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The quill worker
Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods and fills,
To the north the open country, southward the Cyprus Hills;
Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows,
Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose;
Never a habitation, save where in the far south-west
A solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest,
Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine,
Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
Neykia, the Sioux chief's daughter, she with the foot that flies,
She with the hair of midnight and the wondrous midnight eyes,
She with the deft brown fingers, she with the soft, slow smile,
She with the voice of velvet and the thoughts that dream the while,--
"Whence come the vague to-morrows? Where do the yesters fly?
What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky?
Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine,
Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine?"
So Neykia, in the westland, wonders and works away,
Far from the fret and folly of the "Land of Waking Day."
And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee door
For a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the hour is o'er.
For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has stayed
To rest and smoke with her father, tho' his eyes were on the maid;
And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshine
Will broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Unexpounded
On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills,
On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills,
Lawyers great books indite;
The creaking of their busy quills
I've never heard on Right.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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And Left Them
each a partial metaphor....
glad....with a gentleness of eye.
...truer in misalliance
than those
whose utter faith in statuary beneficence
had birthed a mist of quills, cold spells and patchwork picnics....
.they ambled, lanky and quietly astute, gathering wheels......
poem by that's how I intended to ... delilah contrapunctal
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America 'The Great
If America's so beautiful
If America's so great
Then why is it everywhere I go I only see hate
If America is the greatest country in the world
Why so many needless deaths?
It makes my stomach curl
Sure there's opportunity but who's it for you ask?
People who make it big by chance or the one's who already have cash
So if you think your countries bad think of what I say
America's going down the drain so wherever you are just stay
poem by Rodney Quills
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Love Blinds Truth
Glaciers float around obsidian pupils
In the crystal pools of my world
I press against the razored quills
Of companions fates unfurled
Vines of discredit wrap the columns
Of all the secrets suppressed
Rooted in the depths of swollen gums
And branded against milky flesh.
Ripples waver over blind eyes
Glistening with sarcastic humor
Never sees the failings, soon demise
Deaf to the undulating rumors.
poem by Tamra Craft
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Mom! I Repent For The Rest Of Life
Mom!
When my wings were strong and valiant
In fanciful flights into the fantasies of life
I miserably failed to gauge the pain
On your frail quills weakened on our dear cause
Nor could even grasp that i was ever
Both your strength and weakness
And I was dishonestly ignorant of
What you aspired for at the fag end of life
A few precious moments of my proximity every week
As a mild breeze to your sweating soul-
With my limbs now growing weak
I feel guilty to my core
AND REPENT FOR THE REST OF LIFE.
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Virtues inscribe my feast
Rains embrace adjoining, in sepia stills,
sea waves plea on fog moors, and stars,
virtues inscribe my feast, and blue quills.
nights enslave our modes, beyond bars.
Sea waves plea on fog moors, and stars,
Winds whistle in pine trees, of longness,
nights enslave our modes, behind bars,
a cold gust enters my window openness.
Winds whistle in pine trees, of longness,
cloudy call, ominous, transports my rave,
a cold wind enters, my window openness.
with lost lives escaping to celestial naves.
Cloudy call, ominous, transports my rave,
my house lays in fog, amid vast pastures,
with lost lives escaping to celestial naves,
misty entreaty of air formed structures.
My house lays in fog, amid vast pastures,
rains embrace adjoining, in sepia stills,
misty entreaty of air formed structures,
virtues inscribe my feast, and blue quills.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Cry Petey, I See Bards Rounding the Bend
Cry we all toward places unnamed
Rise above the crested hills
Yell we will - shattering door frames
Plundering thoughts of plovered wills
Tear at the wallpaper - reveal the grain
Ink the slate - etched by wound-dipped quills
Crouch, prowl - ready to pounce on game
Brandishing swords, blaring trumpets shrill
Arching backs, phosphorescent wicks aflame
Ridding netted fish of scales and smelly gills
Driving forward, driven onward - scourging rain
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Sonnet # 155
Ah witty Shakespeare in whom I delight
At last by numbers paired
To thee good sir I say well met
Thine own pinnacle now we share
O' the quills I hath retired
In pursuit of this noble quest
Stanzas, mirth, and sorrow writ and
As thee sonnets penn'd at love's behest
I shan't let admiration wane
Great mentor in the ways of rhyme
From thesbian lips thy words to wit
Spake thee the heart and soul of human kind
O'Mystic Bard let thy spirit heed
Twas thy works alone that reveal'd the muse in me
poem by John A. Hancock
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The Kiss
Should i kiss you
as marble antiquity
Or sharply
- this less peck
tempting trochee aesthetic
That I
We
should might make
distinctions
between kinetic
Idiosyncratic
aberration's
tick-tock rude clock timing
Alienations'
indecision
incision
As yet our kiss
far more than lesser this
Our Kiss
Lends Lips
Our Kiss
Lends Lips for Lisp
Like poets' lunging
lavish ravish
unctuous rambunctious rhyming
Our Kiss
Quills' Quivering Quips
copyright Randy Resh 2008
poem by Randy Resh
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Cold are the Crabs
Cold are the crabs that crawl on yonder hills,
Colder the cucumbers that grow beneath,
And colder still the brazen chops that wreathe
The tedious gloom of philosophic pills!
