A Great Man's House
It was written in marble in golden letters:
here a great man lived and worked and died.
He laid the gravel for these paths personally.
This bench — do not touch — he chiseled by himself
out of stone.
And — careful, three steps — we're going inside.
He made it into the world at just the right time.
Everything that had to pass, passed in this house.
Not in a high rise,
not in square feet, furnished yet empty,
amidst unknown neighbors,
on some fifteenth floor,
where it's hard to drag school field trips.
In this room he pondered,
in this chamber he slept,
and over here he entertained guests.
Portraits, an armchair, a desk, a pipe, a globe, a flute,
a worn-out rug, a sun room.
From here he exchanged nods with his tailor and
shoemaker
who custom made for him.
This is not the same as photographs in boxes,
dried out pens in a plastic cup,
a store-bought wardrobe in a store-bought closet,
a window, from which you can see clouds better
than people.
Happy? Unhappy?
That's not relevant here.
He still confided in his letters,
without thinking they would be opened on their
way.
He still kept a detailed and honest diary,
without the fear that he would lose it during a
search.
The passing of a comet worried him most.
The destruction of the world was only in the hands
of God.
He still managed not to die in the hospital,
behind a white screen, who knows which one.
There was still someone with him who remembered
his muttered words.
He partook of life
as if it were reusable:
he sent his books to be bound;
he wouldn't cross out the last names of the dead from
his address book.
And the trees he had planted in the garden behind
the house
grew for him as Juglans regia
and Quercus rubra and Ulmus and Larix
and Fraxinus excelsior.
poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Alexandrines
There is a house that most of all on earth I hate.
Though I have passed through many sorrows and have been
In bloody fields, sad seas, and countries desolate,
Yet most I fear that empty house where the grasses green
Grow in the silent court the gaping flags between,
And down the moss-grown paths and terrace no man treads
Where the old, old weeds rise deep on the waste garden beds.
Like eyes of one long dead the empty windows stare
And I fear to cross the garden, I fear to linger there,
For in that house I know a little, silent room
Where Someone’s always waiting, waiting in the gloom
To draw me with an evil eye, and hold me fast—
Yet thither doom will drive me and He will win at last.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Time Passes
Time is passing while I am waiting
For true life to have some meaning-
Time is passing and I blindly
Count to ten upon my fingers-
Not knowing and not even able to distinguish
What is real from what is not?
One, two, three and the voices inside me won't stop commanding-
Four, five and six-
All I see are snakes within the bleakness and confinement of this room-
Seven, eight, and nine, and even through this dim light I believe I am being watched-
I count aloud to ten upon my fingers and
Time is passing and all that is all that I hear for the moment-
All that I see, I reach out to touch or to open my eyes to see-
Time has passed and everything is silent, without a trace of
Ever being near and once more I count,
Starting at seven, eight and then nine- watching the second hand on the wall clock and
Ten? Ten more hours to be locked inside of this empty, room where
The walls are barren and I am alone with my thoughts-
Time is passing and I would be running away, but there is nowhere to run to, except to
Places inside of my mind and one, two three and all that I see is
The walls of this empty room and a locked door-
I could count from one to a thousand and
Inside of this room I would remain- I could count to one million and
I would die before I even got there- so I count from one to three over and over because
Everything is seemingly easier when I am lost inside the world of my fantasies and
I realize now what is not truly real and threatening shall never harm me and
Time is passing and as I count, I am blissfully losing myself inside the world
I have made here inside of my mind for myself, alone…
This way time may pass even before the sun rises tomorrow, and then-and then?
My life perhaps shall have some meaning-
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My English Teacher
At the grade three
A new teacher came
Around her table
A queue we were all in
Having exercise books on our hands
To get written our names on it
Twining with aroma of her perfume
Let the mind not go back to the bench
My English teacher
Not like other teachers
Wearing new dresses
Pleasant smile with snazzy
I bought a double rule book
To write proper English letters
Putting the alphabet of base
Following day had a message
No more with us
Principle's words
Teacher came to us
We cried a lot
"Why may teacher you go leaving us'
'Is our school not good'
While worshiping on her feet
Without an answer
Looking at us
Touched our heads
She got a transfer
Because of our remote dry school
Since then on
Until primary end
Without an English teacher
My texts books were new
She doesn't know me for sure
Placed an aroma still in my mind
You wrote that name of mine
I am writing today.
