virtue, nonviolence, restraint, moderation, 
whoever is free from impurity and is wise, 
may be called an elder.

Mere talk or beauty of complexion does not make
an envious, greedy, dishonest person become respectable. 
The one in whom all these are destroyed, 
torn out by the very root, 
who is free from hate and is wise, is called respectable.

Not by a shaven head does one who is undisciplined
and speaks falsely become an ascetic. 
Can a person be an ascetic
who is still enslaved by desire and greed? 
Whoever always quiets wrong tendencies, small or large, 
is called an ascetic, because of having quieted all wrong.

A person is not a mendicant
simply because one begs from others. 
Whoever adopts the whole truth is a mendicant, 
not the one who adopts only a part. 
Whoever is above good and bad and is chaste, 
who carefully passes through the world in meditation, 
is truly called a mendicant.

A person does not become a sage by silence, 
if one is foolish and ignorant; 
but the wise one, who, holding a scale, 
takes what is good and avoids what is bad, 
is a sage for that reason. 
Whoever in this world weighs both sides
is called a sage because of that.

A person is not a noble, 
because one injures living beings. 
One is called noble, 
because one does not injure living beings.

Not only by discipline and vows, 
not only by much learning, 
nor by deep concentration nor by sleeping alone
do I reach the joy of release which the worldly cannot know. 
Mendicant, do not be confident
until you have reached the extinction of impurities.


Lord Buddha


----------



## Dhara

*Dharma*
by Billy Collins

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example 
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut 
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager 
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.


----------



## Dhara

Writing In The Afterlife - by Billy Collins

I imagined the atmosphere would be clear,
shot with pristine light,
not this sulphurous haze,
the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.

Many have pictured a river here,
but no one mentioned all the boats,
their benches crowded with naked passengers,
each bent over a writing tablet.

I knew I would not always be a child
with a model train and a model tunnel,
and I knew I would not live forever,
jumping all day through the hoop of myself.

I had heard about the journey to the other side
and the clink of the final coin
in the leather purse of the man holding the oar,
but how could anyone have guessed

that as soon as we arrived
we would be asked to describe this place
and to include as much detail as possible—
not just the water, he insists,

rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,
not simply the shackles, but the rusty,
iron, ankle-shredding shackles—
and that our next assignment would be

to jot down, off the tops of our heads,
our thoughts and feelings about being dead,
not really an assignment,
the man rotating the oar keeps telling us—

think of it more as an exercise, he groans,
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become jammed together,

bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.


----------



## TheGreatKing

*Living - by Alok Srivastava*

A chance encounter with a word
gave rise to a recessed memory
of a long forgotten smell,
attached to various things hoary.
Thus unearthing an era,
long gone and nullified,
pressed under sheets of experiences
like the fossil of a reptile.
The folded lobes of the mind
contain chapters of lives past.
A smell here, a sound there
are enough to raise their facade.
We are so busy in living
that the beauty of the moment is lost.
Only such triggered visions
make us realize what we tossed.
A life well lived,
or a life lived not?


----------



## Dhara

Mercury in Retrograde

BY SHERYL LUNA

The day ended badly with a broken ankle,
a jinxed printer, and a dead car. The dry yellow grass
against the sunset saved me. Roosters

pranced across a lawn of shit, proudly plumed
in black feathers, bobbing before the gray goats.
It was the first day I saw god in the quiet,

and found a mustard seed was very small.
There I had been for years cursing “why?”
and all the gold in the sun fell upon me.

There was a white mare in the midst
of brown smog, majestic in the refinery
clouds. Even the radio wouldn’t work!

My mother limps and her hair falls out.
The faithful drive white Chevy trucks
or yellow Camrys, and I’m here golden

on the smoking shock-less bus.
I lost language in this want, each poem
dust, Spanish fluttered

as music across the desert, even weeds
tumbled unloved. The police sirens seared
the coming night, dogs howled helplessly
sad.

Lo I walk the valley of death, love
lingers in my hard eyes. Mañana never 
comes just right. I mend myself in the folds

of paper songs, ring my paper bells
for empty success. Quiero Nada,
if I sing long enough, I’ll grow dreamlike
and find a flock of pigeons, white under
wings lifting awkward bodies like doves
across the silky blue-white sky.


----------



## Dhara

Bones" by Sheryl Luna

Once, as a girl, she saw a woman shrink 
inside herself, gray-headed and dwarf-sized, 
as if her small spine collapsed. Age 
and collapse were something unreal, like war 
and loss. That image of an old woman sitting 
in a café booth, folding in on herself, was forgotten 
until her own bones thinned and hollowed, 
music-less, un-fluted, empty.

She says she takes shark cartilage before she sleeps, 
a tablet or two to secure flexibility and forget
that pain is living and living is pain.

And time moves like a slow rusty train 
through the desert of weeds, and the low-riders 
bounce like teenagers young and forgiving 
in her night’s dream. She was sleek in a red dress

with red pumps, the boys with slick hair, tight jeans. 
She tells me about 100-pound canisters of lard 
and beans, how she could dance despite her fifth 
child, despite being beaten and left
in the desert for days, how she saw an angel 
or saint glimmer blonde above her, how she rose 
and walked into the red horizon despite 
her husband’s sin.

I’m thinking how the women 
in my family move with a sway, with a hip 
ache, and how they each have a disk 
slip. The sky seems sullen, gray, and few birds 
whisk. It’s how the muse is lost 
in an endless stream of commercials, how people 
forget to speak to one another as our ending skulks 
arthritically into our bones, and the dust 
of a thousand years blows across the plain, 
and the last few hares sprint across a bloodied 
highway. Here in the desert southwest, loss 
is living and it comes with chapped lips,
long bumpy bus rides and the smog of some man’s 
factory trap. And there are women everywhere 
who have half-lost their souls 
in sewing needles and vacuum-cleaner parts.
In maquiladoras there grows a slow poem, 
a poem that may only live a moment sharply 
in an old woman’s soul, like a sudden broken hip.

And yet, each October, this old woman rises 
like the blue sky, rises like the fat turkey vultures 
that make death something beautiful, something 
towards flight, something that circles in a group 
and knows it is best not to approach death alone.

Each October she dances, the mariachis yelp 
and holler her back to that strange, flexible youth, 
back to smoky rancheras and cumbias—songs 
rolling in the shadows along the bare Mexican hills. 
She tells me, “It’s in the music, where I’ll always 
live.” And somehow, I see her jaw relax, 
her eyes squint to a slow blindness 
as if she can see something I can’t.

And I remember that it is good to be born of dust, 
born amid cardboard shanties of sweet gloom. 
I remember that the bare cemetery stones 
in El Paso and Juárez hold the music, and each spring 
when the winds carry the dust of loss there is a howl, 
a surge of something unbelievable, like death, 
like the collapse of language, like the frail bones 
of Mexican grandmothers singing.


----------



## Dhara

A Letter to the Girl I Used to Be”
By Ethan Smith

Dear Emily, 
Every time I watch baseball a voice I no longer recognise whispers 
“Ethan, do you remember? When you were going to be the first girl
To play in the major league Seattle mariners rally cap?”
But to honest Emily I don’t
Dad told me that like it was someone else’s bedtime story
But I do know you had that drive
Didn’t let anyone tell you to wear shorts above your knees
Didn’t care if boys thought your hair fell on your shoulders just right
But with girls, sleepovers meant the space between your shoulder and hers 
Was a 6-inch fatal territory
The year you turned 11 
Was the first time you said out loud that you didn’t want to live anymore
In therapy you said you wouldn’t make it to 21
On my 21st birthday I thought about you
You were right
At 19 you started to fade
I tried to cross you out like a line in my memoir
I wished I could erase completely
And maybe I’m misunderstanding the definition of death
But even though parts of you still exist
You are not here
Most of my friends have never heard your name until now


I’ve been trying to write this letter for 6 months
I still can’t decide if it should be an apology or not
But now you will never hear “Emily Smith” announced at a college graduation
Get married, give birth
When the prescribed testosterone started taking effect my body stopped producing the potential for new life every month
I thought about your children, how I wanted them too
I let a doctor remove your breasts so I could stand up straighter
Now even if I somehow had those children I wouldn’t be able to nourish them
My body is obsolete
Scarred cosmetic but never C-section
I was 4 days late
There will never be grandparents
I was one week late
They will never hold their lover’s sleeping figure
I was 11 days late
They will never breathe in a sunset and a sunrise in the same night
I was 2 weeks late
They will never learn to jump rope
I was 3 weeks late
They will never shout “Watch mummy, watch me on the slide”
I was 2 months late
A piece of us will never wrap their arms around our legs for comfort
Just to keep them from falling down
And I am sorry that this process is so slow and all you can do is wonder if you ever had a place
You did
You still do
Don’t forget that
Yours, Ethan
P.S. I never hated you


----------



## midcan5




----------



## Dhara

Thanks, midcan and everyone for making this such a great thread.

I'm proud of it's continuity for so many years.


----------



## Dhara

And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship." 

Your friend is your needs answered. 

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. 

And he is your board and your fireside. 

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. 

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay." 

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; 

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed. 

When you part from your friend, you grieve not; 

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. 

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. 

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught. 

And let your best be for your friend. 

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. 

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? 

Seek him always with hours to live. 

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. 

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. 

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. 

Khalil Gibran


----------



## Dhara

Lee Mokobe: A powerful poem about what it feels like to be transgender | TED Talk | TED.com


----------



## Dhara

Salt Sheet

By Liam O'Brien

There’s a wound in me, wound up in me, expert
like a corkscrew unscrewed. And the cork is kept.
Press a palm over it—help, there’s a wound in me—
no, three. No, more. No, here is a ship at sea
and she sinks. She was the enemy. So the borer—
the boy with his brace & auger—he swims over
to the Golden Vanity. Entreaty. Captains,
can’t trust them far from land. And so he ends—
the boy—I’m drifting with the tide. They stitch
him in his hammock—it was so fair and wide.
How many holes got the enemy? How many
left to plug, crew bailing, boys tiring in the tide?
Fight’s over, brace & auger. Wrap me in my salt sheet.
What deserves disease will get it, or has already.




Liam O’Brien grew up on a small island outside Seattle. In 2012, he graduated from Sarah Lawrence College, where he received the Stanley and Evelyn Lipkin Prize for Poetry and the Nancy Lynn Schwartz Prize for Fiction. His work can be found in print in “Unsaid Magazine,” and online at “The Offending Adam,” “Blackbird VCU,” “Buffalo Almanack,” and “Industrial Lunch.” He is currently pursuing his MFA at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop.


----------



## Dhara

I. Machismo, the Trans Prince

When I enter the room,
everything feminine faints in my presence.
I am a contagious plague of sexy.
Every face snaps towards me like a school
of starving fish praying to be reeled in.

I roll with a gang ready to shin-kick
the first person who dares not call me Mister.
I am a gender-bending James Dean—
my hair an impenetrable coat of cool.
Every other butch thing wishes they were me.
I'm so butch they call it courage.

I strut manly and sensitive—
a football team that hugs it out
and sings acoustic versions of 90s alt-rock love songs.

I am the coolest oppressed kid in the room—
my oppression out-oppresses all the normal gay boys.
My gay boy friends are bathroom bouncers,
guarding the men's room door while I pee.

Every cup of punch I drink is spiked with
"Tonight is MY night, motherfucker!"
The DJ plays all my requests. I ask any girl to dance.
The room is bowing to me—
they're calling me their King.




II. Amanda, the Easy Target

She has not been asked to dance all night.
Nobody is complimenting her dress—
we all just stare, waiting for an outline
of stuffing. It's impossible to divorce
the shape of her body from her new name,
so we don't even try.

She's at her third school this year—
the teasing, the graffiti on her locker
is painted all over her.

Tonight she talks to the chaperones,
holds hands with her glass of punch. 
In the next year she'll probably win
a death threat, a nudge
towards the edge of a building,
the knot in her noose.

In November, we will both celebrate
Transgender Day of Remembrance.
We'll pretend we've lost the same things.


----------



## Treeshepherd

In dreams
There is a castle
Atop a cloudy butte

White steeds
Dressed in tassles
Trot along a route

O'er streams
The carriage travels
'cross bridges of the mind

Thru trees
The pathways ravel
O'er dreaming's lifetime

'till gleams
That shining castle
High on sunlit butte.

-Treeshepherd 5/22/16


----------



## Capstone

*Memorial Day*

Go young and dumb to war, without a thought
of who or what you're really killing for
(the 'God and Country' faux _esprit de corps_
suffices well to shoot or to be shot)!
And when the time has come to redeploy,
a little older, wiser, more informed
about truths hidden from the uniformed,
don't dwell on _why_ but _how_ to best destroy!
And when at last you're free, if still alive,
expose the lies to spare our future sons
The Lesson that you learned among the guns:
that PROFIT is the reason battles thrive.​


----------



## Capstone

*The Silouette of Love*

Dark figures cast their shadows on
an otherworldy sky
where birds and hearts are free to soar
and passion's free to lie

in two dimensions that deny
the cold and bitter truth
that love is but a fool's delusion
fostered in our youth

by images of heart shaped trees
with leaves of pink and red
that fade to blackened silouettes
when love, at last, is dead.​


Author's Note: _Obviously, the picture prompt was most likely not intended to evoke anything so dark, but I wanted to give the image's creator a little something different to think about._ *lol*


----------



## Capstone

*The Elephant in the Room*

((drumpf)) ((drumpf)) ((drumpf)) ((drumpf))
What's that awful sound?!
((drumpf)) ((drumpf)) ((drumpf)) ((drumpf))
Strap the China down!

(((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF)))
Box the keepsakes! Wrap the glass!
((((DRUMPF)))) ((((DRUMPF)))) ((((DRUMPF)))) ((((DRUMPF)))))
Hold on tightly to your ass!

*(((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF)))*
Footsteps drawing near!
*(((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF))) (((DRUMPF)))*
I guess it's not our year!



Author's Note: _Inspired by a scene from the original Jurassic Park movie._​


----------



## Capstone

^Oh, c'mon guys, that was sheer unadulterated genius, if I do say so myself!


----------



## Lilah

Five Minutes

It was a circumspect dance with
careful distance between your
body and mine until you slid
your hand to my waist, bringing
me flush against you.
Then it became something else
entirely -- a rare moment of 
self-indulgence.

The span of five minutes is
pretty insignificant in
the scheme of things.
People lose hundreds of minutes
every day, squandering them
on trivial things.
But sometimes in those fragments of
time, something can happen you will
remember the rest of your life.

Being held by that handsome stranger,
suffused in his nearness was an
act of intimacy far greater than sex.
Even now, I can feel that moment of
absolute connection and the blood
still rises to my face.


----------



## Capstone

*A Candy Bar, Bubbles, and the Cosmos​*

The brightly colored plastic ring-tipped wand
pulled from the soapy liquid had been raised
to puckered lips that gently blew the glazed
translucent spheres into the great beyond.

The cluster formed a bubble galaxy
that flew away and burst into the skies
beyond the scope of its creator's eyes,
to pop, collide, congeal, and cease to be.

The child wonders how the bubbles fared,
without an inkling of their swift decline,
and hopes and prays that each is doing fine,
that none are lonely, hurting much, or scared;

then shrugs and drops the wand and child's play,
to gobble up a fun size Milky Way.​


----------



## Borillar

Roses are red, violets are blue
your candidate sucks and mine does too.


----------



## theliq

Capstone said:


> *A Candy Bar, Bubbles, and the Cosmos*
> 
> The brightly colored plastic ring-tipped wand
> pulled from the soapy liquid had been raised
> to puckered lips that gently blew the glazed
> translucent spheres into the great beyond.
> 
> The cluster formed a bubble galaxy
> that flew away and burst into the skies
> beyond the scope of its creator's eyes,
> to pop, collide, congeal, and cease to be.
> 
> The child wonders how the bubbles fared,
> without an inkling of their swift decline,
> and hopes and prays that each is doing fine,
> that none are lonely, hurting much, or scared;
> 
> then shrugs and drops the wand and child's play,
> to gobble up a fun size Milky Way.​


Men can get breast cancer too


----------



## SeaGal

I am not a poet.

Though every now and then a faceless one appears without invitation.
Demanding, controlling, selfishly screaming words insistent on dictation.

Impossible to ignore, whirling round and round.
I do not create the words, merely write them down.

I am a scribe.

SeaGal 11/14/16


----------



## Capstone

*To the Predators*

In lucid dreams of massive wings,
serrated beak in dripping prey,
who screams at last the oddest things
before its life force bleeds away:

"_Devour my flesh to your disgrace,_
_but grant my dying wish at least,
and save for last my eyes and face,
that I may watch you as you feast

on ignorance that what you eat
is not my body but your own.
So savor that delicious meat
and pick clean each and every bone.

This final thought is my bequest:
fly safely home when you are done,
and from the comfort of your nest,_
_digest the fact that we are One._"​


----------



## SeaGal




----------



## SeaGal

Some years ago, a friend and I were discussing the finer points of cane syrup.  The making of cane syrup is still a fall activity in parts of the south, much as it has been for generations.  Little has changed in the cooking procedure.  I prefer the lighter syrup...and he prefers the heavy bodied dark.  As in making a dark roux - the darker syrup requires taking it almost, but not quite, to the stage of being burnt.

The whimsical, fleeting, unsophisticated kiss on the palate of the light - or the heavy, powerful, lingering taste of the dark - can apply to poetry as well as cane syrup, and life too, I suppose.  Anyway, our discussion on the finer points of cane syrup...some years ago...inspired these few  lines.

(Untitled)

You choose the dark...
I'll take the light.

One seeks the sun...
the other the night.

To inner voices we hark...
As we ponder man's plight.

When our journey is done...
Could _both_...be right?

SeaGal 2008


----------



## Bleipriester

The User

For quite a time he might appear
to be a stock of vast, wide lore
but once you´ve read his slime and smear
you ask yourself what you´re here for.

Time passes by and, nothing learned,
he still talks big and insolent
Harasses you and yet has turned
in useless waste the time you´ve spent.

You move along, another board
in hope for having better times
just to meet an equal sort
of users that yap even in rimes.


