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Best If Gravelled
Under the bushes,
Is where they swept and kept their dirt.
It was under the bushes...
Priorities fed to ignore any weeding grew.
It was under the bushes everyone knew,
From where the soiling of the lawn began.
And there under the bushes,
They can be seen digging deep...
Burning the midnight oil,
And not getting a bit of sleep...
To bury any traces of denial.
But the maintaining of the lawn,
Manicured as visitors expect...
Would be best if gravelled,
As many disgusted visitors suggest!
And quickly under the bushes,
A working continues...
To smooth over the dirt,
With a time released scenting...
Hopefully used for all to forget,
The influence of the bushes...
And the planting of them all regret.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crosses We Bare
Some days seem longer than others,
depending on how many crosses
we have to bare.
Each of us has a cross to carry,
for guilt, we call our own.
When the crosses get heavy,
days seem to linger with out end.
We feel at times,
no one can help us
with the crosses that we bare,
but there is always someone.
They walk beside us everyday,
a simple prayer of forgiving,
and he will help us on our way.
We can tell him all our sorrows,
our guilt’s and woes to be.
He always listens to us
as he walks with us each day.
We all know his name,
and how to speak to him,
if the crosses that we carry,
ever get to weighty to bare.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chest
Chest, what power do thou h've?
That women place their heads on
men's when they're showing love
Chest, what charm do thou have?
That women take virtue of thee to pray
for their siblings that sucked their breasts
Chest, what spirit do thee have?
That women curse men with thee that
otherwise, if man didn't meet them chest to chest
Chest, what glory do thou h've?
That people beat you with palm
and swear
Chest, of what important is you?
That women knock their heads on
men's chest during the fighting
Autumnal Light
Softly they walk on a day in October the old man
and sunlight amongst ageless olive trees planted
when his great grandfather was young.
On the track there is mark of hooves from flocks
of sheep that walk here daily on their way home
after grazing on the upland.
Bits of fleece on thorny bushes, black pellets
and the pungent aroma of the wooly backed
still lingers…
He sees the old cottage the roof has fallen
in and bushes grow through its floor, but
he doesn´t stop, it was all so long ago.
Light is fading wants to turn in, time to go
home for him too, autumn evenings are chilly,
and damp, no good for his chest.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.
quote by Abraham Lincoln
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Southern Man
Southern man better keep your head
Dont forget what your good book said
Southern change gonna come as last
Now your crosses are burning fast
Southern man
I saw cotton
I saw black
Tall white fences
Little shacks
And southern man
When will you pay them back
I heard screaming
Bull whips cracking
How long how long
How
Southern man better keep your head
Dont forget what your good book said
Southern change gonna come at last
Now your crosses are burning fast
Southern man
Southern man
Lilly belle your hair is golden brown
Ive seen your black man coming round
I swear by God Im gonna cut him down
I heard screaming
Bull whips cracking
How long how long
How
Southern man better keep your head
Dont forget what your good book said
Southern change gonna come at last
Now your crosses are burning fast
Southern man
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bonescraper
There is no future for us to suture
Your life ill-fated, beat down and hated
Shot in the head, walking undead
Numb to the world, around your head
Rip my skin from my bone, I won't bleed
Rip my heart from my chest, I won't scream
Hide in the shadows, deep black, and hollow
Empty void of light cuts clean, like a knife
Damaged and torn, punctured by thorns
I've felt nothing since I was born
Rip my skins from my bones, I won't bleed
Rip my heart from my chest, I won't scream
My flesh <-> Your flesh
Your eyes <-> My sight
My pain <-> Your shame
We are the same ...
Rip my skin from my bones, I won't bleed
Rip my heart from my chest, I won't scream
Rip my skin ...
song performed by by Fear Factory
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Over The Head, Below The Knees
You must not
Have a heart
Have nothing in your chest
To let it go for so long
That it goes over your head
You could fool anyone
With you pensive smile
And you could live in your lie
For only a while
And i can only take so much
(from not so far away)
And I admit this could be love
(but love can always wait)
But it goes over your head
What does she gave
Can you let go
Can you tell me
What I am aching to know
You could ruin any mood
just by saying whats on your mind
You could tame his body
Never tame his mind
And I can only take so much
(from now so far away)
And I admit this could be love
(but how long did you want to wait?)