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
July 1 2009***Giving His Boots a Rest
He is resting
In a comfortable Library chair
With his boots and jacket on
His backpack is nearby
He's reading today's paper
And has three plastic covered
Magazines stacked on the floor
To read next
He's in from the cold and rain
He's in where it's warm and dry
He's been to the men's room to
Wash himself and his socks and shorts
Wrapped in a plastic bag
He'll dry them later
Now he's trying to get his boots to dry
They're damp and well worn
They are not worn out
Just like him
They are well worn
They've covered many miles
He's worked in them
He's slept in them
To keep warm and to see
That they are not stolen
Where do you put your shoes at night?
Under you bed? In your closet?
It's been a long time
Since he's had either
How do you
Keep your feet from freezing
In the long hard-frost winter nights?
How do you keep warm?
If you'd never had to worry
You wouldn't appreciate
The warm dry Library chair
That gives his boots a rest
poem by Tom J. Mariani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Alone isn't forever
Once upon a time.
There was girl all alone.
She ordered everything by phone.
All of her potted rose bushes stood in a perfect line.
In the middle of her living room grew a big fury pine.
She trembled everytime she opened the door.
She was not scared to be poor.
She was a writer afraid to explore.
Her books and keyboard were an escape.
Even so the stars still reminded her of hope.
Her books look like wall paper that surounded the room.
The dust has no time to scatter any gloom.
All the windows show off the sun light.
The candle is only used at night.
She typed at the keys until her hands went numb.
She could not write a single line.
A larger fear was beginning to form in her mind.
Her work without experience was blind.
She decided the voice of fear was dumb.
Small steps took her out to the mail box.
Out of the forest peered glowing eyes which made her scream.
Her fear went away after seeing it was just a fox.
Another day brought an email from a friend.
His family needed help on the Island.
A big storm blew their house away.
She bought a ticket and sailed on that day.
She helped them build a Victorian house yay.
She is becoming an amazing writer.
She is now able to brave any adventure.
The end.
Round Room
My room is round when I lay down, when I wake up it's square
When I go outside it's on a spiral set of stairs
The people that surround me are waiting out there
In a round room they can't find me anywhere
Right angle rooms drive me crazier each day
Put me in a box I know I'm never going to play
Put me in a square room and I won't know what to say
I want a round room at the end of the day
I had an apartment, four corners on the walls
Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep there at all
I want a curve to the place where I stay
I want a round room at the end of the day
If I pass out take me to the round church
Where echoes resound
And my spirit is found
And when I float high
Take my arm and I'll fly you by
The outskirts of town, to a garden that's round
I went to the lighthouse and I liked the view
I looked out the window and I could see you
Put me in a square house and I won't have a clue
I want a round room just to be with you
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
From the Diary of a Mimes
At my grandmothers house, you will see a hundred years of family portraits. We are a family of mimes. The portraits are of mimes.
You may ask why would someone wish to be a mime? For it is a limited existence beings that a mime s a simile of a single frame photograph. Look at the pictures at grandmothers house, do you feel the pain? This is my pain.
Becoming a mime.
I was six or seven years old. Grandmother and I were sitting in her living room, I had slept over at her house for a weekend while mom, dad and little brother tend to other things. Grandmother was in an odd mood today. She looked at her pictures and smiled some. And cried a little." I think its time you wore your mime face." She said. Today you will learn how to become a mime." So I said" Yes madman she proceeded to make up my face.
As she put on my makeup she started to cry. She cried for a long time. I was a little girl I started crying as well. I could not watch my grandmother cry without shedding tears of my own. So we sat and cried.
'Why are we crying' I asked? 'Well dear, sometimes life deals you a hard enough blow that even a mime will cry." I said 'Ok.'I was soon to find out what she meant. This is the day I learned a safe place for a heart to be. I learned that a person could freeze emotions and save them for future use. Yes place them in a jar, to be opened at an appropriate time. For that is what I do. You see I write a sad story, open a jar of tears and cry for a minute.
So after a good cry, grandmother took my hand and led me to the foyer wondered why I had to wear my mime face. Well grandmother had hers on, so I thought it must be a family thing, and I did not question. We sat under the foyer, was hot.New Orleans is a hot place at certain times of the year. There was no breeze, was still as could be. Nothing moved, except perhaps the webs a few lucky spiders, the ones who had prey to close in on.
'God bless mother nature, child. Its infinite wisdom, allows all creatures sustenance 'Uhh grandmother, that is a spider. Kill it, mom does.''No." She says, this is his house. If he were in mine, then I would kill him, but he lives here and kills insects.'