----------



## Capstone

*Opposing Forces?*

_Two hands, one left the other right,_
_oppose but for the common goal_
_to bring together dark and light_
_components in the mixing bowl—_

_a sight one stirs above the dried_
_and moisten'd hidden down below;_
_a scent one wishes to abide_
_and therefore seasons to bestow..._

_a taste of what could only be_
_a combination to fulfill_
_the dictates of that Recipe_
_we read as our Creator's Will:_

_opposing forces that create_
_to break the silence (each its own),_
_those Two persist to satiate_
_the hunger One feels all alone._​


----------



## SeaGal

You sir are truly a poet, while I remain merely a scribe - albeit a joyful one.  

Anyway - once joined an mail order weight loss program that had an online support forum - designed for members to have a place to give and receive encouragement, to share success stories and setbacks.  Overall atmosphere was one of positive reinforcement on a sometimes difficult journey.  One of the topics was a challenge to pen a few inspirational words about your 'weight-loss' experience as a way to encourage others.  Some expressed the desire but didn't quite know how to begin - advice was given to just 'write what you know'...so I did...with Good Humor (or so was my intention).

'Write what you know says PamSB.
So what do I know, says I to me?
They say that we must reach for the stars,
but all I see there...are candy bars.

There is one named for Mars
the Chunky god of war.
An' the creamy Milky Way
leaves me yearning for S'More.

Meanwhile, eyes drifting downward to earth
where happily, gladly there is no dearth...

Of chocolatey goodness
and peanutty delight.
I'd spend my whole Payday
for two Twix's tonite.

Even in sleep, tucked snugly in bed
Peppermint Patty plays in my head...

Dreaming of battles fought
by Three brave Musketeers
raising up sword and shield
to help conquer my fears.

I try to flee but there's nowhere to go.
Rivers of Hershey's are starting to flow.

A bridge made of Snickers
O'er Butterfinger lane,
heapin' Mounds of Almond Joy
are driving me insane.

They say that we must reach for the stars
but all I see there...are candy bars.'

SeaGal 2012

ps - they kicked me out.


----------



## midcan5

Wow, this will be Post # 522 in this thread.  I may have posted a poem by Wislawa Szymborska already, but this is a fascinating poem and poetry project.


"Draw a crazy picture, Write a nutty poem, Sing a mumble-gumble song, Whistle through your comb. Do a loony-goony dance' Cross the kitchen floor, Put something silly in the world, That ain't been there before."  Shel Silverstein


----------



## theliq

For Rebecca (Becky) Born 29.12.1981....murdered 15.07.17

    "Thy Tiny Footsteps on the sands,

    Of a remote and lonely shore,

    The twinkling of thine infant hands,

    The wind swept golden hair you wore,

    The mingled look of love and glee,

    When we returned to gaze on thee."


In Memory of our Beautiful Daughter,We Loved you then, We love you still Darling.Papa
,


----------



## midcan5

Opinion | Memorize That Poem!

"To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered."

Hamlet


----------



## midcan5

Fascinating TED talk.   

The Museum of Four in the Morning


'Four In The Morning'   

"The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
--three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living."

Wislawa Szymborska


----------



## Mindful

*The Illusion of Love*
*by Boyd Cathey* (October 2018)






_At the Lapin Agile_, Pablo Picasso, 1905


*She was mine from the* very first,
Or, so I thought in my proud mind’s eye,
Awakening in my loins unslakened thirst
Of desire and longing, and muted sigh.

But her one and twenty years
And my forty and five, thus doubled,
Spelled for me severest tears
And untold trouble.

Oh! What I desired from her
She would not deign,
And what she desired of me, alas,
Was just my brain.


----------



## Mindful

Published posthumously after the author was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.  

I have a rendezvous with Death  
At some disputed barricade,  
When Spring comes back with rustling shade  
And apple-blossoms fill the air—  
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.  

It may be he shall take my hand  
And lead me into his dark land  
And close my eyes and quench my breath—  
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death  
On some scarred slope of battered hill,  
When Spring comes round again this year  
And the first meadow-flowers appear.  

God knows ’twere better to be deep 
Pillowed in silk and scented down,  
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,  
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,  
Where hushed awakenings are dear...  
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,  
When Spring trips north again this year,  
And I to my pledged word am true,  
I shall not fail that rendezvous.


----------



## theliq

Mindful said:


> Published posthumously after the author was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.
> 
> I have a rendezvous with Death
> At some disputed barricade,
> When Spring comes back with rustling shade
> And apple-blossoms fill the air—
> I have a rendezvous with Death
> When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
> 
> It may be he shall take my hand
> And lead me into his dark land
> And close my eyes and quench my breath—
> It may be I shall pass him still.
> I have a rendezvous with Death
> On some scarred slope of battered hill,
> When Spring comes round again this year
> And the first meadow-flowers appear.
> 
> God knows ’twere better to be deep
> Pillowed in silk and scented down,
> Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
> Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
> Where hushed awakenings are dear...
> But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
> At midnight in some flaming town,
> When Spring trips north again this year,
> And I to my pledged word am true,
> I shall not fail that rendezvous.


Who was the writer Mindful,I wonder if it was written in the Trenches..such a premonition (sic) and anticipated finality of Death that eventually came,Sad Indeed,Iwonder if it was written to a Loved One...st

I like your new avie,much indeed


----------



## Mindful

theliq said:


> Mindful said:
> 
> 
> 
> Published posthumously after the author was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.
> 
> I have a rendezvous with Death
> At some disputed barricade,
> When Spring comes back with rustling shade
> And apple-blossoms fill the air—
> I have a rendezvous with Death
> When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
> 
> It may be he shall take my hand
> And lead me into his dark land
> And close my eyes and quench my breath—
> It may be I shall pass him still.
> I have a rendezvous with Death
> On some scarred slope of battered hill,
> When Spring comes round again this year
> And the first meadow-flowers appear.
> 
> God knows ’twere better to be deep
> Pillowed in silk and scented down,
> Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
> Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
> Where hushed awakenings are dear...
> But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
> At midnight in some flaming town,
> When Spring trips north again this year,
> And I to my pledged word am true,
> I shall not fail that rendezvous.
> 
> 
> 
> Who was the writer Mindful,I wonder if it was written in the Trenches..such a premonition (sic) and anticipated finality of Death that eventually came,Sad Indeed,Iwonder if it was written to a Loved One...st
> 
> I like your new avie,much indeed
Click to expand...


Didn't say who the author was.

We've been immersed just lately with the armistice remembrances. All of those young men sent out to battle, and never returning.

Peter Jackson has put out a movie about the Great War. I watched it last night.


----------



## Mindful

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

- William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII


----------



## midcan5

This is my 525th post in this thread.

'An American Poem'

"I was born in Boston in 1949. I never wanted this fact to be known, in fact I’ve spent the better half of my adult life trying to sweep my early years under the carpet and have a life that was clearly just mine and independent of the historic fate of my family. Can you imagine what it was like to be one of them, to be built like them, to talk like them to have the benefits of being born into such a wealthy and powerful American family. I went to the best schools, had all kinds of tutors and trainers, traveled widely, met the famous, the controversial, and the not-so-admirable and I knew from a very early age that if there were ever any possibility of escaping the collective fate of this famous Boston family I would take that route and I have. I hopped on an Amtrak to New York in the early ‘70s and I guess you could say my hidden years began. I thought Well I’ll be a poet. What could be more foolish and obscure. I became a lesbian. Every woman in my family looks like a dyke but it’s really stepping off the flag when you become one. While holding this ignominious pose I have seen and I have learned and I am beginning to think there is no escaping history. A woman I am currently having an affair with said you know  you look like a Kennedy. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. People have always laughed at my Boston accent confusing “large” for “lodge,” “party” for “potty.” But when this unsuspecting woman invoked for the first time my family name I knew the jig was up. Yes, I am, I am a Kennedy. My attempts to remain obscure have not served me well. Starting as a humble poet I quickly climbed to the top of my profession assuming a position of leadership and honor. It is right that a woman should call me out now. Yes, I am a Kennedy. And I await your orders. You are the New Americans. The homeless are wandering the streets of our nation’s greatest city. Homeless men with AIDS are among them. Is that right? That there are no homes for the homeless, that there is no free medical help for these men. And women. That they get the message —as they are dying— that this is not their home? And how are your teeth today? Can you afford to fix them? How high is your rent? If art is the highest and most honest form of communication of our times and the young artist is no longer able to move here to speak to her time…Yes, I could, but that was 15 years ago and remember—as I must I am a Kennedy. Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys? This nation’s greatest city is home of the business- man and home of the rich artist. People with beautiful teeth who are not on the streets. What shall we do about this dilemma? Listen, I have been educated. I have learned about Western Civilization. Do you know what the message of Western Civilization is? I am alone. Am I alone tonight? I don’t think so. Am I the only one with bleeding gums tonight. Am I the only homosexual in this room tonight. Am I the only one whose friends have died, are dying now. And my art can’t be supported until it is gigantic, bigger than everyone else’s, confirming the audience’s feeling that they are alone. That they alone are good, deserved to buy the tickets to see this Art. Are working, are healthy, should survive, and are normal. Are you normal tonight? Everyone here, are we all normal. It is not normal for me to be a Kennedy. But I am no longer ashamed, no longer alone. I am not alone tonight because we are all Kennedys. And I am your President."

Eileen Myles

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/240258

'I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems 1975 - 2014' by Eileen Myles


----------



## midcan5

'The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump'  by Robert Sears 



See the magic of Donald in link below.

This week in Trump World


----------



## beautress

O little friend, a toast to thee
As thou hath passed so quietly
Who smote the cat most callously
Farewell, O final feline flea.​


----------



## Mindful

Here's a nice one.

The Object of my Love

*by Guy Walker* (September 2019)





_Woman Applying Makeup_, Ernst Neuschul, 1930


Madam, whom to ‘objectify’
Is modern sin,
I can't, yet, help, faced with your feminine,
But view your form, your nape, your hair and thigh,
As beauty’s definition; wired
In me, a deep imperative,
To seek this lovely difference, desired,
Despite my will, (though hoping you forgive).
May be, while we are other, we’re the same,
Sharing the human species and its aim?

To super-add the person, who
Is who you _are_,
To your rare person, to increase so far
The pleasure of my conference with you.
To bestially efface her, I’d
Refuse the double privilege
Of human being, seeking to divide
Your nature and deny our lineage.
When you require my love to touch your skin,
You have me touch intelligence within.

So since, sweet love, imponderable
For us, that we
Cleave indivisible duality,
(And flesh a lens for better mutual
Knowing beyond our eyes) let’s use
Our differing forms in Love’s extreme
Articulation, bringing with it new
Endearment, causing even life to teem;
Obedient, let's consent to kiss and play,
Agreed rejoicing is the proper way.


----------



## midcan5

A bit of a change, some may laugh, some may cry....

"Twisting and turning to alternative facts
The viewer cannot bear to read Twitter;
The swamp remains un-drained;
Mere commentary is loosed upon the world,
The Putin tide is loosed, and everywhere
Millennial innocence is drowned;
The 'best' lack all connection, while the worst
Are full of passionate insecurity."

Rest below.

A Citizen Paying Attention: The Second Don-ing (with apologies to the shade of W.B. Yeats, as well as to my fellow Americans)

-------------------------

'The Beautiful Poetry Of Donald Trump'

By Rob Sears

"I’m really rich
I’m very proud of my new crystal collection
I have a Gucci store that’s worth more than Romney
I order thousands of televisions a year
Six people do nothing but sort my mail
Sorry haters and losers!
He who has the gold makes the rules"

More below. 

The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump


----------



## the other mike




----------



## Mindful

Cancer.

By Guy Walker.

*In normal times* we can expect obedient
squadrons, in silent faithfulness, to do
their duty in repairing the ingredient
that bears the codes; the daily damage to
the chains of information that denote
_us _and exactly what we are. Remote
from us, forgotten, their activity;
they’re blithe and automatic over years,
intelligencers (docile engineers),
all working with a perfect industry.

We can accept our programmed obsolescence
and Hayfleck’s limiting when ripeness comes;
harder to baulk at such guessed-at senescence
when Deaths’ promised full-stop resolves our sums
and consummates our grammar. A known end,
to a parametered-type mind, will lend
resistance to (without it, atrophied
and shapeless) sense. For not to know we die,
to be unparsed, would terrify;
to mean at all needs context to succeed.

But when, awry, a strand of DNA,
missteps, in absent mind, to lose the plot,
then is unleashed (that unknown, secret day)
a disinhibited ‘immortal.’ Not
inclined to toe the line this megalo
obeys blind evolution’s rules, and so
runs riot; a renegade, an order-trasher,
hell-bent on self-promotion; vandal who,
unschooled, conducts a vulgar palace coup,
And shows himself a boorish party-crasher.

Abandoning the logos and its codes,
illiterate of sense, a tumour juts
its snout into a library, discommodes
systems of form and information put
in order by design. An ignorant
Yahoo, gross presence, strayed abroad with scant
regard for sense or system, overturning
the delicately loaded stacks that house
our tales. How guess what world-mistake aroused
this blinkered drunk, so wholly undiscerning?

Precarious _person _is alloyed with flesh,
a farting, salty livestock; animal
whose pleasures, intimately, are enmeshed,
whose fierce and briny loves, hold us in thrall
so joyously. We husband it, our beast,
until the siege-craft of this _arriviste,_
mole-like, surprises us inside our keep
from unexpected quarters of ourselves;
our person’s home wherein he delves,
to sabotage our balance and to reap

the cruellest harvest from distress. We learn
a queasy intuition from this Fifth
Column; a knowledge we discern
as inescapable and that comes with
our plight—when fragile cells are undermined,
our selves, and what we like to call our mind’s
attempted too. There’s barely separation
between our person and our person. A
great miracle being fouled will bring dismay
and, in this case, a double consternation.


----------



## Mindful

_Crystalline Heaven,_ Gustave Dore, 19th cent

_Gaudeamus Igitur_

How is it to be whole? Either oh-so-high,
Above the fray, poised and self-possessed,
Or in the cellar of unacknowledged despair,
a precinct below, too hollow to scare,
Where petty appetite and sorrow score their
Mark, feigning grandeur, while trivial
Souls roil pitifully with quotidian sighs.
How be whole? Why, learn that to die
Is part of our poem, sung unto the
Crystalline sphere with its kaleidoscope
Of Seraphim and rippling cascades of hope:
Our storied empryean blazoned gold.
Trust the holy Singer, then, preparing our place,
His tale of longing, His advent of grace.


----------



## midcan5

*'What You Need to be Warm' *by Neil Gaiman

"A baked potato of a winter’s night to wrap your hands around or burn your mouth.
A blanket knitted by your mother’s cunning fingers. Or your grandmother’s.
A smile, a touch, trust, as you walk in from the snow
or return to it, the tips of your ears pricked pink and frozen.

The tink tink tink of iron radiators waking in an old house.
To surface from dreams in a bed, burrowed beneath blankets and comforters,
the change of state from cold to warm is all that matters, and you think
just one more minute snuggled here before you face the chill. Just one.
Sign up for Bookmarks: discover new books in our weekly email

Places we slept as children: they warm us in the memory.
We travel to an inside from the outside. To the orange flames of the fireplace
or the wood burning in the stove. Breath-ice on the inside of windows,
to be scratched off with a fingernail, melted with a whole hand.

Frost on the ground that stays in the shadows, waiting for us.
Wear a scarf. Wear a coat. Wear a sweater. Wear socks. Wear thick gloves.
An infant as she sleeps between us. A tumble of dogs,
a kindle of cats and kittens. Come inside. You’re safe now.

A kettle boiling at the stove. Your family or friends are there. They smile.
Cocoa or chocolate, tea or coffee, soup or toddy, what you know you need.
A heat exchange, they give it to you, you take the mug
and start to thaw. While outside, for some of us, the journey began

as we walked away from our grandparents’ houses
away from the places we knew as children: changes of state and state and state,
to stumble across a stony desert, or to brave the deep waters,
while food and friends, home, a bed, even a blanket become just memories.

Sometimes it only takes a stranger, in a dark place,
to hold out a badly knitted scarf, to offer a kind word, to say
we have the right to be here, to make us warm in the coldest season.

You have the right to be here."

'Ridiculously hard': how Neil Gaiman wrote a poem for refugees from 1,000 tweets


----------



## beautress

bright stars in the dark
mystery 
such enchantment falls
quietly
amulet of a
memory
no other sighting
could so be
as a recurring
reverie
​


----------



## beautress

cv-19 (3/25/2020)

forte is will
you cannot see them
attaching frill
their multiples grim
until they kill

their defeat
seems as elusive
as your retreat
from their collusive
undoes repeat

o man their gall
is isolation
as we stall
their congregation
to the wall

shall we win
matching such will
As they spin
poison and swill
into our kin?

o man, the light
prayer and hymn
will make right
their chances dim
being our blight​


----------



## beautress

SeaGal said:


> Some years ago, a friend and I were discussing the finer points of cane syrup.  The making of cane syrup is still a fall activity in parts of the south, much as it has been for generations.  Little has changed in the cooking procedure.  I prefer the lighter syrup...and he prefers the heavy bodied dark.  As in making a dark roux - the darker syrup requires taking it almost, but not quite, to the stage of being burnt.
> 
> The whimsical, fleeting, unsophisticated kiss on the palate of the light - or the heavy, powerful, lingering taste of the dark - can apply to poetry as well as cane syrup, and life too, I suppose.  Anyway, our discussion on the finer points of cane syrup...some years ago...inspired these few  lines.
> 
> (Untitled)
> ​You choose the dark...
> I'll take the light.
> 
> One seeks the sun...
> the other the night.
> 
> To inner voices we hark...
> As we ponder man's plight.
> 
> When our journey is done...
> Could _both_...be right?
> 
> SeaGal 2008


if maple syrup were the light,
it brings to senses such delight

and if the other, dark molasses,
'tis gingerbread for lads and lasses.​


----------



## beautress

six months ago
he sang a hymn
and i fell for
the likes of him

knowing not his name,
his face
caused me to search
the web his grace

i didn't find
in cyber cloaks
my heart's desire
of karaokes

but happenstance,
his visage bright'ning
was seen by me
with heart alighting

he never recollected
- wrong or right -
he most respected
love's first sight

my patient search
that failed online
succeeded with
an outcome fine

for elders we
in love refined
may always have
our hearts entwined
​


----------



## beautress

mechanical man
with memory
meets woman who
works with emory
sharpening with a file so fine
it puts his file in terpentine
the moral of this story is
some poems are good 
while others fizz
​


----------



## Mindful

Beautress:

Do you think this is topical, during such difficult times?

