Superficiality goes from the door to the balcony.
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Swan Dive
The windows were open
The night air was cold,
The curtains were blowing
Like ribbons of gold,
We stood there forever
Both Henry and me,
The night his wife dived
Off the balcony.
We looked at each other
We each shook our head,
And waited to hear if
The poor girl was dead,
I looked at my watch
It was just after three,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
I waited a moment, then:
'What did I say?
Was that a faux pas about
You in Calais?
Or did she take umbrage
When I poured the tea?
Is that why she jumped
Off the balcony? '
'Don't think for a moment,
Old chap, ' he had said,
'I thought she had mumbled
And stumbled to bed!
She'd said she had someone
Tomorrow to see,
So why would she dive
Off the balcony? '
We walked very gingerly
Out through the door,
And peered on down from
The fifty-sixth floor,
I thought I could see a small
Splat by a tree,
Just where she had dived
Off the balcony.
Could that be your Gwendoline,
There on the ground?
That's funny, she dived all
That way, made no sound!
Not one little scream -
Did you hear? ' - 'Not me! '
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
The police galloped up
By the lift, through the doors,
'That splat in the courtyard, sir,
Could it be yours? '
Then Henry admitted that
It could well be,
His wife, who had dived
Off the balcony!
They made us go down with
A bucket and mop:
'Clean up every vestige,
Remove every drop!
You can't go round leaving
Wives haphazardly,
Whenever they dive
Off the balcony! '
They made us feel humble,
We lowered our heads,
I picked up her armpits,
He mopped up her legs,
But bits of her weren't where
In truth, they should be,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
Much later he told me that
Wives one and two,
Had left in the very same way,
I said, 'True? '
It seems Gwendoline had been
Wife number three,
Who'd taken a dive
Off the balcony.
Now Henry has married
Again, number four,
He's moved his apartment down
To the ground floor,
He locks all his windows
And tells Stephanie,
'Don't ever you dive like
Wives one, two and three! '
3 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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It was just a typical London flat, but it was in a great neighborhood. It was across from the Playboy Club, diagonally. From one balcony you could read the time from Big Ben, and from the other balcony you could watch the bunnies go up and down.
quote by Harry Nilsson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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6 degrees Celsius
-6 degrees Celsius.
from my balcony,
yes, the atlas
of my balcony,
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Kleve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.
this is my mainland!
poem by John O'connell
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So this is all a game
So this is all a game
I put my name tag on
You look at my face
Complete
And you are there lurking
From a balcony
Looking at me
I am real. I am the specimen.
You are all wearing masks
In a balcony of
Darkness
I am real.
And you all laughed so hard
“How can this real guy be so stupid? ”
The bastards are still alive.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chimney cleaner and Soothsayer's daughter
Romeo a handsome youth
Who carries a rickety ladder door to door
And clean the soot properly.
When smoke rises up to the sky
He just sit on a step and stares towards infinity.
Soothsayer's teenage daughter roams around the balcony
And she's very cautious of what her father once said firmly.
'Juliet, You must be very careful of your future
And it's written on your forehead.
One day you choose a partner
Who works hard with dirt.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Dreams And Desires Of An Ascetic!
O breeze, the gentle breeze of dreams and desires,
Come to my door steps and knock the door in whisper,
When you try to climb through the balcony to surrender,
Hold the creeper robes, not hurt those flowers,
When you sneak through the windows of wisdom,
Make sure you have the facts and figures as audience,
You may not have the password to open my heart's website,
Stand still in attendance, you may be summoned to exit.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The externals are important but I'm not interested in superficiality.
quote by Kyan Douglas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You must renounce all superficiality, all convention, all vanity and delusion.
quote by Gustav Mahler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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direct from Orlando
at the balcony
he smokes his cigar hiding from the view
of his wife who is washing the dishes after we had dinner
over stuffed squid and
fish fillet
what i like is the rice
i evaded the hide and seek of what i think is still harsh
direct from Orlando
lost business
unpaid mortgage
bad economy
they blame it on
bad economy
as he smokes
circles form above his head
and from time to time he peeks at the side of the door
seeing to it that no one sees him
i am not that dumb
to know that there is a big problem
the reason why they are back
i like the sauce
the chili that runs like a jagged knife inside my mouth
he is jobless
and does the laundry and kitchen works
children had to quit school and start to work
to pay the heater and the water
snow is cold, it is colder now
meanwhile i glanced at the sunset
the balcony overlooks the bay of Dapitan
once a hero and a white woman made love there
we knew the ending
it was sad.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our enemy is by tradition our savior, in preventing us from superficiality.
quote by Joyce Carol Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Painstaking sly look
superficiality
sheds to scan sole book
haiku by Jonathan Robin
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Painstakingly look
superficiality
sheds to read soul's book
haiku by Jonathan Robin
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Standing Beside Fay One Saturday.