'You say he" I asked." How do you know it is a male spider? " She sighs." I do not know.' So I ask." Then why do you say it is a male? " It is taken for granted that any unknown sex is referred to as he. God is male." I answer" God could be a woman. I do not think anyone knows Gods sex grandmother. The world would be better if God was a female.''Perhaps so child." She answers, " Perhaps so.'
'Your father used to say that when he was your age. Always a philosophy with him." And her eye tiered up again. But I saw her turn to ice of a sudden. The tears dried. Then a long white car pulled up in the driveway, grandmother took my hand and we walked to the car. A man in a grey uniform opened the door and we sat inside. 'I will remember every detail of this day. For this is where my life changed.'
The car drove us to a big fancy building, it was full of mimes dressed in black. Even as a child I realized that something was wrong, so many mimes, all crying and made up in misery faces. I wondered why. They all parted as grandmother and I entered the building.
It was an odd place. Sad sounding music reminded me of harmonies of sorrow, organs and moans and tears. There were 3 pretty boxes in the center of the room. People were all around, most of them mimes, most were crying. 'Grand mother, what is in the boxes? 'I asked." Why do all the mimes look into them and cry? ''Never mind my child. Just be a mime.'
'Well if my daddy was here he would pick me up and I could see what was in the boxes." My grandmother looked down at me and started to cry, and the tears flowed." Brace yourself girl." She said. Then she picked me up. Eagerly I looked over the side of the box. In it was the reason I became a mime. I saw my fathers body made up to be a mime laying with his hands together as if he were praying. My brother and mother the same in other boxes. I knew they had passed away.
It was hard on a little girl, to have it etched into her mind.I kicked and screamed till grandmother set me on my feet. I ran out of the room and never spoke another word until this day.
I do not like this one much.
Through The Veil for Dave Walker
there's a light
in the window
of the house
forgotten by time;
a book on the table,
unopened.
footprints on the floor
covered with dust.
a cup in the sink
half-empty.
the wind blows
curtains grey with time....
whispering, whispering....
names that cannot
be heard.
voices, echoes,
creaking the floor.
a book of photographs
on the closet floor.
walking through the mist,
the fog and the shadows,
touching small particles
of being left like gifts....
lives unwrapped into mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Legal Mouse
A lawyer had a legal mouse,
A naughty one they say,
That took possession of his house
And papers ev'ry day,
His books and records it would gnaw,
Without regard for loss,
Its disrespect and lack of awe
Just kept the owner cross.
When no revenge the man could get,
His anger blazed so high,
Till he declared when next they met,
The mouse would surely die.
The murder, all the world should know,
He planned with ire intense,
To strike the mouse a fatal blow
And call it self-defence.
One day the desk he opened wide,
The mouse in regal state,
Sat in a pigeon hole, inside,
In style the scene was great.
A stroke the lawyer at it gave,
A star it made to flee,
Into a hole its life to save,
To find security.
When he had guarded well the hole,
It scrambled for the floor,
Again he kept it from the goal,
Its life endangered more.
The door of hope he seemed to close
Upon the enemy;
Its feelings then, nobody knows,
Its longings to be free.
Up through his sleeve it made a break,
In search of freedom sweet;
His arm he then began to shake,
To bring it to his feet.
His cuff was thrown away, no doubt,
The button had to go;
His coat and vest he tore about,
The mouse had scared him so.
All o'er his body, too, he felt
The mouse, though such a prig,
Himself he then began to pelt,
To yell and dance a jig.
His thoughts he threw around his will,
The same he had not made;
He felt uncertain which would kill,
Such terror was displayed.
The neighbors and the police heard
The noise of that affray;
And to the spot, without a word,
They quickly made their way.
Upon his back, between his shirts,
The little mouse was found.
'Twas hard, amid' so many flirts,
To bring it to the ground.
Out of his coat, upon advice,
He came, with haste replete.
The room-door opened in a trice
And made good his retreat.
The mouse was taken from its place
Of hiding and of dread,
So painful was the last embrace,
It fell down by him—dead.
Then to the crowd the lawyer said,
'Of such, my friends, beware,
Mine enemy, the mouse, is dead,
Such things we all can spare.
'The killing, in my case, was one
Of self-defence, 'tis true;
And, on the whole, I've only done
As other men would do;
'But still, my hands are red with blood!