April is the cruellest month.

*The Waste Land. T.S. Eliot *









I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD​APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding​Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing​Memory and desire, stirring​Dull roots with spring rain.​Winter kept us warm, covering_         5_​Earth in forgetful snow, feeding​A little life with dried tubers.​Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee​With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,​And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,_  10_​And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.​_Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch._​And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,​My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,​And I was frightened. He said, Marie,_  15_​Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.​In the mountains, there you feel free.​I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.​ 


​​


----------



## beautress

Mindful said:


> Beautress:
> 
> Do you think this is topical, during such difficult times?
> 
> April is the cruellest month.
> 
> *The Waste Land. T.S. Eliot *
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ​
> I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD​APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding​Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing​Memory and desire, stirring​Dull roots with spring rain.​Winter kept us warm, covering_         5_​Earth in forgetful snow, feeding​A little life with dried tubers.​Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee​With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,​And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,_  10_​And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.​_Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch._​And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,​My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,​And I was frightened. He said, Marie,_  15_​Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.​In the mountains, there you feel free.​I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.​
> 
> ​
> ​​


Wonderful and troubling words at the same time. Thanks for asking me my opinion, Mindful, but I'm just an humble woman who works in cotton textiles, reads oppositionary opinions, and who is always faithful to beliefs in the Lord instilled in me by a freemason grandfather, turn-of-the century schoolmarm grandma, a father with ptsd from WWII and Korea, and instructors who prodded me into thinking independently. To be truthful with you, I do not know the answers, but inside you the answer will be made clear sooner or later. May all of God's goodness guide you, His angels inspire you and those you respect, your faith become so strong that Satan shall fear you for all practical purposes.    My vote goes with those who believe in the goodness instilled by God to those whom he chooses, who for one reason or another are won over to his wisdom found in the Good Book, which is easy enough to understand by untrained youths to those suddenly born again by decrees we may have never heard of but know about by realizing some things will remain a mystery to us. All I can say is God will sustain mankind. We are his beloved and favored creations who bear his image.


----------



## beautress

bequeath to us
o lord of light
a sampling of
thy true delight​


----------



## midcan5

'Ends and beginnings'

"In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field,, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the elctric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
the association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie˜
A dignified and commodious sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning."


From East Coker, The Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot


----------



## midcan5

This Fall the trees are amazing, I have photographed many. 

*'It Begins with the Trees' * Ada Limón

"Two full cypress trees in the clearing
intertwine in a way that almost makes

 them seem like one. Until at a certain angle
from the blue blow-up pool I bought

 this summer to save my life, I see it
is not one tree, but two, and they are

 kissing. They are kissing so tenderly
it feels rude to watch, one hand

 on the other’s shoulder, another
in the other’s branches, like hair.

 When did kissing become so
dangerous? Or was it always so?

 That illicit kiss in the bathroom
of the Four-Faced Liar, a bar

 named after a clock, what was her
name? Or the first one with you

 on the corner of Metropolitan
Avenue, before you came home

 with me forever. I watch those green
trees now and it feels libidinous.

 I want them to go on kissing, without
fear. I want to watch them and not

 feel so abandoned by hands. Come
home. Everything is begging you."










						American Poetry Review - Ada Limón - "It Begins with the Trees"
					

Published in American Poetry Review - Volume 49  |  No. 06




					aprweb.org


----------



## Mindful

Joseph von Eichendorff~

At night time
Walking through the silent night,
The moon sneaks so secretly
Often out of the dark cloud cover,
And back and forth in the valley
Awaken the nightingale,
Then again everything is grey and quiet.
O wonderful night singing:
From afar in the land of streams gang,
Quiet showers in the dark trees -
Thoughts on my mind,
My crazy singing here
Is like a shout out only from dreams.


----------



## FRIKSHUN

midcan5 said:


> This Fall the trees are amazing, I have photographed many.
> 
> *'It Begins with the Trees' * Ada Limón
> 
> "Two full cypress trees in the clearing
> intertwine in a way that almost makes
> 
> them seem like one. Until at a certain angle
> from the blue blow-up pool I bought
> 
> this summer to save my life, I see it
> is not one tree, but two, and they are
> 
> kissing. They are kissing so tenderly
> it feels rude to watch, one hand
> 
> on the other’s shoulder, another
> in the other’s branches, like hair.
> 
> When did kissing become so
> dangerous? Or was it always so?
> 
> That illicit kiss in the bathroom
> of the Four-Faced Liar, a bar
> 
> named after a clock, what was her
> name? Or the first one with you
> 
> on the corner of Metropolitan
> Avenue, before you came home
> 
> with me forever. I watch those green
> trees now and it feels libidinous.
> 
> I want them to go on kissing, without
> fear. I want to watch them and not
> 
> feel so abandoned by hands. Come
> home. Everything is begging you."
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> American Poetry Review - Ada Limón - "It Begins with the Trees"
> 
> 
> Published in American Poetry Review - Volume 49  |  No. 06
> 
> 
> 
> 
> aprweb.org


----------



## FRIKSHUN

Mindful said:


> Joseph von Eichendorff~
> 
> At night time
> Walking through the silent night,
> The moon sneaks so secretly
> Often out of the dark cloud cover,
> And back and forth in the valley
> Awaken the nightingale,
> Then again everything is grey and quiet.
> O wonderful night singing:
> From afar in the land of streams gang,
> Quiet showers in the dark trees -
> Thoughts on my mind,
> My crazy singing here
> Is like a shout out only from dreams.
> 
> View attachment 417855


----------



## lg325

*Hagar in the Wilderness*
Tyehimba Jess





















_Carved Marble. Edmonia Lewis, 1875_

My God is the living God,
God of the impertinent exile.
An outcast who carved me
into an outcast carved
by sheer and stony will
to wander the desert
in search of deliverance
the way a mother hunts
for her wayward child.
God of each eye fixed to heaven,
God of the fallen water jug,
of all the hope a vessel holds
before spilling to barren sand.
God of flesh hewn from earth
and hammered beneath a will
immaculate with the power
to bear life from the lifeless
like a well in a wasteland.
I'm made in the image of a God
that knows flight but stays me
rock still to tell a story ancient as
slavery, old as the first time
hands clasped together for mercy
and parted to find only their own
salty blessing of sweat.
I have been touched by my God
in my creation, I've known her caress
of anointing callus across my face.
I know the lyric of her pulse
across these lips... and yes,
I've kissed the fingertips
of my dark and mortal God.
She has shown me the truth
behind each chiseled blow
that's carved me into this life,
the weight any woman might bear
to stretch her mouth toward her
one true God, her own
beaten, marble song.


_Edmonia Lewis (1845-1907) was an African/Native American expatriate sculptor who was phenomenally successful in Rome._
Copyright © 2013 by Tyehimba Jess. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on December 26, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.


----------



## Gdjjr

Coffee and cigarettes are the comp'ny I keep
on a perfect autumn night with a sky black and deep
not a leaf is stirring, not a sound being made
It's great to be alive- hearing the whisper of sleep

Writin songs in my head that'll never be played
with words that don't rhyme and music out of sync
love gone wrong, love that's never been
songs never sang and music never played

with coffee and cigarettes, the company I keep- when hearing, the whisper of sleep


----------



## Gdjjr

Good mornin, mornin
How are you today
Are you gonna show me your sunshine
or, are you gonna stay cloudy and gray

I did everything you asked
I slept all night long
now I'm feelin restless
wanna put how I feel in a song

I have a lot left to say
not a whole lot left to do
but try to make music and songs
somebody will listen to

So mornin play me your music
and I'll play you mine

Like you, I can make it cloudy
or, I can make it shine


----------



## Fed Starving II

The holidays are on their way
I miss my grandmother and my family, my friends
And although life isn't the same without them
The holidays are on their way


----------



## lg325

Fall
Brown leaves with bits of red
Hunting season ,jackets and warm camps
Cold mornings ,cool afternoons and longer nights ,Thanksgiving
In Fall


----------



## lg325

Winter
 chopping wood
indoors ,fireplace ,cozy
windows trimmed with icy frost
Winter


----------



## lg325

Evening
cooking meals
clean up ,shower ,relax
pajamas ,books and bedtime
In Evening


----------



## lg325

*Blue Lead Fences                                   Found this, just thought I would share it.*
Loch Lomond
Climb upon the roof and peek
Pantone cape around my neck
Running fast, your shoes come off
Nothing is left and nothing is lost
It feels good to be young
Throwing air and throwing rocks
Sharpened boards and filling ponds
An eight year old having fun
Let's organize the weaker ones
With enough wind, I can fly
Call them up and say goodbye

Songwriters: Dave Depper, Ritchie Young
For non-commercial use only.


----------



## lg325

*Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls*
*Poem by Denis Martindale*
It is a matter of life and death.
We sense our mortality in the destiny of another.
This isn't easy for us to confront.
We seek ignorance of such final thoughts.
Only those who have been made aware,
Can truly face death.
We look at its empty eyes and see nothing.
At first, we are afraid.
This is our human existence at stake.
If we were merely mortals, then this would be normal.
However, humans are not merely mortals.
Every single word within us cries out against the waste.
I am unique. So are you.
There is an expression,
'We will never see his like again.'

Even so, Easter has taught us
That God preserves the life force beyond death.
It is the hope of resurrection
That sustains us in this life.
Those that have this faith in God,
Believe in the past, the present AND the future
And we therefore spend our lives
In prayer and good works.
No matter where we are,
While there is a single thought left within us,
We can still pray.
This is life.
Not the striving for more and more things,
While others starve to death.

Let's be more sympathetic
In regard to complete strangers,
Men, women and children
Facing terrifying squalor, disease and persecution.
It's easy to feel sorry
For the good old Georges of this world,
Because they are the good ones we don't want to lose.
But what about the tiny babies
Who haven't the strength to lift a finger
To do any good works?
They are more deserving if left to live a full life
Than the ones who have already lived for decades...
Many of these have never seen a shoe...
And they don't even know that each one of them
Has an eternal soul...
*Listen to this poem:*


----------



## lg325

*For Whom the Bell Tolls*
by
John Donne​​

 
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.


----------



## lg325

A star
Shepherds with, message ,journey ,
Three wise men with varied gifts
Come together in a manger to there savior
A  Child


----------



## lg325

A disaster
Crippling gout, lost job
Debts pile up ,no help comes
Sell all, pay off debts , leave rest behind
New beginnings


----------



## lg325

There  is A coolness in the air
But hot tempers everywhere
Home ,work and on the street
People standing up on there feet
calloused hands from digging a ditch
Anger causes those hands to clinch
News man seems to only to deceive
working man not sure who to believe
Elite takes his money and looks down there nose
at this working man who's future is to just grow old
But along with the coolness in the air, hot tempers everywhere.
All the deception has taken its toll, we all are marching on the Capitol.


----------



## midcan5

*'Amanda Gorman's inaugural poem'*

"When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We've braved the belly of the beast
We've learned that quiet isn't always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished"

See link for rest. 









						READ: Transcript of Amanda Gorman’s inaugural poem
					

Amanda Gorman became the youngest person to deliver a poem at a U.S. presidential inauguration, with the 22-year-old reciting her poem “The Hill We Climb” after Joe Biden and Kamala Har…




					thehill.com


----------



## lg325

*Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood*
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH


   The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
          (Wordsworth, "My Heart Leaps Up")

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
       The earth, and every common sight,
                          To me did seem
                      Apparelled in celestial light,
            The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
                      Turn wheresoe'er I may,
                          By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

                      The Rainbow comes and goes,
                      And lovely is the Rose,
                      The Moon doth with delight
       Look round her when the heavens are bare,
                      Waters on a starry night
                      Are beautiful and fair;
       The sunshine is a glorious birth;
       But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
       And while the young lambs bound
                      As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
                      And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
       The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
                      And all the earth is gay;
                           Land and sea
                Give themselves up to jollity,
                      And with the heart of May
                 Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
                      Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
      Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
      My heart is at your festival,
            My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
                      Oh evil day! if I were sullen
                      While Earth herself is adorning,
                         This sweet May-morning,
                      And the Children are culling
                         On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
                      Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:—
                      I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
                      —But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone;
                      The Pansy at my feet
                      Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
                      Hath had elsewhere its setting,
                         And cometh from afar:
                      Not in entire forgetfulness,
                      And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
                      From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
                      Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
                      He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
                      Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
                      And by the vision splendid
                      Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
                      And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
                      And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
                      Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art
                      A wedding or a festival,
                      A mourning or a funeral;
                         And this hath now his heart,
                      And unto this he frames his song:
                         Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
                      But it will not be long
                      Ere this be thrown aside,
                      And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
                      As if his whole vocation
                      Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
                      Thy Soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
                      Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
                      On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

                      O joy! that in our embers
                      Is something that doth live,
                      That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
                      Not for these I raise
                      The song of thanks and praise
                But for those obstinate questionings
                Of sense and outward things,
                Fallings from us, vanishings;
                Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
                      But for those first affections,
                      Those shadowy recollections,
                Which, be they what they may
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
                Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
                To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
                      Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
                Hence in a season of calm weather
                      Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
                      Which brought us hither,
                Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
                      And let the young Lambs bound
                      As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
                      Ye that pipe and ye that play,
                      Ye that through your hearts to-day
                      Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
                Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
                      We will grieve not, rather find
                      Strength in what remains behind;
                      In the primal sympathy
                      Which having been must ever be;
                      In the soothing thoughts that spring
                      Out of human suffering;
                      In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
                      Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.


Related


----------



## lg325

Growing up
enjoying the day, no cares
stress of school and teen age years
first kiss, first job lost love and tears
Memories treasured.


----------



## lg325

Enjoying the moment the joys and fears,
childhood ,teenage ,young adult years.
Waking to familiar voices and smells,
breakfast ready, its mother, I can tell.
Father checking his truck and tools,
us children getting ourselves ready for school.
Mother and Father leave each to there work,
us children waiting for the school bus, clutching our books.
Elementary school ,learning the basics ,foundation for future days,
getting home with sweaters tied around our waist.
 Playtime was baseball ,football, grappling with friends,
exploring nature, coming home with bruises and scraped shins.
  Jr .High ,first dance, more classes ,noticing that girl with hair sericeous,
best friend whispers you know she likes you, I reply, are you serious!

  High School , plans for future, home work. ,class work gets piled on, 
           week ends   working hard ,then study  from sunset to dawn.
       ( to be continued)


----------



## lg325

Graduation comes with tears and goodbyes,
time comes with regret to sever the ties.
  New experiences comes with hard truths.
College for some ,hard labor for other youths.
 Laborers struggle to just get by.  There future,
there dreams turned aside, they struggle to be mature.
  College seem prison for some ,envy the laborers out in the sun.
      Adult life for both is struggle and strife. With fond dreams of there childhood life.   (done)


----------



## Briss

Innocent days when I at least
Resembled not so much the beast
Recede from me like memory;
Like most of you; like most of me.


----------



## Briss

*Lycanthroholic*

One cold and frosty moonlit night
Whilst feeling restless and full of spite,
I left my home; went over field
And chanced upon a bitter meal.

A dog had come to challenge me
She sensed my evil flowing free,
Attacked but couldn't overcome;
She came too close; her neck was wrung.

Such foolish courage of mortal flesh,
Not satisfied with run and fetch.
At least her blood-stained eyes were spared
The sight of how her bones were bared.

Those cold and frosty moonlit nights
When I would spread that touch of fright
Kept family to their house, secure,
For such as me there is no cure.

I ask of family, love, and friends
Their pain and blood again and again.


----------



## Ringtone

A Tiny Brown Moth and a Little Gray Sparrow
by Michael Rawlings (a.k.a., Ringtone)​
 A tiny brown moth, believing his heart above all else,
Battered himself against the window pane,
Thinking to embrace the morning air—wings aflutter.
A little gray sparrow, believing his hunger above all else,
Battered his sharp beak against the window pane,
Hoping to spear the tiny morsel—wings aflutter.
Eager, persistent, furiously tap, tap, tapping.
Bemused!
Frightened!
Angry!
“What is this?” the sparrow exclaimed. 
“His soft belly bruises my beak!”
And still the tiny brown moth
Battered himself against the window pane, 
Eager to embrace the morning air—wings aflutter.


----------



## Ringtone

*A Dirge for J. Alfred Prufrock: The Last Hurrah: 
with hat in hand and at the feet of T. S. Eliot
By Michael Rawlings (a.k.a., Ringtone)*​
Let us go then, you and me,
And stroll beneath a cloudy sea
As evening spreads across its face like a toothless grin.
Let us go a-meandering down narrow-minded suburban lanes,
Silky slick with sullen rains
And hemmed in by redundant four-bedroom stalls and grated sewage drains;
Past the immaculate parks and the quaint, steepled churches,
the lofty perches,
Where the vagabond Riffraff lurches in the pristine shadows:
A restless Crowd that chases dreams of easy grace and meadows,
And sings a melancholy hymn, a petulant brew, that lingers at your nervebone.

A chorus of crickets roll their eyes,
And dance beneath the cloudy skies.

The Air is still tonight—drenched with slumber.
A withered leaf dodders on spindly legs across Its gnarled spine.

And above the tiny rustlings, above the glistening lanes,
Above the languid shadows that creep and close
on the mournful strains—
The Stars draw back the shroud and peep,
Shake their bearded chins, cast their pearly eyes away and weep.
And below, crookbacked lampposts unfurl their hazy-white plumes and glare
At the four-footed heaps, at the white picket fences,
At the cracks in the sidewalks, at the manicured grasses,
As the musty night seeps through our senses.
And through the parlor windows we may see, you and I,
The flickering glow of that babbling flow on the walls:
The Soma of the enervated masses.
Morpheus has alighted on his throne at the commencement
of another dreary evening. . . .

And there will be other nights and other days too!
There will be seconds to spin and minutes to spill,
Hours to wend down a winding rill,
Moments for me and moments for you. . . .

There will be sacks full of question marks to sow
In furrowed brows replete with sad, fetid lies and concessions.
There will be secrets to air and rumors to grow,
Indiscretions to breed and issues to hoe
During the endless rounds of therapeutic confessions.
And if someone should say,
“Do you know?” and “Do you know?”
To whom shall I turn for the answer?

And there will be time for the time of the pitch and the shoeshine.
There will be time to bend our resolutions, to brood with callow men;
Time to follow the errant line of ink to its conclusion—
bleeding from a boosted pen.
There will be time for hope and time for hope to crash . . .
Time to reach for desperate dreams or drive them toward a sudden stop.