But it goes over your head
What does she have
Can you let go
Can you tell me
What I am aching to know x2
What I am aching to know
If Im reaching you
You're not letting it show
Used up your space now
Theres no room to grow
To deep cant breath and
You cant find the end
Its right infront of you
But it goes over your head
What does she have
Can you let it go
Can you tell me
What I am aching to know x2
What I am aching to know
Can you tell me
What I am aching to know
You must not have a heart
Have nothing in your chest...
song performed by by New Found Glory
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fuddy
On my room
To the floor bed...
I was tasted
With the
My girl friend
Chest bun...
Toung was play
Bun of chest...
Mouth wanted
Milk...
Not for the
Chest bun....
No weat
No sweet
No salt..
Not for the bun...
Meet taste
Vegtable taste
Also not ther;
Chest bun
Taste for
With big and
Beauty...! ! !
And fuddy
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beneath The Skin
It was not a demigod, elephantiasis
of a beast, snakes sitting on head. A catastrophic
tree view.I was proud of being alive during
carpet-bombing. A catnip was needed to clear
the vision. The town was moving out shedding
its landmarks. Nocturnal flares were disturbing
the lovers. A chronic shift in sex starved
season. The birds had stopped going behind
the bushes. Each day seeks permission to bury
the dead, and grass waits for the noble feet.
Ultra hemo cover was not there. Drained out
we were becoming pale to account for the loss
of blood in cross-firing. Ultimate pain in chest
will unburden the task of a funeral prayer.
poem by Satish Verma
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Read The Book
Dolce said to read the book.
Don’t skip any pages though,
Lizzy; I want you to read it
From cover to cover. Ok lover,
You said and examined the
Book’s covers; the hard leather,
The well sewn pages. You knew
He wrote it without his name on
The spine with the title. It was
As he spoke, the words flowing
Across the page, the meaning
Carried on and over and into
Your head. You stopped on page
Nine; he’d written about the night
He’d screwed you five times, although
No name was mentioned, you knew
It was you. Even the bed and room
Were as it had been, written right
Down to the creaking springs and
The man next door banging on the
Wall with his darn shoe. You read on
Carrying that image with you, the way
He’d caught it all with the right words,
Hammered that night right home like
Some crucified butterfly onto the page
And into your head. You paused at page
Twelve. Some paragraph about some
Lark in the bushes in the park after dark.
That didn’t ring true, at least not with you.
Who was the woman? Who was the screw?
You closed up the book; refused to look
Or read anymore; you wondered who it
Was he’d had that night in the bushes
Beneath the moonlight. Maybe it was just
Poetic licence made up to make it sell well
And the cash machines ring loud and true.
But the bitch in the bushes wasn’t you.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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White Crosses
Well I packed all of my things into this blanket
To call this year to earn coyotes fill
Kiss my wife and kids goodbye choke back the quiver in my breath
And took my first steps into this corridor of death
If Im lucky I will make it to a drain
With 500 of my brothers, I would share the strain
Of standing in this boxcar praying for rain
Its the only the way we will quench our thirst
[Chorus:]
In these gardens of white crosses
Growing in the California sand
In these gardens of white crosses
We are the children of poverty trying to a make a stand
If we make it past the border, we will scatter
Vanish just like smoke in autumn wind
I will run until my color will not matter
Hopin I can find some work or possibly a friend
There are others who have made it here
They will show me how to find a job and a place to lay my head
And I cannot be concerned with dreams of my children
For there are 5 others in line for my bed
[Chorus:]
In these gardens of white crosses
Growing in the California sand
In these gardens of white crosses
We are the children of poverty trying to a make a stand
I will gladly pick your peaches or clean your hotel rooms
I will do the jobs American wont do
With cell phones to their heads and $700 dollar shoes
I will risk my life cause its all I have to lose
Let the devil in the mountains promise me a ride
Found an 18 wheeler and put all of us inside
And just outside of victory, 19 of us died
None of our bodies hit the floor
And so my wife she still wonders when Im coming home
The riches that I promised her for leaving her alone
I said I would send her all that I could save
But I ended up in California in an unknown grave
[Chorus:]
In these gardens of white crosses growing in the California sand
In these gardens of white crosses we are the children of poverty trying to a make a stand
[repeat]
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crosses Burning
black-eyed poverty,
angry negativity,
sanity or vanity,
aint nobody free...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of want,
crosses burning.
