The grindstones can neither be used as a stool nor a headrest.
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Dreaming On a Concrete Stool
Dreaming On a Concrete Stool
I painfully remember the stool under tree,
where we, as newly arrivers to the city,
sat resting tightly in a lovely quietness,
hugging each-other in warm sweetness.
Tempted by the desire to dream,
away from the stool the image flew,
deep into distant desirable future,
as in fairy tales ourselves we threw.
What we had gone through said to ignore,
our past happiness fervently remembered,
a new dream were weaving once more,
when two drops of tears fell on the stool.
With the burning miss you to remember,
from a vague distance I returned again,
I saw the tree fully covered in frost,
and the stool had become an icy rock.
Everything had plunged into darkness,
seized by sadness, stiffed in loneliness,
feeling like a stranger into this emptiness,
how could I sit on that bitter coldness?
Scared to death, my eyes I threw
on that concrete stool once we sat,
as two jewelry stones in my image grew,
those two drops of tears I’ll never forget
poem by avzi Cipuri
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I go from stool to stool in singles bars hoping to get lucky, but there's never any gum under any of them.
quote by Emo Philips
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Stool
Your bloody stool will stain the stool,
For it was pouring and coming out like the river;
But my writing cannot change anything,
For you really know what you are going through.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Beautiful discourse is rarer than emerald, yet it can be found among the servant girls at the grindstones.
Tweedle Dee And Tweedle Dum
Tweedle-dee Dum and Tweedle-dee Dee
They're throwing knives into the tree
Two big bags of dead man's bones
Got their noses to the grindstones
Living in the Land of Nod
Trustin' their fate to the Hands of God
They pass by so silently
Tweedle-dee Dum and Tweedle-dee Dee
Well
song performed by by Bob Dylan from Love And Theft
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Talent-Competition
Hotel des Lices St. Tropez
poolside on the evening of a languid day
hot and sweet and cloying St. Tropez
the girl from Ecuador
one of the final four
realized she'd lost her way
a seagull
the hotel-dog
and a chromium-plated bar-stool
comprised the other three
and we
reclining on brown and pink cushions
flushed with vin rose
were disinclined to pander to the obvious
gave first prize to the bar-stool
for the way he stood
elegante
and detache
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Night Is A Morning Song Of A Woman
after the night of love
the morning is becomes her song
perhaps even a secret hum
inside her heart
at noon
she perfects a symphony
the kitchen sings with her
the spoons and
grindstones and even the
knife and glasses and plates
she whistles to the
stove
in the afternoon
she is ready with a dirge
at night the funeral hymn
begins
it's a drag
towards eternal peace
life is like that
in its quest for perfection
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From The Bottle To The Bottom
You ask me if Im happy now
Thats good as any joke Ive heard
It seems that since Ive seen you last
I done forgot the meaning of the words
If happiness is empty rooms
And drinkin in the afternoon
Well I suppose Im happy as a clam
But if its got a thing to do
With smilin of forgettin you
Well I dont guess that I could say I am
Chorus:
Did you ever see a down and outer waking up alone
Without a blanket on to keep him from the dew
When the water from the weeds has soaked the paper
Hes been puttin in his shoes to keep the ground from comin through
And his future feels as empty as the pocket in his pants
Because hes never seen a single dream come true
Thats the way that Ive been feelin since the day I started falling
>from the bottle to the bottom stool by stool
Learnin hard to live with losin you
You wonder if Im better off
With freedom now to do the things I choose
With all my times my own and
I got nothin left but sleepin time to lose
Theres no one here to carry on
If I stay out the whole night long
Or give a tankerous damn if I dont call
Im livin like I wanted to
And doin things I wanna do
And nothin means a thing to me at all
Chorus:
Did you ever see a down and outer waking up alone
Without a blanket on to keep him from the dew
When the water from the weeds soaked the paper
Hes been puttin in his shoes to keep the ground from comin through
And his future feels as empty as the pocket in his pants
Because hes never seen a single dream come true
Thats the way that Ive been feelin since the day I started falling
>from the bottle to the bottom stool by stool
Learnin hard to live with losin you
song performed by by Kris Kristofferson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Naething to do but draw in your stool & sit down.
Don't break your shin on a stool that is not in your way.
We are Transmitters
As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Hang The Lover (Death Of A Lover)
The rope is loose
Swinging from the gallow
Rounded in a noose
Hard lump I swallow
I have done wrong
Step forward, take a bow
I stole her song
Rope around my neck, allow
Forward I stare
Rope tightens
The blame I bear
Heartbeat heightens
Last words spoken
'I love her you see'
Now only a token
Deaf ears, hear my plea
Upon the stool
Fingers pointing
Stands the old fool
Crowd shouting
Stool kicked away
People blur, out of sight
End of rope I sway
Blackness comes, my last goodnight
Girls lament
The women wail
For the boys there sent
For all men that fail
In the ground
No more worries
A sleep I have found
no need to hurry
Even under the ground
Love! not sinning
Peace not found
Soul still spinning
RG/NB
poem by Robert Green
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One becomes a critic when one cannot be an artist, just as a man becomes a stool pigeon when he cannot be a soldier.
quote by Gustave Flaubert
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When you go to someone else's house and the owner is squatting there on the ground, you do not ask for a stool.
Set a frog on a golden stool, away it hops to reach the pool.
Though you seat the frog on a golden stool, he'll soon jump off again into the pool.
The trial of a case is a three-legged stool - a judge and two advocates.
quote by Warren E. Burger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The frog will jump back into the pool, although it sits on a golden stool.
Self-will so ardent and active that it will break a world to pieces to make a stool to sit on.
quote by Richard Cecil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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