It was Saturday morning
and Fay stood beside you
on the balcony of the flats
looking over the Square
she pointed at the baker
and his horse drawn cart
down by the wall below
my daddy says he's Jewish
she said
those who asked
for the death of Christ
you followed the baker
as he made his way to the stairs
carrying his bread basket
I don't think he was involved
you said watching the baker
until he disappeared up the stairs
she looked right over the balcony
gripping the brick wall
with her hands
I don't think he's Jewish at all
she said letting her feet
dropp back on the floor
and it doesn't matter if he is
I think he's a nice man
she added
looking at you
with her bright blue eyes
and you gazed at her
standing there
her flowered dress
colourful and coming
just below her knees
her battered sandals
having seen
better days
and her fair hair
tied into a ponytail
at the back
she looked over
the balcony again
I like to feed his horse
with sugar cubes
I get from home
she said thoughtfully
you lean over the balcony
beside her
your elbow touching hers
the pulse of her being
vibrating into your arm
you imagine
don't your parents mind
you taking their sugar?
you asked
she looked guiltily away
they don't know
she said softly
daddy would punish
if he knew
she paused and then said
you won't tell them will you?
the baker came along
the balcony behind you both
whistling happily
of course not
you said
taking in her
trembling jaw line
her blue eyes
and her lips slightly open
her words gone
it's a nice day
the baker called
yes
you both replied
I don't think he's Jewish
she said
anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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From a Great Height.
Beneath her balcony he’d sing
and promise love eternally.
The maiden spurned his offering.
She knew of his philandering.
But undeterred he’d nightly sing.
Experienced in the ways of maids.
He knew she would be listening
to hear his mandolin tinkling.
Eventually she would relent
appear upon the balcony.
Although she doubted his intent.
By trial and experiment.
He’d found that curiosity
A fatal weakness in young maids
would bring her to the balcony.
It always worked successfully.
It always had done in the past.
This maid was made of sterner stuff.
She vowed tonight would be the last
and down upon his head she cast.
The contents of her chamber pot.
Which served to dampen his ardour
Attar of roses it was not.
Although he deserved what he got.
I felt some little sympathy
to see him so discomfited.
To be drenched unexpectedly
in his intended victims pee.
A message that he’d not forget.
This lady was no easy prey.
The chamber pot she had upset
Has soaked him in Eau de Toilet.
He quickly hurried from the scene.
His pride damaged beyond repair.
His parting comments were obscene.
At least I thought they must have been..
No longer does the troubadour
Sing below her balcony
Sweet serenades about amour
No one has seen him any more.
07/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hastiness and superficiality are the psychic diseases of the twentieth century, and more than anywhere else this disease is reflected in the press.
quote by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hastiness and superficiality are the psychic diseases of the 20th century, and more than anywhere else this disease is reflected in the press.
quote by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once Again In The Southwest Balcony
what connects me to you
and this southwest balcony?
it's the same balcony
it's the same sky
and the chair too is the same...
you know, this late summer evening
the lightly-cast sky over the balcony
moved to descend on me sitting
as usual insulated in the accustomed chair
that typical cool early summer evening breeze
came swinging in fits only after
caressing the capricious clouds
it brushed past my forlorn cheeks
setting ablaze the memories i tightly
gift-wrapped and kept securely
in a tiny wicker-basket in my heart
the same passing cloud this time
released trillion needles of rain drops
even on my eye lids making it difficult for me
through the blurred vision there appeared
your persona once on the cloud
once between the real big rain drops
unique to a summer shower
alluring and eluding my grasp
an unknown destination beckoned me
between you and me
did i miss my way?
31mar2010
19.40hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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A man with a pink umbrella
Pink day
Pink hedge
Pink porch
Pink balcony
Pink woman
Pink ghost on a pink road!
Pink door
Pink hello
Pink dream
Pink sparrow
Pink night
poem by Framarz Bagheri
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a pessimistic view from a balcony in Paris
A Pessimistic view from a Balcony in Paris
Fine rain, open umbrella, sitting on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking Haussmann – Saint Lazare. A throng of people
and cars, but something as changed, people drinks Starbuck
coffee and eat burgers on the hoof. Old restaurants are
closing or converted to fast-food joints. I sigh and drink from
a bottle of Bordeaux to avoid getting rainwater in my wine.
This place together with rue d’Amsterdam used to be where
the posh people lived and now, safe for the ruddy scrap yard
tower, this could have been downtown New York.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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