And the world’s amusements, its diversions, abound!
Sought by pale hands, chased by wooden feet:
Candy-coated rainbows that calm and feed the head
Or illicit, well-used harpies that slip into your bed . . .
Charms that lift you or drop you into a cold sweat.

A chorus of crickets roll their eyes
And dance beneath the cloudy skies.

I have cravenly suffered the sentimental drivel of the career politician—
The pandering fop, the trailer-trash clone,
The glib picaro who would do anything at all to be somebody,
Except be somebody who would do anything useful.
I have felt his pudgy fingers foraging in my pockets—
The easy smile, the evasive speech, the beguiling eyes
that woo the timid sheep . . .
The stuff and the skinny of Orwellian nightmares.

And I have seen the feverish glint
That lights the eyes of the campus policemen
(The goose bumps on their hairy arms!),
Who train our sensitivities, arrest our moral zeal.
I Have heard the awkward silence of hounded thoughts and speeches;
Have seen the spittle that files off the rhetoric of the mindless Jacobins . . .
The unwashed, slogan-spouting cutouts reared by academic leeches.
And moreover, I have choked on the gall and the licentious,
toe-jam-funk-smellin’ rot of pretentious celluloid gods.

And the nanny state, the meddler, bewitches so easily!
Conceived by venal men, contrived by ruthless means . . .
That ancient human misery loosed again on you and me,
Watching, prying . . . or it smothers,
The self-anointed class, the deified regime.

My carcass—scourged by jagged teeth—was spewed out
onto a distant Eastern shore.

Oh, let’s do lunch and explore the boundless profundities
of our pregnant self-esteem,
As we boldly proclaim our tolerance for everything that’s grown,
Lest something sacred, something precious rise above the common drone.
Let us smirk, let us squawk, let us blather till we mock
Every triumph, every blunder that has ever inspired wonder,
Every wisdom, every dream that has ever caused a scream,
till all music and all poetry are dead.

A chorus of crickets roll their eyes
And dance beneath the cloudy skies.

I have stood naked, caught inside a crystal jar—
Trapped inside the frozen moment, trapped inside the silent pause,
Surrounded by a lethal ring of faces;
Have stood mute in bewildered indecision—the simmering flush
of sudden, unshed tears behind the stupid smile.
When I’m standing inches tall and shrinking,
When my throat is clogged with cobwebs,
When my sluggish steps turn into miles and miles—
What shall I say to the man, with the withering sneer, standing by the open door?

And I have listlessly shuffled through the tedious echoes
of endless, wayward discussions—
Strung out from the feet of my feet to the feet at your doorstep,
past the bathroom and down the hall.
I have flirted with fancies and consorted with the shadows on the wall
(Attired in a three-piece suit and matching tie!)
And I have littered my life with wasted days beneath the dismal pall.

The wisdom of this world is a chatty girl with brazen eyes and big teeth.

I have seen the painted lips that frame the smiles
across the smoke-filled room;
Have heard the music—the laughter!—that mingles
with the cloying scent of cheap perfume.
I have romanced the evening’s glow and sated its spineless flowers;
Have stumbled from dark and sordid keeps—
A beer in one hand, a pretty fräulein in the other.
Soft, ripe breasts can swell my lust or soothe my rest . . .
Thighs that sway ‘neath a breathless wisp of silk or spread on satin sheets.

And I have known the scorn of Woman, the sting of unrequited love;
Have watched her smiling eyes sink into pools of contempt.
I have cursed the passing of those quintessential moments
when a word or touch was lost,
And my keening heart—wounded by a thousand shards of glass—
Has stumbled through the daze of days and the wane
of bitter, sleepless nights.

And after all the medicinal blather, the commiserations;
After all the drunken sleeps;
After the blood that flows from Private altars, the tearstains;
After all the moral leaps;
After all the feigned disclosures . . . the crickets, the withered leaves;
After all the tedious echoes, the teaspoons, the broken jars;
After all the banalities . . . that flow from the lips flickering on the parlor walls:
What shall I say to the woman with the lustrous shrug and the censorious eyes?

Shall I say, after a snort or two, that I have wrestled
with demons in squalid hotel rooms? . . .
The paint that peels from walls,
The lone, naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

When Evening spreads His toothless grin across the face of Day,
When Dusk grovels at His feet as She scorns Her fallen Star—
Shall I wallow in the moonlight,
Bring the lesser stars to tears
With another tale of love’s discarded toys?

A chorus of crickets roll their eyes
And dance beneath the cloudy skies.

The many voices that saturate the airwaves,
The talking heads that float atop the breeze
Crawl inside my weary head and eviscerate my dreams. . . .

And again, after all the crowded halls, the Dread;
After all the passion and the romance and the mighty deeds are dead;
After the tantrums, the trials, the outstretched hands;
After all the woe that staggers stunned and broken hearts . . .
the girl with the big teeth;
After the ashtrays, the crumbs, the bloodshot eyes . . .
After all the sweet and tender mercies in this world are scattered,
left to rot beneath the pall:
What shall I do about the missing button on my vest?

I have communed with fragile ghosts and willows—bent and lashed by storms.

*. . . .*

Shall I say that I have rummaged through the scuttled relics
inside the bowels of a Leviathan?
Have gathered their bones around me?
Have counted and named them all?
I have counted and named them all!
And I have teetered on the very edge of madness;
Rather, I have dangled inches above its gaping maw—
My wriggling feet, my white-knuckled grip . . . straining sweat and slipping,
wrapped around the final rung.

And I have looked into the eyes—the amused, malignant ulcers—
of a creature beyond redemption;
Have smelled its yellow breath,
Felt its vile touch slither up my spine like the wet lick of a wounded dog . . .
The crystalline moment of recognition, the puddle of urine on the floor.

When I have squandered every last square inch of the soul that's in me,
When I have spent it all—who shall turn my reeling head toward home?

*. . . .*


Shall I dream the dreams of angels?
Roust the harpies from my bed?
In the morning, with my coffee,
I can smooth my rumpled head.

Shall I press the monumental question?
Smartly reinforce the crease?
I shall cast my lot with heaven . . .
The moldy mysterious on my fleece!
Should I butter my toast?
Insist on rye or wheat?
Let us dance a torrid tango
And display our nimble feet!

When the Soma oozes from our waxy ears
And mingles with the silvery tears
of those ancient Fellows loitering behind the clouds;
When it’s time to shoo the Riffraff,
When it’s time to chase my feet,
When the relentless siege of the daze of days
And the fog of sleepless nights have razed
And burned and trampled and buried my hapless brain:
Shall I walk or ride the bus?
Ride the bus or take a walk?

A host of insidious insinuations
Prance about my contemplations
And wrap their velvet paws around my throat.

A chorus of crickets roll their eyes
And dance beneath the cloudy skies.

* . . .*

Shall I offer my head on a platter,
A mere chit of a chat amidst the clatter,
For one last persuasive dance before his sire’s throne?

No!

I’m not a martyr!
I’ve no great calling to obey.
I’ve no olive branch to offer.
Let his conscience rot away!
I’m a pauper with high notions,
A poet with some flair.
I plot stories full of riches,
But have no coat or hope to spare.

When the sky sobs and the wind wails,
When the Earth shakes the dust off Her face—
I discretely take my leave and fade into the gray.

My sodden flesh—bleached and rancid, trampled by gleeful feet—lay wasted,
stretched out on hot sands.

*. . . .*

We have come to the end of a certain class of human folly—
Raised up and spread abroad by brutal hands,
Passed through many sewers . . . beneath the glistening lanes,
Incessantly chanted by clueless brats
And shrugged off by indifferent, universal imperatives.
Yet we still hear, you and I, that vicious chorus of whores,
with curled lips,
Sniveling behind the final curtain.
Oh, aren’t they finished?
Exposed and known?
Are you certain?

When we are laid out on stainless steel beneath florescent lights,
When our sightless eyes are closed by busy fingers,
When they have numbered and tagged our toes—
Numbered and tagged them all!—
Who shall pluck out the tufts of hair sprouting from our fleshy ears?

*. . . .*

We have aimlessly wandered down tedious streets beneath a grieving sky—
Without hope, without respite, without another single sign
of life appearing anywhere in sight,
Except a gang of looney crickets dancing jigs throughout the night.

Oh, I wish the mermaids would sing to me.
I wish the mermaids would sing. . . .


----------



## Ringtone

Private Altars
by Michael Rawlings (a.k.a., Ringtone)​

I have seen the blood that flows from Private altars,
That glistens on wasted flesh and bone.
I have seen the tiny severed Fingers—
pink, adrift in murky, black waters.​In all my feverish dreams I hear their muted screams,
And in their eyes, those bewildered eyes turned on callous faces,
I see a plea . . . and the wounded face of God.
“It is our Right!” they rant. “Our Right!”
“Yes,” I whisper, small and foolish,
“But the Babies, the little Babies.”


----------



## Ringtone

Washroom Meditations in Blue
by Michael Rawlings (a.k.a., Ringtone)​ 

Have you ever stood in crowded halls and listened to the footfalls
that approach you and pass you and leave you stranded?​Have you ever sensed the faint and weightless drift beyond the temporal stream?
Did you touch it? 
Did you taste it? 
Were you frightened?
Have you ever stood in the pouring rain?
Or felt a Dread so acute that you believed yourself to be teetering
on the very edge of the blackest hole in your brain?​Did you fall?
Have you ever walked on a rainbow? 
Or felt the touch of a child’s hand—frail and tiny—
wrap itself around your smallest finger?​Did the air hold its breath?
Did time stop?
Did you stop?
I should have been a monstrous insect, with fetid breath,
hanging on your bedroom wall.​


----------



## Ringtone

tigerbob said:


> Dulce et Decorum est
> 
> by Wilfred Owen
> 
> 
> Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
> Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
> Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
> And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
> Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
> But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
> Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
> Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
> 
> Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!   An ecstasy of fumbling,
> Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
> But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
> And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
> Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
> As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
> In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
> He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
> 
> If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
> Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
> And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
> His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
> If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
> Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
> Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
> Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
> My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
> To children ardent for some desperate glory,
> The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
> Pro patria mori.



One of my all time favorites.  It always brings to mind Dover Beach for me and vice versa:

*Dover Beach*
BY MATTHEW ARNOLD
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.


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## Gdjjr

I guess I prefer poetry set to music- there are lots of songs that are great poetry- I've written a few myself- the first probably 50 years ago

When Daddy left home, I was just a kid
I can't recall exactly what he did
But I can re mem ber, just as plain as day
The smile, on my Daddy's face

It was the smile, of a man born free
Free as a west Texas breeze
I know that I started in right then
wanting to be, a west Texas wind

I wanted to come and go as I pleased, do what I wanted to do
and mama knew as I grew older, what I was up to
She begged me to stay at home with her, begged me to stay in school
but, I knew that I couldn't stay anymore
so I kissed her good bye as I headed for the door

With a smile on my face of a man born free
Free as a west Texas breeze
I know that I started in right then
wanting to be, a - west- Texas- wind


----------



## lg325

A video of A reading of Poes   Anna Bell Lee


----------



## lg325

Some Rudyard Kipling
*If....*

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
  And which is more: you'll be a Man, my son!
 © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes   
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*The Law Of The Jungle*

_Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack._


Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;
And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.
The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,
Remember the Wolf is a Hunter — go forth and get food of thine own.
Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle — the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear.
And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.
When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,
Lie down till the leaders have spoken — it may be fair words shall prevail.
When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,
Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,
The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.
If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away.
Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;
But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!
If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.
The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.
The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will;
But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.
Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.
Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim
One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same.
Cave-Right is the right of the Father — to hunt by himself for his own:
He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.
Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,
In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law.
Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;
But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes   
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*The Way Through The Woods*

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods….
But there is no road through the woods.
Line 20 There has seen much debate about the meaning of "skirt" at this point with 3 basic meanings predominant.
either
 a 'skirt' is the hairy part of a horse tail
or
a  "skirt" is an archaic word for part of a saddle
or
a "skirt" is an item of woman's clothing.

There is a apparently a letter from Kipling to his sister about a poem with a phantom and a female rider (See Kipling Society web site) but the poem is unspecified and the point is still in doubt as to which of the 3 legitimate references Kipling intended. 
As in many things the readers are invited to interpret the meaning for themselves.
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Guestbook (4)*Related poets:*





(46)John Masefield


----------



## lg325

Still air
Rumble noise like machine
Freight train sound deafening
 Wood splits,  house shakes
Tornado passing


----------



## lg325

*Untitled*
BY JAMES BALDWIN
  Lord,
              when you send the rain
              think about it, please,
              a little?
      Do
              not get carried away
              by the sound of falling water,
              the marvelous light
              on the falling water.
          I
              am beneath that water.
              It falls with great force
              and the light
Blinds
              me to the light.


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## lg325

*The Garden by Moonlight*
BY AMY LOWELL
A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,  
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish  
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snow ball bush.  
Only the little faces of the ladies’ delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,  
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.

Source: _Pictures of the Floating World_ (1919)


----------



## lg325

*
Changing The Past*





© Donna More By Donna
Published: July 2011
The past is the past for a reason.
That is where it is supposed to stay,
But some cannot let it go.
In their heads it eats away

Until all their focus becomes
The person they used to be,
The mistakes they made in their life.
Oh, if only they could see

That you cannot change what happened,
No matter how hard you try,
No matter how much you think about it,
No matter how much you cry.

What happens in your lifetime
Happens for reasons unknown,
So you have to let the cards unfold.
Let your story be shown.

Don't get wrapped up in the negative.
Be happy with what you have been given.
Live for today not tomorrow.
Get up, get out, and start living,

Because the past is the past for a reason.
It's been, and now it is gone,
So stop trying to think of ways to fix it.
It's done, it's unchangeable; move on.
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Source: Poem About Letting Go Of The Past, Changing The Past


----------



## lg325

By Edgar Guest More Edgar Guest
Home is the place where the laughter should ring,
And man should be found at his best.
Let the cares of the day be as great as they may,
The night has been fashioned for rest.
So leave at the door when the toiling is o'er
All the burdens of worktime behind,
And just be a dad to your girl or your lad--
A dad of the rollicking kind.

The office is made for the tasks you must face;
It is built for the work you must do;
You may sit there and sigh as your cares pile up high,
And no one may criticize you;
You may worry and fret as you think of your debt,
You may grumble when plans go astray,
But when it comes night, and you shut your desk tight,
Don't carry the burdens away.

Keep daytime for toil and the nighttime for play,
Work as hard as you choose in the town,
But when the day ends, and the darkness descends,
Just forget that you're wearing a frown--
Go home with a smile! Oh, you'll find it worth while;
Go home light of heart and of mind;
Go home and be glad that you're loved as a dad,
  A dad of the fun-loving kind.








Source: Home And The Office By Edgar Guest, Famous Family Poem


----------



## lg325

Rural morning
Cold seeps in the house,
me under the blankets ,snug as a mouse.
Smells of coffee ,bacon and eggs,
causes me to rise and start my day.
   Dark sky gives way to rising sun.
School bus coming, I need to run.
  Seats are cold ,children still drowsy,
driver silent, glad no ones rowdy.
      Childhood  Memory


----------



## gtopa1

"Get Drunk!" - by Charles Baudelaire

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;
that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's
horrible burden one which breaks your shoulders and bows

you down, you must get drunk without cease.

But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue
as you choose.
But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:

"It is time to get drunk!"

So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!"'


----------



## lg325

*The Invitation*





By Oriah Mountain Dreamer More Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn't interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn't interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."

It doesn't interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments









Source: The Invitation By Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Famous Inspirational Poem


----------



## gtopa1

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled. --
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
Thomas Moore









						The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls - The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls Poem by Thomas Moore
					

Read The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls poem by Thomas Moore written. The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls poem is from Thomas Moore poems. The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls poem summary, analysis and comments.




					www.poemhunter.com


----------



## gtopa1

The Lay of the last Minstrel

NTRODUCTION.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer, courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay;
Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp, a King had loved to hear.

He passed where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye--
No humbler resting place was nigh.
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal-arch he passed,
Whose ponderous grate, and massy bar,
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The Duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!

When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride.
And he began to talk, anon,
Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone,
And of Earl Walter, rest him God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode:
And how full many a tale he knew,
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch;
And, would the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtained;
The aged Minstrel audience gained.
But, when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied;
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease,
Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain--
He tried to tune his harp in vain.
The pitying Duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.
And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recal an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.
It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;
He had played it to King Charles the Good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wished, yet feared, to try
The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made--
And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lightened up his faded eye,
With all a poet's extacy!
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost.
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.......... 

(too long to post in full of course ...)



			Sir Walter Scott: The Lay of the Last Minstrel.
		


Greg


----------



## gtopa1

A poem Put into song version for a popular movie.


----------



## gtopa1

*Oft, in the Stilly Night*
*Thomas Moore 1779 (Dublin) – 1852 (Bromham)*



> Oft, in the stilly night,
> Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
> Fond memory brings the light
> Of other days around me;
> The smiles, the tears,
> Of boyhood's years,
> The words of love then spoken;
> The eyes that shone,
> Now dimm'd and gone,
> The cheerful hearts now broken!
> Thus, in the stilly night,
> Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
> Sad memory brings the light
> Of other days around me.
> 
> When I remember all
> The friends, so link'd together,
> I've seen around me fall,
> Like leaves in wintry weather;
> I feel like one
> Who treads alone
> Some banquet-hall deserted,
> Whose lights are fled,
> Whose garlands dead,
> And all but he departed!
> Thus, in the stilly night,
> Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
> Sad memory brings the light
> Of other days around me.


----------



## lg325

*
Life's Scars*





By Ella Wheeler Wilcox More Ella Wheeler Wilcox
They say the world is round, and yet
I often think it square,
So many little hurts we get
From corners here and there.
But one great truth in life I've found,
While journeying to the West-
The only folks who really wound
Are those we love the best.

The man you thoroughly despise
Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true;
Annoyance in your heart will rise
At things mere strangers do;
But those are only passing ills;
This rule all lives will prove;
The rankling wound which aches and thrills
Is dealt by hands we love.

The choicest garb, the sweetest grace,
Are oft to strangers shown;
The careless mien, the frowning face,
Are given to our own.
We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.