hate me, hate yourself,
liberty on the shelf,
worthless unless it sells,
drawing water from the well...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of need,
crosses burning.
black and white bleeding red,
cant feed the poor, raise the dead,
drinking water laced with lead,
nooses hung around our heads...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of hurt,
crosses burning.
children sold into slavery,
homeless tents, misery,
wars without victory,
governed by plutocracy...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of sorrow,
crosses burning.
microwave Jesus, tattered flags,
boys come home in body bags,
buildings crumble, bridges sag,
numbered souls without a tag...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of lies,
crosses burning.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Awaiting You
I await
in sittingroom
awaiting you come
with the boisterous chest
but you do not come
until day
so I do repeatedly
with the boisterous chest
but you do not come
until my hand tremble
jolt heart
in my chest
do not willing to desist
until you come
poem by Prasetya Utama
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Southern Man
Southern man better keep your head
Dont forget what your good book said
Southern change gonna come at last
Now your crosses are burning fast
Southern man
I saw cotton and I saw black
Tall white mansions and little shacks.
Southern man when will you pay them back?
I heard screamin and bullwhips cracking
How long? how long?
Southern man better keep your head
Dont forget what your good book said
Southern change gonna come at last
Now your crosses are burning fast
Southern man
Lily belle, your hair is golden brown
Ive seen your black man comin round
Swear by God Im gonna cut him down!
I heard screamin and bullwhips cracking
How long? how long?
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Killing In The Name
Killing in the name of!
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Huh!
Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of
And now you do what they told ya (11 times)
But now you do what they told ya
Well now you do what they told ya
Those who died are justified
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like a Boss
Sometimes......
She wants to sweep her fingertips over the base of his throat as he throws his head back to laugh.
She wants to smell the salty ocean air through the pine trees and hear her own soft whimper as he bends to kiss her.
She wants to feel him whisper sweet, crazy words close to her ear and delight in the hidden shivers he brings to the depths of her.
She wants to let the heat from his hand burn her thigh.
She wants to pull his sweet breath inside her chest and hold it until she knows it has travelled to the centre of her.
She wants permission to stand close...very close...
Can he tell that his name starts deep inside her and rings and rings and rings? .......
Slowly, she opens her eyes and, ever ladylike, crosses her legs, hands folded over her knees, as the world comes back to focus
She wonders if this too shall pass
So she can get back to work!
© 2012
poem by Ruby Honeytip
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hunter And Dog
The Hunter.
The man who crosses the field carries his shotgun
tucked into his left arm. In his belt five rabbits hang.
This is not a hobby hunter in camouflage outfit,
but a mall time farmer who uses the wildlife to
augment his meager income… his dog that has been
walking at heel runs in front of him, barks, and up
from the tall, dry grass a rabbit springs a shot and
now he has six rabbits hanging from his belt….
He will sell his catch later at a hotel or restaurant.
The man who crossed field, his face is naturally dark,
by years spent outdoors, walks into a landscape of
trees and bushes and disappears from view.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Magic Of The Moment
She walks down a street
in Central London
on the sunny side of course
and is dumbfounded by the fact
that it is raining on the other side of the street.
It falls into her mind as if it were a dream
but a dream that's real.
She crosses over and holds out her hand.
Raindrops collect on her palm.
She crosses over again and watches them evaporate
on her outstretched hand.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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In Long Rows
Millions and millions of crosses
standing in long rows.
Standing as a testament
of man’s inhumanity to man.
Their ages range low to high,
all casualties of a war
in which they answered
their counties call.
Their kin are long dead now,
but the crosses all bare a name
of someone who had they lived
might have gained fame
in another game.
However, here they lie
where the pretty flowers grow
after giving up their life
for their country.
Some are remembered
even to this day
for their acts of courage
others knew so well.
The others are just names
carved in memorials somewhere
as falling in a battle on a foreign soil.
All of them had a life
men, women and child alike.
A life they should have lived
and lived it to the full.
Now all they remain
is names on crosses
standing in long rows.
22 January 2008
This is for all those whose lives have been stolen in wars throughout the centuries.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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