That mandate, 'Do not kill,'
Prevents the waters of the flood
From washing off the ill.'
To all who shall the story read,
And many will, I trust,
Don't kill a helpless mouse, I plead,
Unless the killing's just.
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Hollow Nature Of Being
WALL I:
inside an empty room lies an empty box
and in that box is a four walled inside room within-
on each of the four walls is a mirror reflecting
the deep desertion of the next
and distant within each wall is another
echoing & spiraling back into infinite repetition
with nothing or no one except the physical entities
bearing back upon each other.
WALL II:
an empty room in an empty house
the house itself has no physical attributes because it
was built in a barren field-
there are no animals, no trees,
no beings of any kind
roaming around the house whose image cannot be
imagined,
at best, know that this house in fact
“housed” the room in question,
as any house might any room.
WALL III:
such a barren field stretches to all four corners
carrying itself out beyond the periphery
curling back in on the other side,
and walking in any direction will bring one back to the
beginning-
the barren field that reveals the empty house that
encapsulates the empty room is the most integral point of
reference within the endless flat plain of grass.
WALL IV:
endless flat plains of grass flowing out in all directions covering
the circumference of the area around the empty house residing in
the middle of the plain wherein
the inside of the empty house holds the
empty room & in the
room,
the four mirrored walls reveal only the replication of the
others,
spiraling into infinite repetition-
there is no feeling
no sound
no communication of any kind
woven with the thread of human fiber.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Storeroom
I love you, without caring whom you love.
My hands below the belt, or my hands above
in the arms of other men,
or in my bed again.
It's just a man,
Taking what he needs,
From the store room,
Store room, store room.
I love to see you sitting there upon your throne,
your preachers all around you
being bored, and your prophet straight and tall.
And yet they'll undermine it all.
Just a man, just a man,
taking what he needs,
from the store room,
store room, store room.
Yeah, Shakespeare said it all, then he said no more
and he left me feeling just like a two bit whore.
Well the silence broke my heart, but yes
I spread my legs apart.
It's just a man ...
?????
?????
The hermit in the Wild,
the parent in the child.
Just a man ...
Oh my love, let us unpin you,
???? you done, bringing more:
the mother and the father, the daughter and the son.
But should one refuse to come, it does not subtract the sum
It's just a man ...
It's not a (due?) of burning pounds that ruins your mind
like a spoon that you turn and you turn and you don't unwind,
Though these wars that you did not stop,
they don't tear your sleep apart.
It's just a man ...
???? that keeps you up,
What a (moon?) coming like a headlight through the window
Not the thumbnail of a screen, (?)
No best way to dream (?)
It's just a man ...
Now the woman by your side is she awake?
But there's nothing you want to give her,
and there's nothing that you really want to take.
You don't even try to prove that the noisy neighbor's making love. (?)
It's just a man ...
I love you without caring whom you love ...
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Goodbye
Digging a hole down in your room
I watched you disappear too young, too soon
And you run out of stories to keep them entertained
All of the vampires forgot your name
You forgot why you came here today
And so you ran away
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
Millions of people know what you did
But when it hit ya, you ran and hid
From the money and muscle
The rules of the game
They bought your face boy
They bought your name
You forgot why you came here today
And so you ran away
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
You forgot why you came here today
And so you ran away
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
I said bye bye bye
When the world has passed you by
I will never forget your name
Do you know why?
song performed by by Fastball
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ghostly Nurses and Piano Playing
I went to elementary school,
In some old buildings,
That were at that time called,
An independant school district.
The school only went up to eighth grade.
After you finished up there,
They would bus you,
To another independant school district,
That had a high school.
As I am sure other schools have,
Our fine school had a ghost.
The ghost was supposed to haunt,
Our lunchroom / music room.
The building was about eighty feet long,
And half of it had tables and benches,
So you could sit and eat,
Whatever you brought for lunch,
In your brown paper bag.
The ghost was supposedly a school nurse,
That was supposed to have died,
In the lunchroom.
Now I don't know,
If she had a heart attack,
Or she choked on a chicken bone,
Whatever the cause,
She haunted our school.
I never saw her,
And Pepe my blood brother,
Never saw her either.
One night,
After a terrible day,
With the board of education,
(That hung above Mr. Spinks desk)
Pepe and I decided,
To investigate the school room.
At nine o'clock at night.
In those days,
One telephone pole,
With a single light on top,
Illumined the entire school.
