Every one stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet.
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Everyone stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet.
Stretch your legs no farther than your coverlet.
Leg
I know your legs are
On the legs of Baali the demon king
I know your legs are
On the head of Bharata your brother
I know your legs are on the
Head of Uddhaba your follower.
You have no leg I heard.
I Know you are present everywhere
Everytime and in everybody.
I do not know what a leg is.
I know the insect has six legs
I know the animal has four legs
I know the bird has two legs.
Your leg is my project paper
I do not know howmany legs you have
I do not know I a leg is.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life or something like it
A flower stretches toward the sun.
alone. unoticed such a pitiful sight
she will not give-up, no not this one
as darkness decends upon the land
a flower stretches toward the sun
alone in the shadows, there she will stand
and sit, and wait for coming of the sun
spring is over, summer is soon done
around the corner comes Winters icy blast
a flower stretches toward the sun
in the cold the lonely flower dies, at last
with a push and with some screams
somewhere a new life has just begun
a life full of hopes and of dreams
and a flower stretches toward the sun
JPM 2/8/2008
I continue to experiment with more formal types of poems this is my attempt at a Quatern
Sea Gull
Stomach fed from ocean endless
Disorder, you and your inner
Self-freedom, trapped in your wandering
Wings, wind wide wing trace the traceless
Sky, death beside and ahead
Stretches infinite length-distance.
poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
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Men do not limp while their legs are the same length.
Stretch your legs according to the length of your kilim.
You lay naked on the bed
You lay naked on the bed,
stretched out on your back,
with the room’s window open wide
as if you are trying to catch the breeze,
while the sun is touching the mountain top
the last time in the late afternoon
and I see your breasts moving up and down
while you breathe, where you lay with legs wide open
where sunlight is falling on the little hairs
totally unaware of your shame,
so as if you are only a little girl
while you sleep on
and I draw a light coverlet over you,
before the dusk catches you
with a sudden chilliness.
poem by Gert Strydom
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His Mother's Best Friend
O’Brien fancied his mother’s best friend,
Mrs O’Hara, she with the daughter
Who showed her panties to boys for sixpence.
How are you, Micheal? She asked, as she sat
With legs crossed in the kitchen between sips
Of milky sweet tea. I’m fine, he replied,
Studying her legs, trying to pursue
With his greedy eyes, the length of her thighs.
How old are you now? Her soft voice inquired.
Fourteen, he replied. He lifted his sight
To her weighty breasts, picturing his head
Wedged tightly between. Don’t sit their gawping,
Go get to your play, his plump mother said.
He took a last look, trying to capture
Mrs O’ Hara with her legs and breasts
And what lay beneath, for his nightly dreams
In his sweaty bed, be they wet or dry,
And gave her a smile and wink of his eye.
poem by Terry Collett
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It's As If The Sea Is Confined
It's as if the sea is confined
where it breaks and hits in front of us
and just as unobserved
you keep standing next to me
where the sea stretches into the blue
and in silence we are watching each other
where the sea stretches,
where the sea stretches
and I enclose you in my arms.
It's as if the sea is confined
in this small bay
and outside of it we notice a shark
but no meaning
but our love remains,
just nothing but you and I
but our love,
but our love
makes any kind of sense here.
It's as if the sea is confined
always washes in and out here
and it keeps drawing us nearer,
while we feel great and deep things
it's as if God Himself is among us,
and is watching us with big pity
as if God Himself,
as if God Himself
brings us here to new meaning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hot Legs
(rod stewart)
Whos that knocking on my door
Its gotta be a quarter to four
Is it you again coming round for more
Well you can love me tonight if you want
But in the morning make sure youre gone
Im talkin to you
Hot legs, wearing me out
Hot legs, you can scream and shout
Hot legs, are you still in school
I love you honey
Gotta most persuasive tongue
You promise all kinds of fun
But what you dont understand
Im a working man
Gonna need a shot of vitamin e
By the time youre finished with me
Im talking to you
Hot legs, youre an alley cat
Hot legs, you scratch my back
Hot legs, bring your mother too
I love you honey
Imagine how my daddy felt
In your jet black suspender belt
Seventeen years old
Hes touching sixty four
You got legs right up to your neck
Youre making me a physical wreck
Im talking to you
Hot legs, in your satin shoes
Hot legs, are you still in school
Hot legs, youre making me a fool
I love you honey
Hot legs, making your mark
Hot legs, keep my pencil sharp
Hot legs, keep your hands to yourself
I love you honey
Hot legs, youre wearing me out
Hot legs, you can scream and shout
Hot legs, youre still in school
I love you honey
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Art Elastic Time Stretches
art time
art elastic time
stretches
into art objects
art achieved
stretches stayed
into life poverty
or life prosperity?
still life time
distilled thoughts
writing time
web skill lifetimes
mind eye painting
heart hand drawing
soul clay beating sculptures
fine arts ability embellishes
art achieved stasis
stretches framed plays
into frozen life poverty
or sales life prosperity?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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There was an Old Man of Coblenz,
The length of whose legs was immense;
He went with one prance
From Turkey to France,
That surprising Old Man of Coblenz.
quote by by Edward Lear
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The Green Starling
When you look at the green starling
it screams in the long grass,
gleams green in the morning dew
and catches your eye
as it comes out of a hole, out of a tree,
as it picks up insects at a small stream
as it comes out,
as it comes out
as if caught in your daydream.
When you look at the green starling
it sparkles here and there
as if it sometimes is holding onto rays
and it warbles
stretches out under the sun,
view it as a red balloon
stretches out
stretches out
and it would fly away if it could.
When you look at the green starling
it pecks at a sorrel
when at times it holds onto a big worm
before it sings a song of joy
flies up fluttering, spreading its wings
and for moments distract you,
flies up fluttering
flies up fluttering
and so a whole mornings swishes past.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When I was writing for children, I was writing genre fiction. It was like making a good chair. It needed four legs of the same length, it had to be the right height and it had to be comfortable.
quote by Mark Haddon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The successful man has thrust himself
The successful man has thrust himself
Through the water of the years,
Reeking wet with mistakes --
Bloody mistakes;
Slimed with victories over the lesser,
A figure thankful on the shore of money.
Then, with the bones of fools
He buys silken banners
Limned with his triumphant face;
With the skins of wise men
He buys the trivial bows of all.
Flesh painted with marrow
Contributes a coverlet,
A coverlet for his contented slumber.
In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt,
He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
"Thus I defended: Thus I wrought."
Complacent, smiling,
He stands heavily on the dead.
Erect on a pillar of skulls
He declaims his trampling of babes;
Smirking, fat, dripping,
He makes speech in guiltless ignorance,
Innocence.
poem by Stephen Crane
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The air zone
Each one has an air zone,
Beyond which he wants to face the other.
The zone enlarges or converges
Depending upon the intimacy.
Two hand length for strangers,
An arm length for the known,
A span length for the blood relation,
And little distance for the opposite gender
For one to be at ease to talk to.
22.02.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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If Every Time of the Day Has a Poem of Its Own
If every time of the day
Has a poem of its own
This afternoon too should long
To say something about itself-
But as it stretches its slow length too long
As it makes heat and light one long unending discomfort,
This afternoon says only
That even the time of day
Cannot mean much
If one does not have something
Outside oneself
To say in it.
All heat and light are emptiness now
And the overwhelming shape of brightness
Is nothing more than the stunned silence
One fears when one wakes from a bad dream
In the middle of the day and night.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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