Love does not grow on every tree,
Nor true hearts yearly bloom.
Alas for those who only see
This cut across a tomb!
But, soon or late, the fact grows plain
To all through sorrow's test:
The only folks who give us pain
Are those we love the best.
Advertisement



Source: Life's Scars By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Famous Family Poem


----------



## lg325

Media
news ,social
truth, public, responsibility
Censorship is death of free thought
America?


----------



## lg325

People
working people
Seek   representation
democrat or republican side
    Decide


----------



## lg325

Dirt road ,soft sand under bare feet.
Breath the cool air , let it sink deep.
Get away from the sounds of life's beat.
Escape the stress that won't let me sleep.

Sounds of birds and wind in the trees,
calming the mind  as I walk in the leaves.
Taking the long way home going as I please,
I am now a better person, having taken time for me.


----------



## lg325

Light In The Darkness   by John Ross


> “Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and He separated the light from the darkness.” (Genesis 1:2–4, NIV)


But the night, it came as mankind rebelled.
And darkness shone, but no one could tell.
For man’s heart was trapped, like in a prisoner’s cell.
And hope ran dry like an empty well.
Drops of water filled the people’s eyes.
And tears flooded out as the people cried.
They cried out for a Savior to save their lives.
And the darkness grew silent as a baby cried.


> “The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call Him Immanuel — which means, God with us.” (Matthew 1:23, Berean Study Bible)


And the child grew strong with wisdom and might,
As the people no longer had to fear through the night.
As His light shone — the Prince of Peace —
The darkness came back, like an unwanted disease.
And the Wonderful Counselor fell to His knees.
Born to die, to set men free.
But the Light, it entered the hearts of women and men.
For darkness could come, but it could not win.


> “For in Him was life, and that life was the light of women and men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness cannot overcome it.” (John 1:4–5, NIV)








*Koinonia*
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----------



## lg325

*Covid - Through the eyes of Anxiety*
Everyday started out the same before. People would be close, but not too close. We would hug, kiss, and greet each other. Meet with friends and family on the weekends. But now our world is turned upside down. Overnight we were isolated, life held its breath and the world's heart beat stopped. Panic swept through like a roaring river. Shelves were empty. Roads were abandoned so much that my shadow scared me. Masks took over, and breathing became difficult, but the world regained some life while the stench of death coated the globe. People didn't listen, they never listen. The masks were torn away like band aides from and open wound, and thrown away like yesterdays news. The stores became so croweded each aisle was like it was before. My chest tightened. Too close my mind shouted. The woman in line stepped closer. Too close! Back away I wanted to scream. Breathing down my neck My heart clenched. Stop! You're too close! Please I can't breathe! Can't you see? I can't breathe! I am so panicked I can't even breathe right. My heart is so tight it feels like someone is squeezing it, waiting for it to burst! Go back to safety! Please go back to staying away from me. Please wear your mask so I can breathe! Your rights! What about my rights? I deserve the right to a prosperous life, to good health. So why should my health suffer for your lack of care? Get to the car. Lather my hands with hand sanitizer like a greased pig. Get home. Wash hands. Walk into bedroom. Wash hands. Take off clothes. Wash hands again. Put on clean clothes. Take the thirty minutes it takes to calm down from my panic attack and just breathe. Anxiety is not a life long friend, its a foe that sticks to my hip like glue. It stops me in my tracks, covers my mouth, and strangles me to death as I just try to get something from the store. Stay away! Your too close! Follow the rules, wash your hands, six feet distance, wear mask. Follow the rules unlike everyone else. Too close! Stay away! That's what is inside my anxiety prone mind.
Copyright © Scarlet Wolf | Year Posted 2021


----------



## lg325

Spring time
Colors   reborn
Births among natures world
Mothers teach there young ,plants grow strong.
   Brings hope


----------



## Lilah

I've Been Marked Down

The one whom I loved most
abandoned me like burnt toast.
Boundless grace I could use
to help me walk in these shoes.

My surroundings are suddenly bare.
My once keen perception has a tear.
I'm not cool anymore.
I'm a mark down in a dollar store.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

Lexie

She puts on her disguise
behind those turquoise eyes.
She's tall, dark and sexy
This beautiful girl known as Lexie.
She's a hot woman-girl
who entered the stripper world.
Her entrance on stage is always dramatic
as she patiently creates her magic.
She's a maker of dreams, so it seems.
She dances only dressed in pride 
as gracefully down the pole she slides.
She's an object to lustful men
as they dig in their wallets again and again.
She's just a girl trying to survive
It's a wonder she's still alive.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

A Place in My Mind

Lazy rolling hills covered
in spring green grass.
Wildflowers tapering
down the sides of the canyon
hugging the cove.

Salt air tinged with sea,
time standing in the 
ocean breeze.
It's like slipping on a warm
comfortable sweater that
fits just right.

Soothing sounds of the tide
fills the air.
A thin layer of fog
wondering up the cliff's
bathing the streets in
a warm bath of mist.

It's a place where a 
sunset seascape is
painted in a memory.


----------



## Lilah

My Professor

For a moment I captured your attention
with my words, which were few,
but they roused you into my view.

I've watched you intently in front of the class.
The mere sound of your voice touched me inside.
But, I, a shy flower chose to hide.

Little did I know that you noticed me too.
unbeknownst you cast a shadow in my direction
allowing me to see my burning reflection.

No longer could I quell the earthquake I felt.
I had to answer the question you posed.
But instead I answered, I love you, then I froze.

How does one say I've fallen under your spell?
Your words, delicate and sensual, drew me in.

You're a master of disguise, but I don't care
because you are everything I desire.

A masterpiece, a work of art, that's what you are.
I envy your perfection; your cool way of life.

You are a connoisseur of love with
many crystalized memories in your collection,
but I, too, am a connoisseur with my own
private collection.
Would you like to see my repertoire?


----------



## lg325

Night Sky
Stars tell Drama
Constellation and Moon
Orion follows Diana 
   Mercy?


----------



## Lilah

Man In The Elevator

The world around me is shimmering
through a hot ebullient glaze.
His mere presence and my heartbeats
are mingling like music.

The bright glitter of sunshine from
his benevolent blue eyes make me
feel as though I've been anointed
in some heavenly way.

He has an irresistible combination of
vitality, confidence, and masculinity
blended like a perfectly proportioned
cocktail.

His faded jeans and t-shirt seem to glow
optic-white against his cinnamon tan being
worn by a body that is athletic and
superbly conditioned.

His scent is intoxicating as he reaches his
arm around me, clasping me against a
wall of muscle, so big and warm it feels
scary-good causing me to stiffen all over.

The drift of his breath against my cheek
is causing me to tumble in the rush, the
voluptuous undertow; the slow rich ebb
of pleasure.

His baritone drawl is reaching inside me
and lingering in impossible-to-touch
places as he asks, 'Pardon me, would you
push floor 19 as I can't seem to reach it.'


----------



## Lilah

*Exquisite Barfly*

Absent from reality
breathing in and out
white clouds draped
in exotic allure.

Alien dreams consumed
in a vodka martini.
Enlightened meticulous
words eaten with olives.

Sophistication hanging
on a shoulder strap
beginning to fall.

Powerful persuasions
have underestimated
this delicate cactus.


----------



## Lilah

*The Cowboy's Wife*

As day bleeds into night,
she enters a hideous realm
of broken dreams, broken promises,
and broken hearts.  
A place where pain molds souls.

Her bleached blonde hair,
eyes Pacific green,
chipped red nail polish, and
mascara running down one cheek
reveals she is no society belle.
She's a broken-down cowboy's wife.

Poverty has ground her down,
turning her into a pretty lost girl.
Hopelessness has sequestered her
from the sweetness she once knew.

He sees her sitting at the bar.
His heart races as it reacts to the fear
of being rejected.
His swagger has lost its appeal, but
he asks her to dance anyway.

He embraces her with hands that have
been decorated with life's ruggedness.
He whispers, 'I love you Sara Jane.
You're my beautiful wife.  
Please come home tonight.'

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

*Never Be A Mistress*

Please do not follow me as
I have no love to give to thee.
I'll steal your heart making your poor.
Nothing will be left that's for sure.

Where roses and white lilies grow,
I'll bury them under the coldness of snow.
You will be a moment's ornament in my life,
but never will you be my wife.

My sensual fragrance holds delight,
but I'll tread on you in the night.
You are a wild flower filled with passion.
Hold true to your heart, style your own fashion.

If you follow me and take your chances, you
will end up on black skeleton branches.
Never ever dance with a married man.
He will rob you of your soul while kissing your hand.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

*Role Playing*

Standing between them is a great
cultural divide.
He's southern rooted,
She's west coast rolling tide.

He's laid-back sipping mint juleps
in the shade, she's brimming over
with pizzazz, loves to roller blade.

He enjoys life reveling at a slower pace,
she's always the first entrant in a 5K race.

How did these two polar opposites collide?
On an impromptu midnight airplane ride.
He watched her walking down the aisle,
a dark-haired beauty with an indelible style.

She had shapely legs that stretched for miles
but not to be outdone by her alluring smile.
As he watched her eyelids lift to half-mast,
turquoise gemstones sparkled
causing him to gasp.

She had noticed him boarding the plane,
A handsome stranger with a famous name.
She asked, 'Where are you travelling tonight?'
He kissed her hand and answered,
"I'm on another midnight adventure with
my west coast wife.'

Lilah


----------



## lg325

Freedom
speech, press ,thought
Private ownership
Vigilance and education
 Protects


----------



## Lilah

Just Breathe

This time was designed 
just for us to wear.
Soft puffy clouds
skittering across the sky,
bursting red geraniums
boarding the cobbled pathways
as we stroll arm-in-arm
watching the world go by

Breathe in the beauty,
allowing the electric charge
of exhilaration to pulse
through your body.
We are surrounded  by
birdsong and intoxicating
smells of mimosa and jasmine.
We are composing a symphony
with scents instead of notes.

We are completely safe
and protected.
Let go of everything - of thoughts,
reason, time, and simply flow
with your heartbeats.
Illusion is its own reality.

Night is falling and our
picnic in the courtyard
filled with whimsical topiary
and candlelit table is ready.
We have been
transformed into divine
essence, into spirit and soul.
Just breathe.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

*
Chasing Dreams*

Eyelids hanging at half-mast
Sinking sun, like a ring on a
window shade, pulling night
down over the neighborhood.
My ears resonating the sounds
of your voice, the way
seashells do.
My heart swishing like a frog
kicking off from a muddy bank.
Moving between two elements;
excitement and fear.
If I slumber maybe I can catch
the rainbow of consciousness
in a jar.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

Happiness shatters
when your own
dreams are filtered
through another's life.​
Lilah


----------



## Lilah

Ode To My Parents

Someone I loved has gone away
taking half my existence.
Their imprints remain all over my heart.
Tiny museums of personal randomness
are all that's left of me.

Their chiseled beauty was made of
silky clouds, stardust, moonlight,
and sonatas powered by the sun.
Memories of them rise up like
a sweet grape arbor.

I wear the perfume of their lives
like a warm embrace.
Flowers wither, but their
perfume lasts forever.
I'm blossoming in the glow
of their auras.

Death is no enemy, but the
foundation of gratitude, sympathy,
and art of all life's pleasures.
Only love owes no debt to death.
Their love will linger long after 
the wind has erased their footprints
from the universe.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

Dressing Room Ballet

Watching her is refreshing, sexy.
It's a dance without music.
A bedroom ballet with easy
movement - so easy.

She's lithe with small pert breasts
and long, long slender legs.
Slowly she slides the dress
over her thighs -very slowly.

She steps into her black high heels.
Her long luxurious hair drapes down
around her beautiful face.
Her lips are full and pouty.

She lifts her turquoise eyes
and spies me in the mirror.
She smiles shyly as she whispers,
"Your wife is in dressing room three."

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

*Amoureuse *

Haloes glowed around streetlights
on that misty, magical evening.
My heart opened like a morning rose
intoxicating me with life's
most delicious pleasures
when you slipped your hand in mine.

Walking along the sparkling Seine
with you by my side
was like composing a symphony
using the feelings of love
instead of notes.

Your whispers were electric, provocative
causing my passion to rise
as never before.
It was like walking in a dream,
floating so close to the stars,
I felt I could reach up and touch one.

C'est merveilleux d'etre completement en amor

Lilah


----------



## lg325

Night rain.
Pounds roof, deafens.
Noise, ease to a softness.
Steady drumming calms stressed mind.
Sleep comes.


----------



## Lilah

Reaching For Their Hands

Underneath the midnight sun
it feels like I died
but there was no funeral,
no grave to visit.
My old life is as far away
as the stars.

Everything is absurd, distorted.
I'm traveling in the
wrong direction with
unwanted thoughts as my
companion.
It hurts here where I am.

My tears fall like vinyl rain.
I spend sleepless nights
with muted refrains.
There was a time when
life cradled me in a
butterfly's satin wings.

Now I'm crouched in darkness
reaching for the hands of my parents
no longer here.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

Sadness

You spun for me a safe protected chrysalis
from where I could emerge as someone
different, someone extraordinary, to set
sail under an endless sun.

You left unexpectedly leaving me to
fall into sadness.
I move through it the way a person
moves through a sprained joint or
pulled muscle.

I try to put the sadness aside, shelve
it like a book no longer useful, but I
know its there.
Your loss feels like a slow pulling of
threads, like a tear in a fabric, a loosening,
widening along the sharp edges of my mind.

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

A Wildly Delicious Recipe

His was an unusual, insatiable recipe.
All other desserts fell short
to his sinfully rich and velvety
smooth charisma.

One glance from his eyes, the color of
Venezuelan chocolate and I was pulled
into a delicious confection that
would become my obsession.

He touched me with an absolute
absorption like an explorer who had
discovered a rare and fragile artifact.
I surrendered my heart and soul to him.

He was a one-of-a-kind sweet
experience, but alas, he had
a taster's club and my flavor
was not exclusive.

Lilah


----------



## lg325

Midnight
  No moon, stillness
Smells of honeysuckle
Dark water ripples ,gator moving
Hunt starts


----------



## Lilah

Women of the Night

He stood transfixed;
fascinated by the vision.
Two extremes of women.
One shaded with more subtle
tones of softness, kindness,
compassion, and humility.
The other more aggressive,
artful, manipulative,
powerful, and sexy.
Kissing her husband
she asked, 'Which one
shall I be tonight?'

Lilah


----------



## Lilah

Mr. Perfect

So young and naive was I
to believe you were my prince.
My parents cradled me in quiet aplomb.
You broke their China pattern
like spun glass
with your volatile charisma.

Some say you were my Svengali.
I say you were my true love.
Your cunning smile cast a spell
as it enveloped my resolve.
You waltzed with me in
a realm of sensuality
touching me in that special place
where I reside, my heart.

You were Mr. Perfect in my eyes.
You were the quintessential pinot grape.
But, alas too many beauties
were sipping from my glass.

Lilah


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## Lilah

The Sweetness of Revenge

Your love song was a rousing rendition
permeating my heart as I listened.
Your soulful voice drew me in
rendering me helpless in your whirlwind.
Your strong arms held me in heat.
I was naive; easy to defeat.

You said my skin was the silkiest
you had ever felt.
Were you placing another notch in your belt?
You caressed my face as you stared into my eyes,
when suddenly you realized,
I'm the girl you will never win.
I'm the wife of your best friend.

You see, revenge can be sweet
when you rival girls whom you think are weak.
You broke my sister's heart into
and now it's time you paid your dues.
Watch my sexiness as I walk away
knowing you can never brag about today.


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## Lilah

Stay

Feelings unraveling
like the pearls on
my wedding gown.
Tears falling like the
sugarplums on our
seven tier cake.
Suffocated by fear;
paralyzed that you
will not stay here.
We never recognize
the moment love begins
but we know the exact
moment when it ends.
If only I could change
the polarity of the earth
so that compasses
would not work.
If I could roll in the fog
or orchestrate the storms
to rumble,
maybe you would stay
and not fly away.

Lilah


----------



## lg325

Party!
Mom can I go?
Pick out the right outfit!
She left the party with some guy!
Missing!


----------



## Lilah

*Lost In Wonderland

Longing for the sensual
touch of his skin,
I close my eyes to
drift in ecstasy.

His hands gently
unzip my soul
as pleasure cascades
down my equilibrium.

Shivering like a leaf
atop a balmy breeze,
I await our tantalizing
encounter.

His love song ricochets
off the walls of my heart.
I find refuge in his
soft whispers.

I'm lost in Wonderland.


Lilah*


----------



## Lilah

*My Souffle Fell*

He invited me to experience
the ritual of his dance
underneath an umbrella of
chicanery.

Accompanied by
invisible flutes,
yellow daffodils were
falling like wedding sparks
as this engaging man tried
to steal my patina of refinement.

One kiss from his melon
sweet lips and my pristine
eloquence fell like an
eggless souffle.

No longer am I a tray
of decadent chocolate mousse,
I'm just another
gilded lily.

Lilah


----------



## lg325

*Do not go gentle into that good night.  Died this day 4/25/1953*
Dylan Thomas - 1914-1953



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
From _The Poems of Dylan Thomas_, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1937, 1945, 1955, 1962, 1966, 1967 the Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1938, 1939, 1943, 1946, 1971 New Directions Publishing Corp. Used with permission.


----------



## lg325

Just found this .  A video of  Dylan Thomas and others reading his poem .Do not go gentle into that good night


----------



## Lilah

*Springtime In My Soul*

Today I saw tulips unfurling,
grinning into bloom, reaching
skyward with cupped hands
unable to stay in their pants.

Peonies, stuffed with little balls
of pink fluff, were bursting out
of their tight green jackets, 
pulling up like fat Easter chicks.

Birds were rehearsing in the trees,
orchestrating music to mimic
the sound of the soothing breeze.

Bees were stripping one blossom
at a time, rolling in the powder
like addicts.

The air was pregnant with life,
filling me with joy.
Breathing in the splendor,
the atmosphere seemed to vibrate.

Springtime is nourishing me
with intoxicating wisps of stardust,
ruffling my spirit, allowing me to
luxuriate in moments of
resolute optimism.

