I certainly don't sit around in the morning making pancakes listening to Whitehouse or anything.
quote by Thurston Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Many people do not realize that the snowshoe can be used for a great many things besides walking on snow. For instance, it can be used to carry pancakes from the stove to the breakfast table. Also, it can be used to carry uneaten pancakes from the table to the garbage. Finally, it can be used as a kind of stainer, where you force pancakes through the strings to see if a piece of gold got in a pancake somehow.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is no making pancakes without breaking the eggs.
Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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S.O.S.
Is anybody listening?
Can they hear me when I call?
I'm shooting signals in the air
'Cause I need somebody's help
I can't make it on my own
So I'm giving up myself
Is anybody listening
Listening
I'll be standing here and I'm miles away
Making signals hoping they'd save me
I lock myself inside these walls
'Cause out there I'm always wrong
I don't think I'm gonna make it
So while I'm sitting here
On the eve of my death bed
I'll write this letter and hope it saves me
Is anybody listening?
Can they hear me when I call?
Shooting signals in the air
'Cause I need somebody's help
I can't make it on my own
So I'm giving up myself
Is anybody listening
Listening
I'm stuck in my own head and I'm oceans away
Would anybody notice if I chose to stay?
I'll send and SOS tonight
Wonder if I will survive
How in the hell did I get so far away this time
So now I'm sitting here
The time of my departure's near
I say a prayer
Please someone save me
Is anybody listening?
Can they hear me when I call?
Shooting signals in the air
'Cause I need somebody's help
I can't make it on my own
So I'm giving up myself
Is anybody listening
Listening
I'm lost here
I can't make it on my own
I don't wanna die alone
I'm so scared
Drowning now
Reaching out
Holding on to everything I love
Crying out
Dying now
Need some help
Is anybody listening?
Can you hear me when I call?
Shooting signals in the air
I need somebody's help
I can't make it on my own
I'm giving up myself
Is anybody listening?
song performed by by Good Charlotte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Listening
Your skin attached this fragile cliche
Of my broken heart attack
You should swallow your teeth and hang out
Stay for a while
If your heart's still beating it must be the blood
If your lungs are still working it must be the mud
If its still light out than a kick in the ribs
today's worth living
I don't see anything now
So just say what you wanna say
It's kind of funny how I'm not listening anyway
Lights out, I can't stand to hear you scream
While we were making love I was fast asleep
and the night sky better give something up (give something up)
I don't see anything now
So just say what you wanna say
It's kind of funny how I'm not listening anyway
[x2]
Lights out, lights out, lights out, lights out...
Lights out! I can't stand to hear you scream
While we were making love I was fast asleep
If your heart's still beating it must be the blood
If your lungs are still working it must be the mud
If its still light out than a kick in the ribs
And today's worth living, it probably is
I don't see anything now
So just say what you wanna say
It's kind of funny how I'm not listening anyway
[x2]
I'm not listening anyway
I'm not listening anyway
I'm not listening
Listening, I'm not listening
I'm not listening
I'm not listening
I'm not listening
song performed by by Used
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Out Of Work
I'm the out of work builder I love to work and create
I'm out looking for work early mornings
Theres always a man by my gate
He asked me to come to his office
He's from the Mr. Brown
Maybe he's got nothing better to do to me he's just a clown
He said your cut early morning
And most times your out all day well I was just trying
To explain but he just wanted to stop my pay
So when you go out looking for work keep looking to ou back
Because Mr. Brown is watching you I wish he'd get the sack
To watch him every morning, I'd watch him every day
I'd even give him a job so I could sack him and stop it's pay
poem by M. Whitehouse
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What is happening to you?
I find it strange how we stopped making new beginnings
With our two hands we grope no light, with your ring finger
You snap a fly and there it dies with nobody mourning,
With your eye you touch a stone
And throw it to the sky. How strong are your thoughts today?
How crazy, how messy.
In the kitchen with your knife
You slice more onions amazed that you will shed no tears,
Proud about your long stares
Staying on the stairs
Just beside your apron a cockroach is crawling
On used tissue paper. And a fish is leaping like a frog
Like a dove just struck a window and
Fell to the ground. Soiled bleeding heart. You are always busy asking-
Why is this why is that? There is no end to your murmur.
