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My America
My America/ Heaven (Poems)
My America
The night was deep
but the window was clean,
one of the few on the street
The road to sunrise was empty
and the light above it was
obstructed.
Something filthy and broken
wrapped up on the arm of the light
over the road to sunrise.
Looked as though the wind
and blown a plastic bag
ripped, torn and stretched
around the light
over the road to sunrise.
I peered closer.
The night was deep, but the window was clean.
It was no plastic bag,
but faded Glory in the breeze.
poem by John Powers
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Clean
Eat clean,
Live clean,
Sleep clean,
dress clean,
Walk clean,
Learn clean,
Play clean,
Think clean,
dance clean,
Talk clean,
Sing clean,
work clean,
Because the world around you is watching what you do;
You are the only one on this earth,
So live and let us live too.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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What Upsets About His Leadership
What upsets about his leadership?
He is extremely competent.
And many can not get over it.
He had been a novelty in that position.
And elected for his brilliance.
Those who oppose him in the polls...
Are doing their best,
To keep their ignorance and bigotry...
Less exposed.
What upsets about his leadership?
He is extremely competent.
And many can not get over it.
With an announcement of his agenda,
He began to make clean sweeps.
Corruption, greed and gluttony,
Under his command...
'Will' and is going to cease.
With an announcement of his agenda,
He began to make clean sweeps.
This activity has never been witnessed berfore!
A thorough cleaning from ceiling to floor.
He has traumaticized those,
Who had been exclusively fed first.
And now they are shown the exit.
Quicker than expected.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Llama Express
across the Andean Alps
on bygone empire trails
like vagabonds traversing
on woolen backs and hooves
the dust rises behind them
the wind sweeps their fur
pots and pans, ceramic things
this road train ever moves
poem by Frederick Kesner
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A new broom sweeps clean, but an old one scrapes better.
If each one sweeps before his own door, the whole street is clean.
A new broom sweeps clean, but the old brush knows all the corners.
Man's road
It's a long road,
Oh so sad road,
You think you know,
But you really don't.
How lonely this road can be,
Walking man's road.
You walk down this road,
Is so lonely and cold now,
I knew so may but they left me here,
So now I walk alone
I am a soldier,
Walking down this road alone,
Walking the man's road.
I am a soldier wounded soldier,
I no longer fight,
I walked beside so many,
Now far ahead I can no longer see.
Walking man's road.
I am not counted as a free soul,
My soul is trapped here now and forever more,
A soldier wounded so I must give up the fight,
Now I hear the wind call my name,
I Won't give up now, My family counts on me,
I stand straight and walk tall,
I am free, as the wind that freely blows,
I know now that I must let the wind carry me home.
Walking man's road..
poem by Misty Evans
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Take
Take as your mentor the warm south
Notus wind that never blows harm but
sweeps the air clean of Plancus cloud
sparklewarming it; cleanse each
pang and care in a wash of yellow wine
whether in camp the arching sky with
standards jammed or home alone at dusk
watching the Tiber darken;
Salamina fleeing and his fathers' wrath
Teucer supposedly woundbound his temples
with poplar sprigs...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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You come before me this morning with clean hands and clean collars. I want you to have clean tongues, clean manners, clean morals and clean characters.
quote by John Burns
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Myth
A FLOATING, a floating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmast tree.
“Oh, came you from the isles of Greece
Or from the banks of Seine;
Or off some tree in forests free,
Which fringe the western main?”
“I came not off the old world
Nor yet from off the new—
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through.”
“Oh, sing and wake the dawning—
Oh, whistle for the wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind.”
“The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,
Ere thou hast sail’d them through.”
poem by Charles Kingsley
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You Are The Tree, I Am The Wind
You are the tree, I am the wind,
You alter my course, yet you also bend;
No longer is either the same after each-
I am the wind, be my tree, I do beseech!
Ethereal, unseen-yet alterations I may make!
Magnificent, beautiful-away, my gust, you take!
Together, we are an ever-changing landscape,
Making wondrous reality out of our dreasmscape!
A tree, without its wind-breathless, becalmed:
A wind, without its tree-purposeless, withdrawn!
The wind sweeps around the tree, the tree dances
More inspiring is this than all other romances!
I, the most powerful wind, you, the most beautificent tree;
Wonder do I what, as one, together, we may be!
Maurice Harris,30 August 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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The Night Bird: A Myth
A floating, a floating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmost tree.
'Oh came you off the isles of Greece,
Or off the banks of Seine;
Or off some tree in forests free,
Which fringe the western main?'
'I came not off the old world
Nor yet from off the new-
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through.'
'Oh sing, and wake the dawning-
Oh whistle for the wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind.'
'The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow
Ere thou hast sailed them through.'
Eversley, 1848.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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In the steps of Rumi 87: A Windy Day
Isn’t it a windy day?
The wind gets everywhere,
loves especially to have fun,
enjoys rattling loose doors as if it would come in,
to become a quiet household pet,
or just disappear up the chimney
to meet itself again…
loves corners especially,
piles its toys up in them;
loves robes, veils, laughs, exposing
forbidden body parts;
sweeps the streets clean of plastic bags
then just for fun, blows them around again;
loves especially, laundry on the line –
fills out men’s shirts into dancing fat men;
would wind like to laugh at man?
then from fun play, can get serious –
tests whether that corrugated iron roof
to your makeshift shed is really secure..
later, you may be glad it did...
then from serious to boisterous:
takes on the sea itself, which
likes a bit of fun, but then
gets angry when provoked too much…
then when it’s gone, it’s gone
back to wherever wind comes from…
before it goes, let’s wrap up, take
a laughing walk and tussle with it;
come back, cheeks glowing,
eyes sparkling, laughing,
light-hearted… what did we meet out there?
some say, that wind is really fire,
which stirs our blood like that;
that fire brings life; that life brings spirit;
that spirit is but love; and love,
the breath of gods, of God;
the wind blows where it will.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Fountain of Fire
"Just as it is impossible for a man to see his face in troubled water, so too the soul, unless it be cleansed of alien thoughts." Thomas Merton
Closing in
the ancient wind sweeps
still waters, turns clarity
to confusion, joy
to primal fear.
I seek my face
but see only a blush
on the river's edge,
red betrayal seeping
from deep within,
from a wound unseen.
Cleanse me, O Fountain of Fire,
still my fears
and again I'll see
my face
washed clean
by grateful tears!
poem by Steven Federle
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Cemetery walks…
The gravel goads me as I walk…
Do you not hear me, do you not see me
Do you not feel me under foot?
Do you not, talk …Speak! Why sir you are ruder
Than the sky, ruder than the stars and moon
On high, how dare you scuffle on bye?
Kicking; me over at random as I keep.
Your offensive size nines dry. Sir—sir
Sir— even a dandelion has the curtsey,
To bow its head before it drifts on’
The wind: surely you sir could at least sing!
Do you not hear these yew trees or the grass?
Do you not hear the bird’s song in the holy?
Does that robin there not make you gasp!
Do you not hear my unchartered music? Sir—sir
Sir— I’m the journey and you are just the path,
That leads to the end of the road:
“The swirling cherry blossom or so I‘m told”
When; the wind sweeps through your left
Eye socket and tolls, know that death, is
Looking though the right still in abject absents.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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