Lilah


----------



## lg325

River 
Silent witness
Dark waters hold secrets
Suwanee's ancient history
Concealed


----------



## Mindful




----------



## lg325

Freedom's Plow​Langston Hughes _1902 (Joplin) – 1967 (New York City)_​
Friendship
Life
Love
Nature
Religion
War



> When a man starts out with nothing,
> When a man starts out with his hands
> Empty, but clean,
> When a man starts to build a world,
> He starts first with himself
> And the faith that is in his heart-
> The strength there,
> The will there to build.
> 
> First in the heart is the dream-
> Then the mind starts seeking a way.
> His eyes look out on the world,
> On the great wooded world,
> On the rich soil of the world,
> On the rivers of the world.
> 
> The eyes see there materials for building,
> See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
> The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
> The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
> To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
> Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
> A community of hands to help-
> Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
> But a community dream.
> Not my dream alone, but our dream.
> Not my world alone,
> But your world and my world,
> Belonging to all the hands who build.
> 
> A long time ago, but not too long ago,
> Ships came from across the sea
> Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
> Adventurers and booty seekers,
> Free men and indentured servants,
> Slave men and slave masters, all new-
> To a new world, America!
> 
> With billowing sails the galleons came
> Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
> In little bands together,
> Heart reaching out to heart,
> Hand reaching out to hand,
> They began to build our land.
> Some were free hands
> Seeking a greater freedom,
> Some were indentured hands
> Hoping to find their freedom,
> Some were slave hands
> Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
> But the word was there always:
> Freedom.
> 
> Down into the earth went the plow
> In the free hands and the slave hands,
> In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
> Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
> That planted and harvested the food that fed
> And the cotton that clothed America.
> Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
> That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
> Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
> That moved and transported America.
> Crack went the whips that drove the horses
> Across the plains of America.
> Free hands and slave hands,
> Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
> White hands and black hands
> Held the plow handles,
> Ax handles, hammer handles,
> Launched the boats and whipped the horses
> That fed and housed and moved America.
> Thus together through labor,
> All these hands made America.
> 
> Labor! Out of labor came villages
> And the towns that grew cities.
> Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
> And the sailboats and the steamboats,
> Came the wagons, and the coaches,
> Covered wagons, stage coaches,
> Out of labor came the factories,
> Came the foundries, came the railroads.
> Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
> Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
> Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
> Shipped the wide world over:
> Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
> Came the dream, the strength, the will,
> And the way to build America.
> Now it is Me here, and You there.
> Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
> Seattle, New Orleans,
> Boston and El Paso-
> Now it’s the U.S.A.
> 
> A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
> ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL-
> ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
> WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS-
> AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
> AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
> His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
> But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
> And silently took for granted
> That what he said was also meant for them.
> It was a long time ago,
> But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
> NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
> TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
> WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
> There were slaves then, too,
> But in their hearts the slaves knew
> What he said must be meant for every human being-
> Else it had no meaning for anyone.
> Then a man said:
> BETTER TO DIE FREE
> THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
> He was a colored man who had been a slave
> But had run away to freedom.
> And the slaves knew
> What Frederick Douglass said was true.
> 
> With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
> John Brown was hung.
> Before the Civil War, days were dark,
> And nobody knew for sure
> When freedom would triumph
> 'Or if it would,' thought some.
> But others new it had to triumph.
> In those dark days of slavery,
> Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
> The slaves made up a song:
> Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
> That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
> Freedom will come!
> Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
> Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
> But it came!
> Some there were, as always,
> Who doubted that the war would end right,
> That the slaves would be free,
> Or that the union would stand,
> But now we know how it all came out.
> Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
> We know now how it came out.
> There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
> There was a great wooded land,
> And men united as a nation.
> 
> America is a dream.
> The poet says it was promises.
> The people say it is promises-that will come true.
> The people do not always say things out loud,
> Nor write them down on paper.
> The people often hold
> Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
> And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
> Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
> And faultily put them into practice.
> The people do not always understand each other.
> But there is, somewhere there,
> Always the trying to understand,
> And the trying to say,
> 'You are a man. Together we are building our land.'
> 
> America!
> Land created in common,
> Dream nourished in common,
> Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
> If the house is not yet finished,
> Don’t be discouraged, builder!
> If the fight is not yet won,
> Don’t be weary, soldier!
> The plan and the pattern is here,
> Woven from the beginning
> Into the warp and woof of America:
> ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
> NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
> TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
> WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
> BETTER DIE FREE,
> THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
> Who said those things? Americans!
> Who owns those words? America!
> Who is America? You, me!
> We are America!
> To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
> We say, NO!
> To the enemy who would divide
> And conquer us from within,
> We say, NO!
> FREEDOM!
> BROTHERHOOD!
> DEMOCRACY!
> To all the enemies of these great words:
> We say, NO!
> 
> A long time ago,
> An enslaved people heading toward freedom
> Made up a song:
> Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
> The plow plowed a new furrow
> Across the field of history.
> Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
> From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
> That tree is for everybody,
> For all America, for all the world.
> May its branches spread and shelter grow
> Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
> KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!
> Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)


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COLLECTION  EDIT 
Submitted by *ChloeHills* on April 20, 2020
5:58 min read 319 Views




Langston Hughes
James Mercer Langston Hughes was an American poet, social activist, novelist, playwright, and columnist. He was one of the earliest innovators of the then-n


----------



## The Sage of Main Street

lg325 said:


> Midnight
> No moon, stillness
> Smells of honeysuckle
> Dark water ripples ,gator moving
> Hunt starts


*Haiku Cuckoo*

Japanese on dates
Fumble over syllables
Poets don't get laid


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## lg325

Angel on Earth​Robert A Collins _1969 (Arizona)_​
Life
Love



> Angels are to be in heaven but there is one here on Earth.You’re the one I’ve been dreaming of to share my life with for all it’s worth.I will do my best to make you happy for the rest of your life because you made me so very proud the day you became my wife
> Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)


----------



## lg325

> Love, leave me like the light,
> The gently passing day;
> We would not know, but for the night,
> When it has slipped away.
> 
> So many hopes have fled,
> Have left me but the name
> Of what they were. When love is dead,
> Go thou, beloved, the same.
> 
> Go quietly; a dream
> When done, should leave no trace
> That it has lived, except a gleam
> Across the dreamer’s face.


By Conte Cullen


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## Lilah

My Grandmother, the Quintessential Beauty

He stands behind his wife
in reverent silence admiring
her beauty in the mirror.
Watching her feels as if
he's sinking into a dream.
After fifty years, he's still
mesmerized; hopelessly in love.

As her tears fall, she tells him
the image in the mirror is that
of a stranger.
Her thin hands have become brittle;
her skin like parchment paper.
Her youthful form is gone and
the blooms are fading from her life.

He whispers, better than perfect
that's what you are and yet
you thought me worthy to walk by
your side all these years.
You are the portrait of ageless beauty
who rescued me and lifted me up.
Lovers never age.

Lilah


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## lg325

“
Friends​Anne Brady _1954_​
Childhood



> There are two types of friends.
> One is the acquaintance, the
> person you just say hello to on
> the street.
> The person you discuss war, politics,
> and drugs with in passing.
> 
> The other is the close true friend.
> The person with whom you share
> experiences, such as joy, sorrow,
> likes and dislikes.
> The person who’s there when you
> need him.
> 
> There is one sure way to tell
> acquaintances from true friends.
> That is when you have a real
> problem your true friends come
> around and help.
> Everyone is your friend when
> everything is rosy.


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## beautress

lg325 said:


> Angel on Earth​Robert A Collins _1969 (Arizona)_​
> Life
> Love
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Angels are to be in heaven but there is one here on Earth.You’re the one I’ve been dreaming of to share my life with for all it’s worth.I will do my best to make you happy for the rest of your life because you made me so very proud the day you became my wife
> Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)
Click to expand...

Outta the park, 1000%


----------



## Lilah

Happy Father's Day

Dad, you silently lie in my subconscious
as I sleep, buttressing my optimism.
When I awake, I am surprised
by a major miracle --
I am the essence of your smile.

Inexplicably, your voice
like ripe, sun-warmed fruits
resonates inside my head and
beats my heart like a drum,
consuming me softly and gently.

Your presence is palpable like
the tides in the sea; never-ending.
You touched me with artistic splendor
and I will pour out everything inside me
so that your memory will be fortified.

Death is no enemy, but the foundation
of gratitude, sympathy, and art.
Your love will linger long after 
the wind has erased your footprints
from the universe.


Lilah


----------



## midcan5

Post 532 in this thread.

'Do not go gentle into that good night' by Dylan Thomas'


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## lg325

There Will Come Soft Rains​Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933



(War Time)
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.


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## lg325

Boys Of Summer​Mark Orr​


> a tribute to the boys of summer
> baseball's high and mighty
> to those who played the game with grace
> like joltin Joe and Whitey
> 
> hard work and dedication
> swung Casey's heavy bat
> and most of all they loved the game
> you can be quite sure of that
> 
> the crack of the bat...the roar of the crowd
> the smell of fresh cut grass
> fathers and sons making memories
> the kind that will forever last
> 
> I still get chills when I see the old reels
> of the Babe pointing up to the sky
> and after all these years I still can't hide the tears
> when I hear Gehrig's recount of that final goodbye
> 
> So long to the boys of summer
> To Mickey and Roger and Joe
> I like to think they're still playing somewhere
> and giving one h*** of a show.


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## lg325

Summer​​


> The weatherboard house is comforting. The deck of a strangers house, creaking beneath my feet.
> Laughing and fun floating on the air.
> 
> That smile I indulge myself in and let myself float away.
> 
> The sun beaming through the part on your hair. Eyes of innocent green. We sit on that swing
> you hold my hand.
> 
> Swaying back and forth the warmth of the that summer afternoon permeates through my skin through my soul.
> 
> Your kiss so sweet, I will never forget. Your glistening eyes of emerald green.
> 
> Hold my hand. For love, for summer.
> 
> A moment in time forgotten.


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## lg325

lg325 said:


> Summer​​


Just a note The author of this poem is unknown. I found it in poetry.com


----------



## Mindful

When my darkness seeps into my heart, when my bones bend with the sorrow.
When my flesh feels ready to welcome the end of this journey.
I remember the touch of wild water gliding over my skin.
The way the medicine plants give so freely.
I recall how the light of the moon kisses me as I sleep, and how the smell of rich deep earth feeds me.
The flight of buzzard and the swoop of swallow.
The sense of belonging in the arms of nature,
the kinship of my non human community.
I see the hearts I love, the ones I cherish.
And that darkness, that pain,
feels held, feels loved.
And I choose life, I choose me.
——————
• Words Brigit Anna McNeil 
• Art by Taryn Knight •


----------



## lg325

THE THINGS DIVINE BY JEAN BROOKS BURT​
These are the things I hold divine:
A trusting child’s hand laid in mine,
Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees,
The taste of grapes and the drone of bees,
A rhythmic gallop, long June days,
A rose-hedged lane and lovers’ lays,
The welcome smile on neighbors’ faces,
Cool, wide hills and open places,
Breeze-blown fields of silver rye,
The wild, sweet note of the plover’s cry,
Fresh spring showers and scent of box,
The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox,
Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon,
A flight of geese and an autumn moon,
Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights,
A fountain murmur on summer nights,
A dappled fawn in the forest hush,
Simple words and the song of a thrush,
Rose-red dawns and a mate to share
With comrade soul my gypsy fare,
A waiting fire when the twilight ends,
A gallant heart and the voice of friends.


----------



## lg325

Nightly I see you in dreams – you speak,
With kindliness sincerest,
I throw myself, weeping aloud and weak
At your sweet feet, my dearest.

You look at me with wistful woe,
And shake your golden curls;
And stealing from your eyes there flow
The teardrops like to pearls.

You breathe in my ear a secret word,
A garland of cypress for token.
I wake; it is gone; the dream is blurred,
And forgotten the word that was spoken.
(Poetic translation by Hal Draper)
Poem by Harry Heine.


----------



## Mindful




----------



## Mindful

~A feather found reminds you~That life has a way of guiding you~Life has a way to comfort you~That things always get better~And that nothing ever stays the same~
Love & Peace To You All


----------



## Mindful

William Butler Yeats' 1917 poem lyrically describes another lush autumn day. It can be enjoyed for its beautiful imagery, but the poem's subtext is the pain of the passage of time. In the final image, Yeats writes of the longing and lack that autumn evokes as he imagines the departure of the swans he is observing and waking one morning to their absence.


> "The trees are in their autumn beauty,
> The woodland paths are dry,
> Under the October twilight the water
> Mirrors a still sky;
> Upon the brimming water among the stones
> Are nine-and-fifty swans.
> The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
> Since I first made my count;
> I saw, before I had well finished,
> All suddenly mount
> And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
> Upon their clamorous wings...
> But now they drift on the still water,
> Mysterious, beautiful;
> Among what rushes will they build,
> By what lake's edge or pool
> Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
> To find they have flown away?"


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## lg325

'Fall, leaves, fall' by Emily Bronte
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.


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## Mindful

O Little Sliver of Moon Waning

O little sliver of moon waning
that shines on waves desolately reigning,
O little sliver of silver, what mass of dreams
swells here towards your gentle glow!

Fleeting breaths of foliage,
sighs of flowers from the woods
exhale to the sea: no song, no cry,
no sound pierces the vast silence.

Oppressed by love, by pleasure,
the world of the living falls asleep...
O little sliver waning, what mass of dreams
swells here towards your gentle glow!

Gabriele D'Annunzio.​


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## Mindful

_Broken Beams_

Broken beams of gold
In primeval dawn;
The eyes of a fawn;
Spear-points making bold.

Where—in the tempered metal,
The lands that we settle,
The leafless shafts that fly:
There—the living learn to die.

The sun sets;
The hour turns;
Nature gets
What it earns.

Michael  Shindler.


----------



## Mindful

“Love the earth and sun and animals,
Despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks,
Stand up for the stupid and crazy,
Devote your income and labor to others…
Re-examine all you have been told
at school or church or in any book;
Dismiss whatever insults your own soul;
And your very flesh shall be a great poem.”

~Walt Whitman~
Leaves of Grass


----------



## Robert Urbanek

*peace*

less squid game
more squidward
and spongebob

fewer terminators
more terms
of endearment

every
national anthem
all you need
is love


----------



## lg325

Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.​ William Wordsworth. 1770–1850​ 536. *Ode*
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood​ 

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,​    The earth, and every common sight,​            To me did seem​    Apparell'd in celestial light,​The glory and the freshness of a dream._         5_​It is not now as it hath been of yore;—​        Turn wheresoe'er I may,​            By night or day,​The things which I have seen I now can see no more.​         The rainbow comes and goes,_  10_​        And lovely is the rose;​        The moon doth with delight​    Look round her when the heavens are bare;​        Waters on a starry night​        Are beautiful and fair;_  15_​    The sunshine is a glorious birth;​    But yet I know, where'er I go,​That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.​ Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,​    And while the young lambs bound_  20_​        As to the tabor's sound,​To me alone there came a thought of grief:​A timely utterance gave that thought relief,​        And I again am strong:​The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;_  25_​No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;​I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,​The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,​        And all the earth is gay;​            Land and sea_  30_​    Give themselves up to jollity,​      And with the heart of May​    Doth every beast keep holiday;—​          Thou Child of Joy,​Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy_  35_​    Shepherd-boy!​ Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call​    Ye to each other make; I see​The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;​    My heart is at your festival,_  40_​      My head hath its coronal,​The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.​        O evil day! if I were sullen​        While Earth herself is adorning,​            This sweet May-morning,_  45_​        And the children are culling​            On every side,​        In a thousand valleys far and wide,​        Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,​And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—_  50_​        I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!​        —But there's a tree, of many, one,​A single field which I have look'd upon,​Both of them speak of something that is gone:​          The pansy at my feet_  55_​          Doth the same tale repeat:​Whither is fled the visionary gleam?​Where is it now, the glory and the dream?​ Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:​The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,_  60_​        Hath had elsewhere its setting,​          And cometh from afar:​        Not in entire forgetfulness,​        And not in utter nakedness,​But trailing clouds of glory do we come_  65_​        From God, who is our home:​Heaven lies about us in our infancy!​Shades of the prison-house begin to close​        Upon the growing Boy,​But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,_  70_​        He sees it in his joy;​The Youth, who daily farther from the east​    Must travel, still is Nature's priest,​      And by the vision splendid​      Is on his way attended;_  75_​At length the Man perceives it die away,​And fade into the light of common day.​ Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;​Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,​And, even with something of a mother's mind,_  80_​        And no unworthy aim,​    The homely nurse doth all she can​To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,​    Forget the glories he hath known,​And that imperial palace whence he came._  85_​ Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,​A six years' darling of a pigmy size!​See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,​Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,​With light upon him from his father's eyes!_  90_​See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,​Some fragment from his dream of human life,​Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;​    A wedding or a festival,​    A mourning or a funeral;_  95_​        And this hath now his heart,​    And unto this he frames his song:​        Then will he fit his tongue​To dialogues of business, love, or strife;​        But it will not be long_ 100_​        Ere this be thrown aside,​        And with new joy and pride​The little actor cons another part;​Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'​With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,_ 105_​That Life brings with her in her equipage;​        As if his whole vocation​        Were endless imitation.​ Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie​        Thy soul's immensity;_ 110_​Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep​Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,​That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,​Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—​        Mighty prophet! Seer blest!_ 115_​        On whom those truths do rest,​Which we are toiling all our lives to find,​In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;​Thou, over whom thy Immortality​Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave,_ 120_​A presence which is not to be put by;​          To whom the grave​Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight​        Of day or the warm light,​A place of thought where we in waiting lie;_ 125_​Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might​Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,​Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke​The years to bring the inevitable yoke,​Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?_ 130_​Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,​And custom lie upon thee with a weight,​Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!​         O joy! that in our embers​        Is something that doth live,_ 135_​        That nature yet remembers​        What was so fugitive!​The thought of our past years in me doth breed​Perpetual benediction: not indeed​For that which is most worthy to be blest—_ 140_​Delight and liberty, the simple creed​Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,​With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—​        Not for these I raise​        The song of thanks and praise;_ 145_​    But for those obstinate questionings​    Of sense and outward things,​    Fallings from us, vanishings;​    Blank misgivings of a Creature​Moving about in worlds not realized,_ 150_​High instincts before which our mortal Nature​Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:​        But for those first affections,​        Those shadowy recollections,​      Which, be they what they may,_ 155_​Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,​Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;​  Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make​Our noisy years seem moments in the being​Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,_ 160_​            To perish never:​Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,​            Nor Man nor Boy,​Nor all that is at enmity with joy,​Can utterly abolish or destroy!_ 165_​    Hence in a season of calm weather​        Though inland far we be,​Our souls have sight of that immortal sea​        Which brought us hither,​    Can in a moment travel thither,_ 170_​And see the children sport upon the shore,​And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.​ Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!​        And let the young lambs bound​        As to the tabor's sound!_ 175_​We in thought will join your throng,​      Ye that pipe and ye that play,​      Ye that through your hearts to-day​      Feel the gladness of the May!​What though the radiance which was once so bright_ 180_​Be now for ever taken from my sight,​    Though nothing can bring back the hour​Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;​      We will grieve not, rather find​      Strength in what remains behind;_ 185_​      In the primal sympathy​      Which having been must ever be;​      In the soothing thoughts that spring​      Out of human suffering;​      In the faith that looks through death,_ 190_​In years that bring the philosophic mind.​ And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,​Forebode not any severing of our loves!​Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;​I only have relinquish'd one delight_ 195_​To live beneath your more habitual sway.​I love the brooks which down their channels fret,​Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;​The innocent brightness of a new-born Day​            Is lovely yet;_ 200_​The clouds that gather round the setting sun​Do take a sober colouring from an eye​That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;​Another race hath been, and other palms are won.​Thanks to the human heart by which we live,_ 205_​Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,​To me the meanest flower that blows can give​Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.​

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## lg325

*Cold wet
sip warm coffee
Frost on ground silent wait
Sun breaks horizon trees drip moisture
Deer hunt                                                                                   

(cinquain= 5 lines syllable count  2,4,6,8,2)*


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## Mindful




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## lg325

*He said she was the one
he confided to me over drinks in the den
I said to him she might be  nice and fun
But dancers like her are every guy's friend.*


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## Mindful




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## beautress

From Ig325's post: "(cinquain= 5 lines syllable count 2,4,6,8,2), response:

~ frozen ~
all tree branches
refracting sunny spots
wintry heaven's sweet breath vision
~ splendor ~


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## Mindful

Beautress:

I watched a beautiful film yesterday. Set somewhere in NYC.

