The first [cup of vodka] goes as a stake, the second as a falcon, and the third as a little bird.
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The first goes as a stake, the second as a falcon, and the third as a little bird.
Faith In Vodka Tears
'those vodka weeping
Russians
those vodka weeping
Russians
crying vodka tears'
lost loss of faith
loss of faith in communism
lost loss of faith
loss of faith in orthodox religion
lost loss of faith
loss of faith in devastated souls
will Russian soul thaw regenerate?
socialist history of faith
under Lenin Stalin Communism
under suppressed orthodox religion
devastated souls did not regenerate...
vodka soothed Russian soul
crying vodka tears
defensive history of faith
under aggressive invasion bestial Nazism
vodka seemed to fire the Russian soul
crying vodka tears
without faith they cry vodka tears
with faith they cry vodka tears
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Stake Stake Stake
Stake, stake, stake,
on the green felt fabric thrown, -
the croupiers, awake,
the players, weary, grown.
O well for the novice who
can cash in lucky play,
O ill for the gambler too,
rash not to end his stay
as the golden chips go on
back to stack within the till, -
but O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
and woe for the crushing bill!
Stake, stake, stake,
while a camera all can see,
records both banks which break,
and counts accounts’ red plea!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Crying Vodka Tears
those vodka weeping
Russians
those vodka weeping
Russians
crying vodka tears
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I'm not against vodka - they just asked us. They put out some story about us entertaining international celebrities with vodka, which of course wasn't true.
The Falcon
Why should my sleepy heart be taught
To whistle mocking-bird replies?
This is another bird you've caught,
Soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes.
The bird Imagination,
That flies so far, that dies so soon;
Her wings are coloured like the sun,
Her breast is coloured like the moon.
Weave her a chain of silver twist,
And a little hood of scarlet wool,
And let her perch upon your wrist,
And tell her she is beautiful.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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Falcon
They're near cracking.
And tracking a balloon,
On rumors.
They're near cracking.
And hoping that ballon lands soon.
A boy is claimed to be alone.
And flying on his own,
Alone...
High in the sky and crying.
But he was found to not have flown.
And hiding in a box.
Hoping that his daddy wouldn't fuss at him a lot.
They're near cracking.
And tracking a balloon,
On rumors.
They're near cracking.
And hoping that ballon lands soon.
'Falcon? '
~Yes, daddy? ~
'Falcon? '
~Yes, daddy? ~
'Falcon no more hiding to start rumors.'
'Falcon? '
~Yes, daddy? ~
'Falcon? '
~Yes, daddy? ~
'Falcon no more hiding to start rumors.'
'Falcon? '
~Yes, daddy? ~
'Falcon? '
~Yes, daddy? ~
'Falcon no more hiding to start rumors.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Faith Outlawed Political Oppression
enduring political oppression
without resurrection fibre faith
this then was thorny problem
splinter within pastoral Russian
psyche splinter within rustic mind
an issue not with vodka drunk blind
but appeasement flooded loss of faith
drowned as testament escapism time
that was the point under Communism
during war devastating invasion Nazism
vodka seemed to be fluid Russian soul
without faith cry liquid vodka tears
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Here and now
Right here and now.
All I want to dod is cry!
Here and now I want to die
Here and now I swallow the pills.
Drowned with the vodka.
Soon right here and now.
I will be dead by morning.
Cold and stiff In my bed.
Atleast I can be at peace.
No more of lifes troubles to face.
For the pain I felt I just couldnt brace.
Right here and now.
I am dying.
I took the plunge.
I did what I thought was best.
I swallowed the pills.
Drowned with vodka.
Please dont save me
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Ay De Mi
O bird, that used to press,
Thy head against my cheek
With touch that seem'd to speak,
And ask a tender 'yes' -
Ay de mi, my bird:
Ay de mi, my bird, my bird -
Ay de mi, my bird.
O tender downy breast,
And warmly beating heart,
That beating seem'd a part
Of me who gave it rest -
Ay de mi, my bird:
Ay de mi, my bird, my bird -
Ay de mi, my bird.
poem by George Eliot
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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What the Orphan Knows About Light
.
for Anna Kamienska**
'I don't believe in the other world
...But I don't believe in this one either
unless it's pierced by light.' - A. Kamienska
Hidden behind a star
the ash sings without self-pity -
stake your claim in Beauty.
Flame-near dreams
are of Far.