For when the tardy film of nectar fills
The simple bowls of demons and of men,
There lurks the feeble mouse, the homely hen,
And there the porcupine with all her quills.
Yet much remains - to weave a solemn strain
That lingering sadly - slowly dies away,
Daily departing with departing day
A pea-green gamut on a distant plain
When wily walrusses in congresses meet -
Such such is life -
poem by Edward Lear
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Swan Song
A poets quill lies on his desk
Atop a sheet of coffee-stained
Paper containing stylish script-
An Edwardian handwriting.
The quills point appeared to be dry
For sometime, likewise the inkwell.
On closer inspection the words
On the page became legible:
“My Swan Song” the title began.
It continued: “The flame of life
Grows dim and everything I have
Seen in this light was through the eyes
Of love. Love was writing verses
With this pen.” The words ended there.
Further searching found a yellowed,
Crinkled obituary clip:
“Today the town is saddened by
The loss of its poet Albert__...”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The Stars of Home
Sultry inspiration the dark muse
Course set, red ominous sun
The inward sea of unresolved pain
Covered with the estranged masks
Bright radiant colors
Covered with shallow clay
Enveloped in entropy
Illustrations of the shadow fire
Pyre of poets lay their quills down
Still waters in the silent valley
The world has entered into my eyes
Sunset has its portent
Swords in the purple glare
My hour has no Eden
Contrasts between the armies
My heart is a battleground
The heavens shine with the future
A ladder amidst the storm
Sands of the seashore
Now the stars shine like home
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Meditation Twenty
Philippians II: 9: Wherefore God also hath highly exalted him.
View, all ye eyes above, this sight which flings
Seraphick Phancies in Chill Raptures high:
A Turffe of Clay, and yet bright Glories King:
From dust to Glory Angell-like to fly.
A Mortall Clod immortaliz’d behold,
Flyes through the skies swifter than Angells could.
Upon the Wings he of the Winde rode in
His Bright Sedan, through all the Silver Skies,
And made the Azure Cloud, his Charriot, bring
Him to the Mountain of Celestiall joyes.
The Prince o’ th’ Aire durst not an Arrow spend,
While through his Realm his Charriot did ascend.
He did not in a Fiery Charriot’s shine,
And Whirlewinde, like Elias upward goe.
But th’golden Ladders Jasper rounds did climbe
Unto the Heavens high from Earth below.
Each step had on a Golden Stepping Stone
Of Deity unto his very Throne.
Methinks I see Heavens sparklingl Courtiers fly,
In flakes of Glory down him to attend;
And heare Heart Cramping notes of Melody
Surround his Charriot as it did ascend:
Mixing their Musick, making e’vry strong
More to inravish, as they this tune sing.
God is Gone up with a triumphant shout:
The Lord with sounding Trumpets melodies:
Sing Praise, sing Praise, sing Praise, sing Praises out,
Unto our King sing praise seraphick-wise!
Lift up your Heads, ye lasting Doore, they sing,
And let the King of Glory Enter in.
Art thou ascended up on high, my Lord,
And must I be without thee here below?
Art thou the sweetest joy the Heavens afford?
Oh! that I with thee was! What shall I do?
Should I pluck Feathers from an Angells Wing,
They could not waft me up to thee my King.
Lend mee thy Wings, my Lord, I’st fly apace,
My Soules Arms stud with thy strong Quills, true Faith;
My Quills then Feather with thy Saving Grace,
My Wings will take the Winde thy Word displai’th.