*Before I Go*

I highly recommend it.


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## lg325

In your silence I find my voice​Ayse J. Muniz​




> In the quietude of your presence
> at first came unease;
> that familiar itch of discomfort
> enveloped me.
> 
> As I would peer in your eyes
> searching for what to say
> sleuthing for clues you'd never give away
> I realize:
> Words pleasing to your ears
> are merely
> a false sense of security
> in seeing me get through my years.
> 
> So like a mold casts its void,
> you knew in your silence I would find my own voice.
> 
> "Why?" I whispered at five
> when we came across the fated bird on the street
> "Why?" I ask again, in quarantine.
> "Without death, there is no life"
> 
> I hear when I listen
> Now I settle into the familiar itchiness
> of finding my own wisdom
> In time, your silence will make me, me.
> 
> 
> -----
> My dad was a man of few words. He passed away from COVID-19 in December 2020. I recall my first memorable confrontation with death occurred when my dad and I were walking outside of the hair salon my grandmother owned and my mom worked at. There was this dead bird, possibly a sparrow, outside the shop where the parking lot met the sidewalk. And I talked to my dad about death at that time. In many ways, my dad's proclivity for silence in his parenting style, and the topic of death have a unifying theme of dealing with discomfort, that in a backward way, I found brought me comfort in my grief.


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Ayse J. Muniz
Scientist sometimes doing non-science things. more…
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## lg325

*Apology for the look of the above poem. I am not sure why some turn out this way.*


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## Lilah

he Road Not Taken​Robert Frost - 1874-1963

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
 doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


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## Mindful

When I miss you
doesn't that mean,
that I need you.
It just says that
I have experienced something,
that I like
would share with you.
It is called,
that I had an idea,
who keeps me busy
and I would like to know,
what do you think about it.
It is called,
that I have feelings,
Feeling pain or joy,
that touch me so deeply,
that I am with her
anyone want to share ,
who also touches me deeply.
When I miss you,
it just means,
that I have realized,
um how much richer
my life is,
when i share it with you.
When I miss you,
I am apparently
too much with you,
Actually but
I'm very close to myself.
When I miss you,
I'm feeling
and I'm present because then
my spirit is stretching
completely out for the moment.
When I miss you
widen the space in me,
Because that's how I manage
a bridge to you.
When I miss you
I will overcome
Distance and time
and far away from me
until my love your heart
touched in the depths ... ♡..

[Nadine Hager, thank you


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## Mindful

Last night
My belly asked me
whether I'm having a hard time,
trapped like that
between my heart
and my head.
I was nodding.
i said i didnt know
whether I'm with one
could live on from them.
"My heart is always sad about"
about something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that could happen tomorrow,"
I was complaining.
My belly shook my hand.
"I just can't live with
my mistakes of the past
or with my fear of the future. ",
I sigh.
My gut smiled and said:
"If that's the case,
should you
with your lungs
Staying for a while. "
I was confused -
my facial expression betrayed it.
"When you are exhausted, you are over."
the obsession of your heart with
of the still past and
the focus of your mind
to the uncertain future,
is your lungs the perfect place for you.
There is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there either
there is only that now
there is only the breath
there is only the exhale
there is only this moment
there is only the breath
and in that breath
can you rest while your
Heart and head
working out their relationship . "
This morning,
while my brain is
with reading tea leaves
been busy
and my heart
was staring at old photos,
I caught a small one
Bagged and walked
to the door of my lungs.
Before I could even knock,
she opened the door
with a smile
and as an air train hugged me,
She said she
"What's been holding you back so long?" "... ♡..

[John Roedel, thank you


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## lg325

A Winters Night
My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro,
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.                                By Sara Teasdale


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## lg325

The Winter Lakes​William Wilfred Campbell _1860 (Newmarket) – 1918 (Ottawa)_​




> Out in a world of death far to the northward lying,
> Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day;
> Under the glimmer of stars and the purple of sunsets dying,
> Wan and waste and white, stretch the great lakes away.
> 
> Never a bud of spring, never a laugh of summer,
> Never a dream of love, never a song of bird;
> But only the silence and white, the shores that grow chiller and dumber,
> Wherever the ice winds sob, and the griefs of winter are heard.
> 
> Crags that are black and wet out of the grey lake looming,
> Under the sunset's flush and the pallid, faint glimmer of dawn;
> Shadowy, ghost-like shores, where midnight surfs are booming
> Thunders of wintry woe over the spaces wan.
> 
> Lands that loom like spectres, whited regions of winter,
> Wastes of desolate woods, deserts of water and shore;
> A world of winter and death, within these regions who enter,
> Lost to summer and life, go to return no more.
> 
> Moons that glimmer above, waters that lie white under,
> Miles and miles of lake far out under the night;
> Foaming crests of waves, surfs that shoreward thunder,
> Shadowy shapes that flee, haunting the spaces white.
> 
> Lonely hidden bays, moon-lit, ice-rimmed, winding,
> Fringed by forests and crags, haunted by shadowy shores;
> Hushed from the outward strife, where the mighty surf is grinding
> Death and hate on the rocks, as sandward and landward it roars


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## Lilah

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye


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## Mindful

"The worst thing we ever did
was put God in the sky
out of reach
pulling the divinity
from the leaf,
sifting out the holy from our bones,
insisting God isn’t bursting dazzlement
through everything we’ve made
a hard commitment to see as ordinary,
stripping the sacred from everywhere
to put in a cloud man elsewhere,
prying closeness from your heart.

The worst thing we ever did
was take the dance and the song
out of prayer
made it sit up straight
and cross its legs
removed it of rejoicing
wiped clean its hip sway,
its questions,
its ecstatic yowl,
its tears.

The worst thing we ever did is pretend
God isn’t the easiest thing
in this Universe
available to every soul
in every breath"

~ Chelan Harkin, in poetry book 'Susceptible to Light'


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## miketx

Trick or treat
Smell my feet 
Give me something 
Good to eat.


----------



## miketx

She frowned and called him Mr.
Because in sport he kr.
And so in spite
That very night
This Mr. kr. sr.


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## Mindful

miketex said:


> Trick or treat
> Smell my feet
> Give me something
> Good to eat.





When life gets rough
And I feel like jumping
I run to the patch,
To be with my pumpkin.


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## lg325

My Room​They say that the state of your surrounding is the state of your mind
I suppose that’s accurate
For my surrounding match my mind clearly
The sheets are in a pile at the end of the bed
The shoes are everywhere
Dirty laundry is scattered over the floor
Nothing is in its place
Looking at all of it and I think I should fix it
Clean it up, make my room tidy once more
But I do none of that, instead, I lay on the bed
Staring blankly at it all and try my hardest not to see it, for, in reality, I’m just as lazy as a cat
I’m not a writer, just a bored gamer

*Israel Sambola*


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## Mindful

“Intuition is the intelligence of the soul.
She can predict developments
and give everyone the best advice,
the one who can be quiet enough inside,
to hear her silent voice.
She's getting her way off
the laws of space and time
and look with ease
Behind the scenes of reality,
Where the real game at.
And you understand without understanding,
you see without eyes,
you will be moved,
cause you're completely silent. "... ♡..

[Hans Kruppa, thank you]


----------



## lg325

* Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ‘The Rainy Day‘.*

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.


Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life, some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary …


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## lg325

> Now winter nights enlarge
> This number of their hours;
> And clouds their storms discharge
> Upon the airy towers.
> Let now the chimneys blaze
> And cups o'erflow with wine,
> Let well-tuned words amaze
> With harmony divine.
> Now yellow waxen lights
> Shall wait on honey love
> While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
> Sleep's leaden spells remove.
> 
> This time doth well dispense
> With lovers' long discourse;
> Much speech hath some defense,
> Though beauty no remorse.
> All do not all things well:
> Some measures comely tread,
> Some knotted riddles tell,
> Some poems smoothly read.
> The summer hath his joys,
> And winter his delights;
> Though love and all his pleasures are but toys
> They shorten tedious nights.








Thomas Campion
Thomas Campion sometimes Campian w


----------



## lg325

Meditatio
Ezra Pound _1885 (Hailey) – 1972 (Venice)_​


> When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
> I am compelled to conclude
> That man is the superior animal.
> 
> When I consider the curious habits of man
> I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.


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## Mindful




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## Mindful




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## Mindful

f I could LIVE MY LIFE one more time...
I would have stayed in bed when I was sick instead of thinking the world would collapse without me if I didn't go to work that day.
I would have said less and heard more.
I would have invited friends to dinner, even though my rug had some insignificant stains or the color of the couch was faded.
I would have eaten popcorn in the "good" room and worried a lot less about the dirt if someone wanted to light the fireplace.
I would have listened to the stories my father told about his youth.
I would have shared the "more" responsibility with my husband.
I would never insist on having car windows closed on a summer day because my hair looks good.
I would have laughed and cried less in front of tv than I watched life.
I would have sat on the grass even if my clothes would have been stained.
I would have never bought anything just because it was practical.
Instead of wishing that the nine months of pregnancy would pass soon I would have treasured every moment and realized that the miracle that grew inside me was my only chance in life to help God perform a miracle I'm going to go to the
If my kids would kiss me, I would never say, "Not now. "Go wash your hands first for dinner."
There would be more: "I love you". More " Sorry " .
But more than anything else, if I had another chance, I would use every minute to really pay attention to my life, live more intensely.
Stop worrying about small things. Don't give your attention to someone who doesn't like you.
Instead, feel and appreciate the relationships you have with those who are good for you and your soul.. ♡..
[Jane Goodall, thank you
Art by Pinterest]


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## Mindful

“I tell of hearts and souls and dances...
Butterflies and second chances;
Desperate ones and dreamers bound,
Seeking life from barren ground,
Who suffer on in earthly fate
The bitter pain of agony hate,
Might but they stop and here forgive
Would break the bonds to breathe and live
And find that God in goodness brings
A chance for change, the hope of wings
To rest in Him, and self to die
And so become a butterfly.” 

― Karen Kingsbury, Oceans Apart


----------



## gtopa1

'My own heart let me more have pity on'​BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies
Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.


Greg


----------



## gtopa1

The Waradgery Tribe by Dame Mary Gilmore
Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
ere as the cranes we went,
crying and calling.

Summer shall see the bird
backward returning;
never shall there be heard
those, who went yearning.

Emptied of us the land;
ghostly our going;
fallen like spears the hand
dropped in the throwing.

We are the lost who went,
like the cranes, crying;
hunted, lonely and spent
broken and dying.

Greg


----------



## gtopa1

It's a queer world; we used to call "the prophets of doom" "bloody crackpots".

Said Hanrahan

“We’ll all be rooned”, said Hanrahan
In accents most forlorn
Outside the church, ere Mass began
One frosty Sunday morn’

The congregation stood about
Coat collars to the ears
And talked of stock and crops and drought
As it had done for years

“It’s lookin’ crook” said Daniel Croke
“Bedad it’s cruke me lad,
But never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad”

“It’s dry all right” said young O’Neil
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark

And so around the chorus ran
“It’s keepin’ dry no doubt”
“We’ll all be rooned” said Hanrahan
“Before the year is out”

“The crops are done, you’ll have your work
To save one bag of grain
From here way out to Back o’ Bourke
They’re singing out for rain”

“They’re singin’ out for rain” he said
“And all the tanks are dry.”
The congregation scratched its head
And gazed around the sky

“There won’t be grass, in any case
Enough to feed and ass
There’s not a blade on Casey’s place
As I came down to Mass”

“If rain don’t come this month” said Dan
And cleared his throat to speak
“We’ll all be rooned” said Hanrahan
“If rain don’t come this week”

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at his remark
And each man squatted on his heel
And chewed a piece of bark

“We want an inch of rain, we do”
O’Neil observed at last
But Croke “maintained” we wanted two
To put the danger past

“If we don’t get three inches man
Or four to break this drought.
We’ll all be rooned” said Hanrahan
“Before the year is out”

In God’s good time, down came the rain,
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window pane
It drummed a homely tune

And through the night it pattered still
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window sill
Kept talking to themselves

It pelted, pelted all day long
A-singing at its work
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back o’ Bourke

And every creek a banker ran
And dams filled overtop
“We’ll all be rooned” said Hanrahan
“If this rain doesn’t stop”

And stop it did in God’s good time
And Spring came into fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold

And days went by on dancing feet
With harvest hopes immense
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o’er the fence

And, oh, the smiles on every face
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee deep on Casey’s place
Went riding down to Mass

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark
And each man squatted on his heel
And chewed a piece of bark

“There’ll be bush fires for sure, me man,
There will without a doubt
We’ll all be rooned” said Hanrahan
“Before the year is out”

*John O’Brien*


----------



## Mindful

I like Manley Hopkins, Greg.


----------



## gtopa1

Mindful said:


> I like Manley Hopkins, Greg.


I've read a lot of his poems over the years; first when I was about sixteen. Nearly caused my English Teacher to blow a gasket. lol I found an Anthology in the Library and searched him out. 

Completely different: This was a popular song in its day.





Greg


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## Mindful

gtopa1 said:


> I've read a lot of his poems over the years; first when I was about sixteen. Nearly caused my English Teacher to blow a gasket. lol I found an Anthology in the Library and searched him out.
> 
> Completely different: This was a popular song in its day.
> 
> View attachment 645768
> 
> Greg



Don’t know that one.


----------



## Mindful

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”
Sir John Lubbock, 'The Use of Life'.






 Devil’s Dyke, South Downs, Sussex, England by Jen White.


----------



## JoeMoma

Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart
The more you eat them, the more you fart,
The more you fart the better you feel
So eat your beans with every meal.

Beans, beans, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
The more you toot, the better you feel.
So let's have beans with every meal


----------



## miketx

JoeMoma said:


> Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart
> The more you eat them, the more you fart,
> The more you fart the better you feel
> So eat your beans with every meal.
> 
> Beans, beans, the musical fruit
> The more you eat, the more you toot
> The more you toot, the better you feel.
> So let's have beans with every meal


Thank you for the return to 4th grade.


----------



## Mindful

No matter how mature and experienced you are,
the moment comes again and again
where you realize what a little child you are after all,
Helpless before the tales of life
and its mighty writer, who stands "Fate"... ♡..

[The Poet, thank you
Art unknown]


----------



## miketx

Mindful said:


> No matter how mature and experienced you are,
> the moment comes again and again
> where you realize what a little child you are after all,
> Helpless before the tales of life
> and its mighty writer, who stands "Fate"... ♡..
> 
> [The Poet, thank you
> Art unknown]


Roses are red 
Violets are blue 
Chocolate is good 
And my cat has a rash


----------



## Mindful

miketx said:


> Roses are red
> Violets are blue
> Chocolate is good
> And my cat has a rash



I love my cat.


----------



## miketx

Mindful said:


> I love my cat.


I love chocolate cats!


----------



## Mindful

miketx said:


> I love chocolate cats!



I bet you do.


----------



## Likkmee

sky dancer said:


> Post your favorite poems and/or any original poems--here is one of my favorite poets:
> 
> I Know the Way You Can Get
> _by Hafiz_
> 
> I know the way you can get
> When you have not had a drink of Love:
> 
> Your face hardens,
> Your sweet muscles cramp.
> Children become concerned
> About a strange look that appears in your eyes
> Which even begins to worry your own mirror
> And nose.
> 
> Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
> And call an important conference in a tall tree.
> They decide which secret code to chant
> To help your mind and soul.
> 
> Even angels fear that brand of madness
> That arrays itself against the world
> And throws sharp stones and spears into
> The innocent
> And into one's self.
> 
> O I know the way you can get
> If you have not been drinking Love:
> 
> You might rip apart
> Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
> Looking for hidden clauses.
> 
> You might weigh every word on a scale
> Like a dead fish.
> 
> You might pull out a ruler to measure
> From every angle in your darkness
> The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
> Trusted.
> 
> I know the way you can get
> If you have not had a drink from Love's
> Hands.
> 
> That is why all the Great Ones speak of
> The vital need
> To keep remembering God,
> So you will come to know and see Him
> As being so Playful
> And Wanting,
> Just Wanting to help.
> 
> That is why Hafiz says:
> Bring your cup near me.
> For all I care about
> Is quenching your thirst for freedom!
> 
> All a Sane man can ever care about
> Is giving Love!


Got my dick caught in my zzzipper, and I dunno what to do.
It hurt like a mother, I hopes it happenz ta you.

I'll finish it shortly


----------



## Mindful

Likkmee said:


> I'll finish it shortly



Don’t bother.


----------



## miketx

Mindful said:


> I bet you do.