Jab the mausoleum
majesty of State
in the eye.
Here is your key, little one.
Now run quickly home.
**[Some poems of Anna Kamienska:
http: //www.ap.krakow.pl/nkja/literature/polpoet/kamien ska.htm]
poem by Warren Falcon
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Shore Leave Ornithology
Slacks, coffee trend
I could have been in the us navy
Flapping grey, coffee smoke
I could have been in another nineteen-fifty
Where the hell were you?
Rough stencil, print music
Cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, cardboard coffee
Saxophone mention barbers, n.y.
The cigarette was burning, the flat shoes
Stool
Bongo, coffee, don't mention that black man
The leather-coat was his
Where was she?
Could have been in the us navy
Flow beating air, table-top, shoulder slung
Shore leave, no sailors here
Cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, cardboard
Liquor slacks twisting
The cigarette was burning
The flat shoes, the flat shoes, the flat shoes
Bird, bird, bird, bird
I could have been in another nineteen-fifty
Bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird
Bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird
I could have been in another nineteen-fifty
Bird, bird, bird
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bird's Wish
The bird asks me
What I’d do
If I am a bird.
I tell him
High and high I’d soar
So high that I’d see the earth no more
I’d be a bird on the tree
I’d be a bird that’s free!
What you’d do bird
If you’re a man?
To be fair
It’d be my only prayer to God
Don’t be so hard
Make me once again a bird!
Saying this the bird sings
And spreads its wings to a sky
I can never fly!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Awhatthef..kia
'What ho? There ain't no bears down here, '
Said Robert Falcon Scott,
'I'll call it Anobearia.'
Back in acadamia
They translated it to Greek,
Called the place Antarctica,
That's still the name we speak.
What a shame he didn't honour
The flightless polar bird
And call it Apenguinia.
That name might have stuck-
Unless the Greeks had seen the bird
And called it whatthef..k.
In Greek that's ti-oto,
The land Ati-otoa.
Arty-ottowa.
'Sound's good, ' said acadamia,
'But meaning's not so nice.
We'll use the Greek for 'penguin'
And call Apigwevosa,
The Underland of Ice.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Hard to coax
A reasonable stake is enough.
A vine is content with that.
The stronger stake cannot coax it.
Wives being such, men live in peace.
09.08.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Stakes don’t alter the interest.
Children play cards with no stakes,
Street-men does with low stake and
Gamblers with high stake. The spirit
With which each group plays is same
06.03.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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In the sequence where I am burned at the stake, everything was so casual and hazardous that the bottom of my dress caught fire, and the grips became hysterical as they tried to pull me off the stake.
quote by Barbara Steele
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Name this bird
Name this bird
If you are.
If you wish
Go there.
Geography
I do not like.
History
This bird
is not feathery.
See the word
Search the bird.
The bird I saw
Above the rulrs
Above the law.
If you wish
Go and tell
But please
Do not say
The bird is in sleep
And not here to clip.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Birdbrain
Streaking, braking, twisting snatching,
Willie Wagtail's insect catching,
acrobatic chatterbox is garbed in black and white.
Overhead a falcon gliding
wheels and dives, hones in, colliding,
nail-gun force in outstretched claws which strike and lock in tight.
Falcon's talons raking feathers,
small-boned bird eludes caged tethers,
spirals down to dropp within a crown of needled pine.
Cradled safe in twiglet fences,
Wagtail blinks, regaining senses,
splintered wing hangs limply from a slashed and bloodied spine.
Wagtails are unused to resting,
soon, the broken bird is testing,
asymmetric fluttering as painful minutes slip.
Drifting, slowly dehydrating,
ants begin investigating;
as they nip, it hops, retreating, reaching pine limb's tip.
Still it watches insects flicking,
body clock's insistent ticking,
urges nesting, feeding, singing, borders to defend.
Tiny size can be deceptive,
this small bird is quite perceptive,
constantly deciding, many duties to attend.
Suddenly it launches, sailing,
briefly floats, then cartwheels flailing,
Willie Wagtail's final, fatal leap into the sky.
Insects hover, soon to plunder-
Can a bug feel smug?
I wonder.....
No,
but maybe birds can choose to linger or to fly.
poem by Diane Hine
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Love demands corporal presence
Is not it a fallacy,
If an uprooted stake thought
That the orphaned vine
In its place would never seek
Any stake nearby?
Your beloved ceases to be so
Once you have left the venue.
05.03.2002, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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