Also, most of the school buildings,
Were left unlocked,
Since Mr. Spinks doubled,
As night watchman,
And lived on the property.
The doors being unlocked,
Proved to be a moot point.
Pepe and I were adept,
Second story men,
Even though the lunchroom was a single floor.
We climbed in through the window,
And made our way,
To the half of the lunchroom, that was the music room.
Quickly we peeked inside,
The music teachers office,
And found no discernible difference.
Then we searched all the closets,
And the utility room,
But that nurse was nowhere to be found.
After a while we got bored.
Thats when I sat at the piano,
And did my best Lon Chaney,
Impression from the silent classic,
The Phantom Of The Opera,
TA, TA, TA TOM.
Pepe started laughing hysterically,
And pretended to be Mary Philbin,
Coming up behind Erik,
To yank off his mask.
Right at that precise moment,
We heard noises outside,
And took a peek through the window.
Mr. Spinks was doing his best,
Elmer Fud impression,
Sneaking up on the lunchroom,
Shotgun and all.
Pepe and I decided to retreat,
And crawled out the window,
Oposite the side our principle was arriving at.
We made straight for the woods,
Just ten feet from the lunchroom.
There we watched as the lights came on,
Inside the lunchroom,
And Mr. Spinks doing what we had so recently,
Been doing.
After about half an hour,
He left walking in a manner,
Not like himself at all.
He would take a few steps,
Then turn, and look at the lunchroom.
He did this several times,
Until he got to the house,
He and his wife Lorretta shared with their daughter Dixie.
The next day when we got to school,
We found out,
That the ghost of the school nurse,
Had made another apparition.
Apparently she also played the music room piano,
And laughed hysterically all night long.
There were maybe forty kids,
In that little school.
And they all swore,
That they had seen the ghost of the school nurse.
I think Mr. Spinks did too.
poem by Juan Olivarez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cold Feet
There was a little boy once upon a time
Who in spite of his young age and small size knew his mind
For every copper penny and clover he would find
Make a wish for better days the end of hard times
For no more cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
His clothes were always clean
His face was always scrubbed
There was food on the table enough to fill him up
His house was full of life - his house was full of love
But when winter days arrived
There was never money enough to shod his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He grew up to be a worker determined to succeed
He made a life for himself, free from worldly wants or needs
But with nobody to share the life hed made
No body to keep him warm at night
When hed go to sleep hed sleep alone with his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
One night he walked the street looking to the heavens above
Searching for a shooting star a benevolent god
When a woman passing by brushed his arm
He turned and found love
He then wished for the courage to ask this stranger
Who she was to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought shed like the party life and want the finer things
So he promised more than he could buy
And he promised her the sun and moon to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He worked day and night his fingers to the bone
Hi worried mind guilty conscience drive him on
He cant give her what she needs
He wants to give her what he thinks she wants
Her sad-eyed face, his empty pockets drive him on and his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Hed struggled all his life to be an honest man
Proud that the dirt on his palms was the soil of the land
But some guys he knew from high school days
Said they had a plan to get rich quick
And they could count him in if he dont have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought about their offer accepted it without qualms
Dreamt about the life hed buy
The comfort that would come without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He decided to tell his wife things would soon turn around
He said the little boy is dead
A man stands with you now without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Without cold feet - cold cold cold cold feet
He thought hed set his clock right - he though hed read his watch
He left in such a hurry he didnt think to wish for luck
Makes no difference if youre early - no difference if youre late
When youre out of time - the flowers have been laid
Youre six feet underground
With cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Minister
Played too hard and he died too young
To be certain of earning his [burnt out/word of? ] love
He won a place in history
And his name will live eternally
Lived the life of a movie star
And he waved to the people from a big black car
Down in a book with the greatest names
As a lonely maid cried take [in/the? ] pain
Tell me a story minister
There aint no time left to lose
Ten man tried in the dead of night
? ? ? the great mans final words to right
In a room that was soft and red
The great man spoke outside my head
Tell me a story minister
There aint no time left to lose
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Open House
Please
Come over to 81st street Im in the apartment
Above the bar
You know you cant miss it, its across from the subway
And the tacky store with the mylar scarves
My skins as pale as outdoors moon
My hairs silver like a tiffany watch
I like lots of people around me but dont kiss hello
And please dont touch
Its a czechoslovakian custom my mother passed on to me
The way to make friends andy is invite them up for tea
Open house
Open house
Ive got a lot of cats, heres my favorite
Shes lady called sam
I made a paper doll of her, you can have it
Thats what I did when I had st.vitus dance
Its a czechoslovakian custom my mother passed on to me
Give people little presents so they remember me
Open house
Open house
Someone bring the vegetables
Someone please bring heat
My mother showed up yesterday
We need something to eat
I think I got a job today they want me to draw shoes
The ones I drew were old and used
They told me to draw something new
Open house
Open house
Fly me to the moon
Fly me to a star
But there are no stars in the new york sky
Theyre all on the ground
You scared yourself with music, I scared myself with paint
I drew 550 different shoes today, it almost made me faint
Open house
Open house
Open house
Open house
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Red Letters
Red letters
Cut deep
Soothe the pain inside.