Then I shall fly up to thy glorious Throne
With my strong Wings whose Feathers are thine own.
poem by Edward Taylor
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A Summer Red Bird Sings on an Elm Branch
The general colour above is light brownish-green, the sides of the head and the under parts generally brownish-yellow; larger wing-coverts dusky, edged with yellow; quills deep brown, externally margined with yellowish-red; tall-feathers of the same colour. The bill, eyes and legs are of the same tints as in the male.
I lost my way
And sorry extremely
For trespassing!
It's hard night flying
And I just landed
Papa's orchard
Are you still awake?
Promise to depart
Early in the morning
And if you prefer a love song
I don't mind to stay longer?
(To the Syrian nightingale Suzie Suhair Gharib.)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Fusion Refraction
i will not be scorched
by the flame of another
i shall keep my fire
fueled only by the pure
kindling found deep
within the terrain
of my wooded home
the sun shall bring
enough light by day
and a torch well-lit
providing steady
footsteps tredding
the dark by night
[as I search for what
I cannot find or name]
no light save by the moon
on occassion when it
occassion finds
which reflects the sun bright
from yonder hemisphere
translating another's flame
that illumines my weary soul
with tongues & quills on fire
intermingling in a display
of fiery scathing sparks
and warm glowing rays
of gently wedded breaths
[to possess at last
what i have named & found]
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Morning
The morning was warming
the sky was vein blue
behind the everywhere branches
when from nowhere out, a blackbird
landed on a bough that now
turned yellow,
and began to comb herself
with an orange beak
while traffic purled politely down in the street,
watching the sky, content,
till joined by another
grackle to whom she cackled
'You, there! Off my twig.'
adding something sharp about the neighborhood;
Probably friendly fire-
Then, in a tussle of bills and quills
ire took fire in the chill
gutters froze and rainbows ran away.
Children cried and basketballs shied from hoops-
the affair had the air of a silly domestic dispute
gone hideously public.
Both flew off in the end-
leaving the neighborhood calm as before:
Nature permitting battles
but never wars.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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(Savior Poem) Chasing What's Not There
The pleasure is all mine.
Its as if I control space and time.
I''m writing to rewind.
To savor every moment, until there truly gone.
I can try to be there when the wounds are so deep.
A white knight in the dim light.
Whats wrong feels so right.
My heart has gone astray.
That I wish I could save the day.
But all I do is pray.
Because theirs no simple fix in this perfect storm.
I am chaos.
I am order.
I want to put my hand on your shoulder.
Tell you its okay.
But that's not the way.
This world heals so slowly.
I've fallen for helping hands pure and innocent.
Honesty drives me so crazy.
It's a trick with no compromises and so many surprises.
The unexpected,
I'll never see it.
Look for my future through such a tiny hole.
Its a horrible show.
That's why I must go.
Runaway from it all so I can feel okay.
Clear my head, so the right words can be said.
Apologies are not needed.
Every one of us are to blame.
We are master of our destiny's and write it as we will with our ink and quills.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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And Once You Will Learn..
As I mix a hundred colours to paint your picture,
My canvas shrinks in size
And cries it foul.
There you stand with a smile mysterious.
As I hold a brush with a thousand quills on it,
My right hand shivers
And calls it uncommon.
Someone stands by you a with a frown.
You think I wouldn’t draw your picture at all.
You feel it’s my indifference
And colossal lack of concern.
Your mind turns into an ocean of skepticism.
Still on my large frame of mind
Your portrait hangs for ever
And there I see your smiling face.
My love has ever been thus…
Once when you begin to learn things,
My canvas and right hand will wither away.
Then your portrait drawn in a thousand colours
Will be your last concern perhaps.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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The White Lights
(BROADWAY, 1906)
When in from Delos came the gold
That held the dream of Pericles,
When first Athenian ears were told
The tumult of Euripides,
When men met Aristophanes,
Who fledged them with immortal quills—
Here, where the time knew none of these,
There were some islands and some hills.
When Rome went ravening to see
The sons of mothers end their days,
When Flaccus bade Leuconoë
To banish her chaldean ways,
When first the pearled, alembic phrase
Of Maro into music ran—
Here there was neither blame nor praise
For Rome, or for the Mantuan.
When Avon, like a faery floor,
Lay freighted, for the eyes of One,
With galleons laden long before
By moonlit wharves in Avalon—
Here, where the white lights have begun
To seethe a way for something fair,
No prophet knew, from what was done,
That there was triumph in the air.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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