Yes, now lets go out and night stick some democrats! You up for it?


----------



## Mindful

miketx said:


> Yes, now lets go out and night stick some democrats! You up for it?



Absolutely.


----------



## miketx

Likkmee said:


> Got my dick caught in my zzzipper, and I dunno what to do.
> It hurt like a mother, I hopes it happenz ta you.
> 
> I'll finish it shortly


His dick caught in his zipper 
 was said to be a poor tipper 
But when he dollared the stripper 
Caught his dick in her zipper 
Low tippers with zippers 
Were known to be bong rippers


----------



## Mindful

“In today’s rush, we all think too much...seek too much ...want too much...and forget about the joy of just being.”

 Eckhart Tolle

Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson - Butterflies, 1891.


----------



## Mindful

"Ever tried. Ever failed. 
No matter.
Try Again. 
Fail again. Fail better."

~ Samuel Beckett.


----------



## beautress

The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other, milk

Ogden Nash


----------



## miketx

beautress said:


> The cow is of the bovine ilk;
> One end is moo, the other, milk
> 
> Ogden Nash


(photo by Ambroz via rgbstock.com)

She frowned and called him Mr.
Because in sport he kr.
And so in spite
That very night
This Mr. kr. sr.


----------



## JoeMoma

I call this poem I wrote Blank Canvas.  Enjoy!












.


----------



## lg325

*Bed In Summer*
Poet: Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue.
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?


----------



## lg325

*Wet dirt road from the rain
Walking alone an oak limb as  a cane
Air is still and warm on this night in June
My only companion a full strawberry moon.                                                                                                       *


----------



## Mindful

The Tree of Idleness - Lawrence Durrell​I shall die one day I suppose
In this old Turkish house I inhabit:
A ragged banana-leaf outside and here
On the sill in a jam-jar a rock-rose.
Perhaps a single pining mandolin
Throbs where cicadas have quarried
To the heart of all misgivings and there
Scratches on silence like a pet locked in.
Will I be more or less dead
Than the village in memory’s dispersing
Springs, or in some cloud of witness see,
Looking back, the selfsame road ahead?
By the moist clay of a woman’s wanting,
After the heart has stopped its fearful
Gnawing, will I descry between
This life and that another sort of haunting?
No: the card-players in tabs of share
Will play on: the aerial springs
Hiss: in bed lying quiet under kisses
Without signature, with all my debts unpaid
I shall recall nights of squinting rain,
Like pig-iron on the hills: bruised
Landscapes of drumming cloud and everywhere
The lack of someone spreading like a stain.
Or where brown fingers in the darkness move,
Before the early shepherds have awoken,
Tap out on sleeping lips with these same
Worn typewriter keys a poem imploring
Silence of lips and minds which have not spoken.
–
From the collection The Tree of Idleness (1955)


----------



## JoeMoma

Mindful said:


> The Tree of Idleness - Lawrence Durrell​I shall die one day I suppose
> In this old Turkish house I inhabit:
> A ragged banana-leaf outside and here
> On the sill in a jam-jar a rock-rose.
> Perhaps a single pining mandolin
> Throbs where cicadas have quarried
> To the heart of all misgivings and there
> Scratches on silence like a pet locked in.
> Will I be more or less dead
> Than the village in memory’s dispersing
> Springs, or in some cloud of witness see,
> Looking back, the selfsame road ahead?
> By the moist clay of a woman’s wanting,
> After the heart has stopped its fearful
> Gnawing, will I descry between
> This life and that another sort of haunting?
> No: the card-players in tabs of share
> Will play on: the aerial springs
> Hiss: in bed lying quiet under kisses
> Without signature, with all my debts unpaid
> I shall recall nights of squinting rain,
> Like pig-iron on the hills: bruised
> Landscapes of drumming cloud and everywhere
> The lack of someone spreading like a stain.
> Or where brown fingers in the darkness move,
> Before the early shepherds have awoken,
> Tap out on sleeping lips with these same
> Worn typewriter keys a poem imploring
> Silence of lips and minds which have not spoken.
> –
> From the collection The Tree of Idleness (1955)


I've never been to a Turkish house.


----------



## Mindful

JoeMoma said:


> I've never been to a Turkish house.



They’re nice.


----------



## Mindful

"The worst thing we ever did
was put God in the sky
out of reach
pulling the divinity
from the leaf,
sifting out the holy from our bones,
insisting God isn’t bursting dazzlement
through everything we’ve made
a hard commitment to see as ordinary,
stripping the sacred from everywhere
to put in a cloud man elsewhere,
prying closeness from your heart.
The worst thing we ever did
was take the dance and the song
out of prayer
made it sit up straight
and cross its legs
removed it of rejoicing
wiped clean its hip sway,
its questions,
its ecstatic yowl,
its tears.
The worst thing we ever did is pretend
God isn’t the easiest thing
in this Universe
available to every soul
in every breath"

~ Chelan Harkin, in poetry book 'Susceptible to Light'

Art: “Mycelium Dreaming” by Autumn Skye.


----------



## Mindful




----------



## BackAgain

One of my faves:

*Roses are grey.*
*Violets are grey. *
*I’m colorblind. *​


----------



## Mindful




----------



## Mindful

"Don’t walk in front of me,
I may not follow.
Don’t walk behind me.
I may not lead.
Walk beside me,
just be my friend."






 Albert Camus


----------



## Mindful

If you are wise, you will slip away occasionally to the secret chambers of self-imposed seclusion. Four faithful friends await you there: Solitude, Stillness, Silence, and Serenity. Indeed, they are more than friends; they are cradles of creativity.
~ William Arthur Ward

~ Art 'Delicious Solitude by Frank Bramley


----------



## Mindful

When the mind is festering with trouble or the heart torn, we can find healing among the silence of mountains or fields, or listen to the simple, steadying rhythm of waves. The slowness and stillness gradually takes us over. Our breathing deepens and our hearts calm and our hungers relent. When serenity is restored, new perspectives open to us and difficulty can begin to seem like an invitation to new growth.

This invitation to friendship with nature does of course entail a willingness to be alone out there. Yet this aloneness is anything but lonely. Solitude gradually clarifies the heart until a true tranquility is reached. The irony is that at the heart of that aloneness you feel intimately connected with the world. Indeed, the beauty of nature is often the wisest balm for it gently relieves and releases the caged mind.

JOHN O'DONOHUE
Excerpt from his books, Beauty: The Invisible Embrace.


----------



## Mindful

“Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne.”
~ Barry Cornwall






 Evening in Rural Monmouthshire, Wales, by Terry Winter.


----------



## Mindful

The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


----------



## beautress

​


----------



## Mindful

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.”

~William Shakespeare, 'A Midsummer Night’s Dream'.






 The Newlands Valley, regarded as one of the most picturesque and quiet valleys in the Lake District National Park, England.


----------



## Mindful

"...the individual ceases to be himself; he adopts entirely the kind of personality offered to him by cultural patterns; and he therefore becomes exactly as all others are and as they expect him to be...The person who gives up his individual self and becomes an automaton, identical with millions of other automatons around him, need not feel alone and anxious any more. But the price he pays, however, is high; it is the loss of his self."

- Erich Fromm


----------



## lg325

Mindful said:


> "...the individual ceases to be himself; he adopts entirely the kind of personality offered to him by cultural patterns; and he therefore becomes exactly as all others are and as they expect him to be...The person who gives up his individual self and becomes an automaton, identical with millions of other automatons around him, need not feel alone and anxious any more. But the price he pays, however, is high; it is the loss of his self."
> 
> - Erich Fromm
> 
> View attachment 681799



“To die is poignantly bitter, but the idea of having to die without having lived is unbearable.” ...    Erich Fromm


----------



## Mindful

Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people. It would help you to have a personal insight into the secrets of the human soul. Otherwise everything remains a clever intellectual trick, consisting of empty words and leading to empty talk. ~Carl Jung.


----------



## Mindful

"The war. Here I was a virgin.
Could you imagine getting your
ass blown off for the sake of
history before you even knew
what a woman was? Or owned an
automobile? What would I be
protecting? Somebody else.
Somebody else who didn't give a
shit about me. Dying in a war
never stopped wars from
happening."






 Happy Birthday Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920-March 9, 1994)


----------



## Mindful

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness.

Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”

Louise Erdrich.


----------



## Mindful

"When you are young, you wait for the world to save you. You wait for that sorry note from your Mother, and a romance of a lifetime from that guy you had a crush on for the last 3 weeks. You think that a Europe trip would ease your worries away, and a 'miss you' text from that one person who you think about everyday but still don't talk to will help you live a little better. You are alive in your head more than this miserable physical world. You think that you are never going to be fine and maybe this is the best that you can have. But when you grow older, everything changes. You realize that grand gestures and other people do not save you, mundane things in your everyday life do.

You do not daydream of trips to soothe your mind anymore. Instead, you stand in front of the balcony and look at the glowing orange moon while sipping your cold coffee and somehow it makes you feel a little less lonely. It's as if the moon can look back at you and listen to all the rambles of your heart. You make a playlist for almost everything from cooking in the kitchen to finishing the last episode of your new favorite show. It's like a time capsule that you revisit all the time just to remember how you've lived your life. You buy fifty books in the fare, even the ones you have already read. You romanticize freshly cut green grass, and a cold cup of water, and a blue sky full of clouds, and the way trees dance with the storm, and that small lane in your neighborhood with magnolia and dogwood trees that looks like a scene from an 80's French movie. You collect cups, bowls and socks and wonder how weird it must look to love them.

You come home tired and lay on your sofa but the way your home smells makes you feel like you belong somewhere. You realize that intimacy isn't just physical or romantic. You feel it when someone comes to your room for the first time and looks at all your stuff and you find yourself telling them backstories, or when you tell someone a story about your childhood and they look at you like they understand you a little more and give you the warmest smile.

 You watch that movie for the 30th time and eat ice cream and solve puzzles when you feel lonely instead of texting and stalking someone who is not good for your mental health. You catch sunsets every evening because you love the way they remind you that there's a new day ahead, and you like listening to the rustle of the leaves on a gloomy day. You live for your plants and your pets and the little pigeon in your balcony who coos every now and then. You appreciate home cooked meals more, and clean clothes and the way fixing your kitchen does you better than a motivational podcast.

And sometimes you pause just to notice your breath and the slow rise and fall of your chest and it makes you glad that you are here. Loving these mundane things have taught you more about beauty than a couple of heartbreak poems. You find that you have stopped giving in to unnecessary stress and you live your life by your intentions and not your habits. You empty your pockets and let go of all the things that are too heavy for you to carry.

 And when someone offers you their half-hearted love, you smile and refuse because it took you a long time to love yourself and now that you finally know your worth, you have realised the way you deserve to be loved. After all, you have understood that finding yourself is closer to finding love. When you look back, you know that there is no need to stay in the past anymore. And instead of waiting for the world to save you, you finally learn to save yourself....."

— Rae Pathak, you are going to be okay.

Illustration by Sam Yang (@samdoesarts)


----------



## lg325

… Born in the heat of the desert
My mother died giving me life
Deprived of the love of a father
Blamed for the loss of his wife
You know Lord I've been in a prison
For something that I never done
It's been one hill after another
I've climbed them all one by one
… But this time, Lord you gave me a mountain
A mountain you know I may never climb
It isn't just a hill any longer
You gave me a mountain this time
… My woman got tired of heartaches
Tired of the grief and the strife
So tired of working for nothing
Just tired of being my wife
She took my one ray of sunshine
She took my pride and my joy
She took my reason for living
She took my small baby boy
… But this time, Lord you gave me a mountain
A mountain you know I may never climb
It isn't just a hill any longer
You gave me a mountain this time.
Author- ??????


----------



## themirrorthief

roses are red
violets are blue
most of these poems suck
and probably
yours does too


----------



## Mindful

roses are red
 violets are blue
is there a price
for you to be nice
l’ll always be true


----------



## Mindful




----------



## Mindful

Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss: and fight again. Fight, fight. That is life. Why pin ourselves down on a paradisal ideal? It is only ourselves we torture. ~D.H. Lawrence


----------



## Mindful




----------



## Mindful




----------



## Ropey

Ropey said:


> I assume he will read it when my day is done.
> 
> 
> I remember when I could do no wrong,
> My words heard as a valued song.
> His eyes, they shone of cultured pearl,
> His love waved akin to the tail of a squirrel.
> 
> Now he has grown and sees so clear,
> Father can be wrong even if held dear.
> His words show perception edgewise and tall,
> From a boy who once was so very small.
> 
> My love is allowing him to make his stand,
> Grow his wisdom from his very own hand.
> To share my story and leave it at that,
> For he is now the one who is "at bat".
> 
> Today I see glimmers of that childish view,
> Tendered in thoughts of the adult so true.
> Willingly knowing that he shall be so,
> If only allowed to blossom and grow.



I have had to write a eulogy.


----------



## Mindful

"Am I in love? Absolutely. I'm in love with ancient philosophers, foreign painters, classic authors, and musicians who have died long ago. I'm a passionate lover. I fawn over these people. I have given them my heart and my soul. The trouble is, I'm unable to love anyone tangible. I have sacrificed a physical bond, for a metaphysical relationship. I am the ultimate idealistic lover."

~ James Dean.


----------



## lg325

Mindful said:


> "Am I in love? Absolutely. I'm in love with ancient philosophers, foreign painters, classic authors, and musicians who have died long ago. I'm a passionate lover. I fawn over these people. I have given them my heart and my soul. The trouble is, I'm unable to love anyone tangible. I have sacrificed a physical bond, for a metaphysical relationship. I am the ultimate idealistic lover."
> 
> ~ James Dean.
> 
> View attachment 726229


Thankyou for posting that.  James Dean  was an interesting fellow in so many ways. Your post sort of blew me away.


----------



## Mindful

And, I shall wait for you
For you to come back home
For my life is not much
Whilst you are gone

A little poem by Athey Thompson
Picture taken by my lovely friend Dominic
Moriarty


----------



## Mindful

The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot he taken by the other, because it is not given by the other. ~Osho

(Book: New Man for the New Millennium https://amzn.to/3F15mpr)
(Art: 'One Reflection', 1998 by Clive Smith)


----------



## Mindful

"Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?"

-Chapter VI, The King of the Golden Hall, Book III, The Lord of the Rings

Artwork by woutart.


----------



## lg325

There is a time for love and laughter
The days will pass like summer storms
The winter wind will follow after
But there is love and love is warm

There is a time for us to wander
When time is young and so are we
The woods are greener over yonder
The path is new the world is free

There is a time when leaves are fallin'
The woods are gray the paths are old
The snow will come when geese are callin'
You need a fire against the cold

So do your roaming in the springtime
And you'll find your love in the summer sun
The frost will come and bring the harvest
And you can sleep when day is done                                 ------                 Author -  Dillards


----------



## Mindful

*The Miracle of Morning*
— _Amanda Gorman_I thought I’d awaken to a world in mourning.
Heavy clouds crowding, a society storming.
But there’s something different on this golden morning.
Something...


----------



## Billo_Really

sky dancer said:


> Post your favorite poems and/or any original poems--here is one of my favorite poets:
> 
> I Know the Way You Can Get
> _by Hafiz_
> 
> I know the way you can get
> When you have not had a drink of Love:
> 
> Your face hardens,
> Your sweet muscles cramp.
> Children become concerned
> About a strange look that appears in your eyes
> Which even begins to worry your own mirror
> And nose.
> 
> Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
> And call an important conference in a tall tree.
> They decide which secret code to chant
> To help your mind and soul.
> 
> Even angels fear that brand of madness
> That arrays itself against the world
> And throws sharp stones and spears into
> The innocent
> And into one's self.
> 
> O I know the way you can get
> If you have not been drinking Love:
> 
> You might rip apart
> Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
> Looking for hidden clauses.
> 
> You might weigh every word on a scale
> Like a dead fish.
> 
> You might pull out a ruler to measure
> From every angle in your darkness
> The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
> Trusted.
> 
> I know the way you can get
> If you have not had a drink from Love's
> Hands.
> 
> That is why all the Great Ones speak of
> The vital need
> To keep remembering God,
> So you will come to know and see Him
> As being so Playful
> And Wanting,
> Just Wanting to help.
> 
> That is why Hafiz says:
> Bring your cup near me.
> For all I care about
> Is quenching your thirst for freedom!
> 
> All a Sane man can ever care about
> Is giving Love!


Hickory dickory dock....

....no, I can't bring g myself to do it!


----------



## Mindful

I always resented all the years, the hours, the minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me dizzy and a bit crazy — I couldn’t understand the murdering of my years yet my fellow workers gave no signs of agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as the dull and senseless work.  ~Charles Bukowski.


----------



## Mindful

"If people looked at the Stars
each night, they'd live a lot
differently,




when you look into infinity,
you realize that there are
more important things than
what people do all day."







 Bill Watterson





 lmaginary Foundation.


----------



## Mindful

A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details, raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee, which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life.

- Notes from Wanderer.


----------



## Mindful

Nothing is ever as beautiful as the first isolated moments with someone who might be able to love you — with someone you yourself might be able to love. There is nothing as silent as these minutes, nothing so saturated with sweet anticipation. It is for these few minutes that we love, not for the many that follow. Never again, they realize, would anything so beautiful ever happen to them. They might be happier, more impassioned, too, and infinitely satiated with their own bodies and with each other’s. But never again would it be so beautiful.

-Stig Dagerman


----------



## Mindful

"When I moved from
one house to another,
there were many things
I had no room for.
What does one do?
I rented a storage space
and filled it.
Years passed.
Occasionally,
I went there
and looked in,
but nothing happened,
not a single twinge
of the heart.
As I grew older
the things I cared about
grew fewer but were
more important,
so one day I undid the lock
and called the trash man.
He took everything.
I felt like the little donkey
when his burden is finally
lifted.
Things! Burn them, burn them!
Make a beautiful fire!
More room in your heart
for Love, for the trees.
For the birds who own
nothing;




the reason they
can fly."






 Mary Oliver





 Octavio Ocampo, Arte Metamorfico.


----------



## Brick Gold

Copious portions of opulence envelope the topography
Important options of portway to post our pontooner
Are a lover the place, we poke our fun pie at the poleman
Cooperate we say, Lord we wiggle in our undies
This aint _a_ its the see I hey!


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## Mindful

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

~~excerpt from 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

artist:Mildred Anne Butler
The Delegates.


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