Red letters
Bold and loud
Scream silently.
Red letters
Secret and hidden
But a cry for help.
Red letters -
A way to deal with this pain.
As I cut these words into my skin
I remember seeing red words somewhere before
Then it hits me like a lightning bolt -
Words of Jesus are printed in red. Words of Christ in red.
Red letters
Real truth, piercing deep
Soothes my pain inside.
Red letters
Your passion, Your blood
Covers me.
Red letters
Hope and life
I cry, 'Fill me! '
Red letters -
You were pierced and bloody
So I wouldn't have to be.
'What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
Oh! precious is the flow that makes me white as snow!
No other fount I know -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus! '
Red letters... Nothing but the blood -
Red letters... Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
poem by Zoe MacRae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What's The World Got In Store
Close your eyes and go to sleep, baby
Take your head off your feet, honey
Cause you've been working hard and I know you're tired
You been tryin' hard not to think I'm a liar
What's the world got in store
What's the world got in store for you
What's the world got in store for you now
Come on baby somehow, I need you
Do I have to show you how, baby
I'm not trying to knock you out, or was it about
I just now you need your rest I can't say what's best for you
You been workin' hard and I know you're tired
I've been tryin' hard not to feel like a liar
What's the world got in store
What's the world got in store for you
What's the world got in store for you now
What's the world got in store
What's the world got in store for you
What's the world got in store for you now
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Thirteenth Street Bus
god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again,
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived,
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife,
were nowhere to be seen.
three hours earlier...
an angry young man sat alone,
hugging his knees and shaking,
in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.
unable to focus or think,
peeling back the layers of hell...
consumed by the rage of need.
old Mr. Peterson made the coffee,
and boiled water for oatmeal.
two creams and a sugar,
and he took a cup,
to his wife still lying in bed.
he felt the faint smile of the wrinkled face,
birds just outside the window were singing..
45 years, or maybe yesterday,
he didnt know or care anymore.
the enraged young man
caught Mr. Peterson in the kitchen,
and cracked his skull with a lead pipe.
he rifled his pockets for what he could get,
and started slamming through drawers.
Mrs. Peterson hobbled in on her walker,
he stabbed her with a kitchen knife...
and left her dying on the floor,
as he pillaged the house....
the birds were silent as he ran.
when the police burst through the door,
it was already too late.
his body hung in an empty closet,
while the radio blared in stark despair.
crumpled clothes in the corner,
a mattress unmade in the center of the room.
a food stamp card and a dirty needle,
an unopened letter from the unemployment office.
a lone picture on a stack of boxes,
taken three years earlier...
the young man in his military uniform,
the day he came home from Iraq.
three funerals on the same day,
no one attended either.
a borrowed preacher in a coffee stained suit,
a few words and a worn out prayer.
it began to rain, and it was over,
three lives that never were.
three short paragraphs in the newspaper,
the county picked up the tab.
god died...
or maybe we died,
passing behind blacked out windows.
standing behind indifferent curtains,
lips moving but never speaking.
the Thirteenth Street bus was on time that day,
but it didnt even bother to stop!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The House of Stone
I came, from where?
From the house made of stone...
My aunt Romana -
That whom you do not know,
When she had an accident
She stayed in the house of stone
To get well and recover...
But with a cutting tongue
Against my father,
She said to me,
'T'is a big house made of stone,
But inside here lives an owl! '
Where did I come from?
From that house of stone...
But I cannot fathom,
Was her anger so deep
For the owl on pedestal,
The King of our clan;
Was corrupted and fallen
Weakened by the flesh of men...
My Aunt Romana, she left
And my father is dead;
The house made of stone
Forever ruined...
But the lesson of the owl lives;
And him fondly remembered!
poem by Jane Quijano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!