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Ivory
You were born with a face that would let you get your way
Yeah you had everything you wanted child, that is until the day
you know you're much too fine and free, Ivory
You've been dressed in a vest, every minute of your day
You walk into a room, stand in a lit shade
Is your timer too high for me, Ivory
Ivory
How does it feel to be so high
Ivory
How long how long will it take for you to cry
Ivory
I'm in need
Ivory
Ivory
I'll touch your soul, might even touch your brain
I know you can't see me
I know your blind
Come back come back and see
Ivory
So good to me
Ivory
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He that strikes with the sword shall be stricken with the scabbard.
A good sword is the one left in its scabbard.
Good sword has often been in poor scabbard.
Scottish Gaelic proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who draws his sword against his prince must throw away his scabbard.
Whosoever draws his sword against the prince must throw the scabbard away.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wit in women is apt to have bad consequences; like a sword without a scabbard, it wounds the wearer and provokes assailants.
quote by Elizabeth Montagu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dignity
at par
with you
my equal
in this fight
you are
so gentle
when i
lose the grip of
my sword and it falls
on the ground
you have the courage
to pick it up
for me and tell
me
i need it most now
and then
the point of the sword
now faces
frozen at the eye
of my heart
i stare
coldly and i perspire
to the thought
of my death
at this point
you say
tnanks it is fair
and i look at
you again
at par
shoulder to shoulder
my equal
you let me go
you put your sword
in your scabbard
and take the stride
on your white horse
and leave me
agape my mouth
opens
you are at par
with me
my equal
you have all the chance
to kill me at once
but you didn't
you make me live
now
a new man
a fighter rising from his fall
gentle and
brave as ever
to fight
my own wars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lead Balloon
Kiss my ass! I said
And I threw my drink
Tequila trickling
Down his business suit
Must be the irish blood
Fight before you think
Turn it now
You cant cowtow
You cant undo it
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
An angry man is just an angry man
But an angry woman
Bitch!
I had to ask him for a helping hand
It came with the heart
Of a bonaparte
Of a frozen fish
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pleas of a Claymore I
In my sedentary ineptitude,
I shall acquaint you with
The uncouth wails of a claymore
With the hissing sounds in the air
Of its unabashed bashings
Slicing through the verdigris of reticence
Swallowed, like serrated daggers
And the throat that bled the anarchy
That had always coiled in the underground
Grottos of a stagnant river.
I shall ring the sleeping bells,
With the shrills and clatters
Spewing the turbulent climates
Of a claymore in a warfare
That he vied for, like his own
And of a greater mayhem
When is he is not desirable
Pleasant and wanted,
And remained sheathed
Effacing incorrigible thousand winks
In the mausoleum of his scabbard
That pierced through the veneer
Of impassable platinum.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Obstinately lacerating its throat
In emitting the anguish
Into the moon as he raised
Its head to wedge the enemy;
A phantasmagoria of an adversary
In an amorphous shape
For he is an abused vessel
Of a blind tormented soul
In the emollient hands
That he had vied for
Like his very own.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a scabbard
Than a sword.
And when the vigor is acquiesced
Cleaving into a carnage
With a remonstrative odium
He would bow his estoque
Into the sanguinary of the soil
Reeking with sepulchral remorse
Only to pray for the clenched fist
That had mended him
And forget about his own
Fluttering pains
And peccadilloes.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a rosary
Than a sword.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Damned Reunions
tired of those damned
reunions always other people doing good
making more money buying respect
integrity no longer intact
like a sword to its scabbard
bards and boards and bored
and braggarts
silky collars and shiny shoes
and dance beats
no longer adapted to my age,
i am not
attending any anymore
damned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Elephant's Graveyard III
Sanctified by elephants since time began-
elephants who accept their end uncomplainingly
with relief and nary a snivel
having long ago made it a point to live their lives well
and confident of this just repose.
'Oh, my God, ' you think, 'all the ivory.'
Ivory laying about, half-sunk, everywhere
strewn, grass-entangled, trip-you-up ivory,
because that's what's left of an elephant, after a bit-
after a century or so, that's quite all that's left,
a tusk of ivory bearing in this respect
a sharp resemblance to a man's poetic toil
or the opera-ticket stub found in his breast pocket
by his grand-child, rummaging in the attic
a century after the time when the music stopped
and stopped forever, never to again resume;
toppled stalagmites of ivory, some taller than a man,
cracked by the sun, washed by the rain, buffed by the moon.
Surely, someone would buy all that ivory for market
dice to make, dominoes, piano keys, dentures;
But how to get it home-would Swiss-Air take it?
stowed in sheaths...
poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Carved Ivory
Walking naked and barefooted,
Moab will wail for Moab;
Naked and barefooted,
Gladness is taken away along with joy.
A Carved Ivory,
Fair as the moon with my mind on you;
To the heights of the mountains,
Bright as the sun with my mind on you;
To the bed of spices,
Love is like the fragrance of Lebanon!
To a Carved Ivory,
Our legs at war;
To a Carved Ivory,
Our toes for battle;
To a Carved Ivory,
Our bones so scattered;
Love is sweeter than wine.
prayers like incense,
Gladness is taken away along with joy;
Life is like a harp with ten strings where,
Wisdom is better than strength.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Without Lust
Like the power of love
Lust goes on in the shadows
In the spirit of obsession
Intoxicated with greedy passions
Get me drunk
Let me say what i know
Love goes not without lust
A pair don't make two
In the smithy of the smith
Refine your feelings
Let not the sword from the scabbard
Don't give the barley with chaffs
I know love do exist
But the child is born with the placenta
Bring out the evil in good
Give your love without lust.
poem by Adewumi Joshua
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Call
Hark! 'tis the rush of the horses,
The crash of the galloping gun!
The stars are out of their courses;
The hour of Doom has begun.
Leap from thy scabbard, O sword!
Leap! 'Tis the Day of the Lord!
Prate not of peace any longer,
Laughter and idlesse and ease!
Up, every man that is stronger!
Leave but the priest on his knees!
Quick, every hand to the hilt!
Who striketh not—his the guilt!
Call not each man on his brother!
Cry not to Heaven to save!
Thou art the man—not another—
Thou, to off glove and out glaive!
Fight, ye who ne'er fought before!
Fight, ye old fighting-men more!
poem by Francis William Bourdillon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Tsunami Shock Size Of Blood Ivory Smuggling
Every last elephant
in Africa Asia
Extinction Elephant
is merely good
Chinese business
practice profit
trade Chinese
poaching saying
'There is no fish caught
without fished water' 90%
of Chinese ivory lacks
legal legitimate papers
tsunami shock horrific size
of blood ivory smuggling
China's illegal ivory trade
threatens extinction event
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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