You’re making heat where ice is frozen, making
Pancakes when there is no electricity in the oven
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Smelt Dragons
Ghosts smell of kittens as they are dragons,
Industrial fiends that taste to the public;
Inexcusable crimes are spoken and written
From the jarring of the supreme justice.
Lets be judged, lets affirm their pride of gold
And freaky substances making roil in humans.
Oatmeal is industry, owning us and making us breakfast,
But they supply quicksand and the notebooks.
Many pails of water lock teens in water,
Quiet rainstorms hope further and let pancakes.
poem by Naveed Akram
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AIDS is a judgment we have brought upon ourselves.
quote by Mary Whitehouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Listening Week
This is the listening week of the year
Listening-in.
A-cock and alert is the national ear
Listening-in.
All over the land in the country towns,
From the back of the Leeuwin to Darling Downs,
Layers of 'quids' or the odd half-crowns,
They are listening-in.
On the far-flung farms they are round each set,
Listening-in.
The work and the worry they all forget,
Listening-in.
Wherever an aerial soars in space
To the Cup, or the Oaks or the Steeplechase,
To the roar of the ring and the lure of the race
They are listening-in.
In the far outback there are sun-tanned men,
Listening-in.
Where the woolshed stands by the drafting pen
Listening-in.
Old Dad's come in from the Ninety Mile;
He scored on the Cup and he wears a smile,
And he 'reckons this game is well worth while'
So he's listening in.
To the edge of the desert the sound-waves go;
And, listening-in,
Ned of the Overland, Saltbush Joe
Listening-in
Recall the giants of years long past,
And the loneliness of these spaces vast;
But they reckon that life's worth living at last
With this listening-in.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Listening
Listening.
And being there for someone loved...
To do just that!
With a mind willing,
To be receptive and clear...
Of opinions sitting,
On the tip of one's tongue.
With a giving of attention,
And staying mum.
Listening to someone.
Listening is not easily done.
For those who have experienced...
A life in which peace of mind has come.
When a listening ear,
Had not been volunteered by no one.
And some who know this...
Do their best to sit with patience.
Listening with no other reason...
But to be there as is wished.
For someone who has selected you,
Just for this.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Happy hoot of a good day
Tomorrow is almost here,
gonna wait for it
and just relax for today.
Can you feel it,
tomorrow morning,
everything will be fun.
Going to go shopping for,
banana's, milk and orange juice.
Going to go buy something,
just for me to enjoy.
Pizza, oreo cookies, pancakes
and even a small bowl of pho soup.
Yum Yum!
I love tomorrow and shopping day.
poem by Jackie Anderson
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Must've Been Love
I once knew a guy
Who told so many lies
They actually replaced all the whites of his eyes
He met up with a girl
By the nickname of Shirl
And she promised him that she would rock his world
They had a few dates
Often stayed out real late
Woke up in the morning to coffee and pancakes
After a couple months
He had thought she was the one
So he popped the question for anything but fun
She exclaimed 'Yes! '
And so he tried his best
To make it through the daunting wedding arrangement quest
The day soon arrived
But where was the bride?
As it turns out she too liked to lie!
poem by P.R. Prosper
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I never had any hang-ups about sex. As for being sexually repressed, nothing could be further from the truth. There are more hang-ups now than ever there were when I was growing up.
quote by Mary Whitehouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In A Deafening Stubbornness
A resting temporarily,
From a digging of a hole
Dug deep,
Is no cause for celebration.
For those blindfolded,
In a deafening stubbornness they keep.
Especially if the digging done,
Is away from and not towards the light.
And those who enthusiastically dig,
See themselves as making progress.
A progress only they believe,
Can be achieved
Without listening to others,
Standing above them in silhouette
Against the rays of the Sun.
A digging like this continued
Out of listening distance,
Has long ago begun!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sir Hugh Greene is the man I hold most responsible for the state of our country today. For 11 years hardly a week went by without a sniping reference to me. And he gave access to anyone who was prepared to say anything morally subversive.
quote by Mary Whitehouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I want change
This modern technology feeds the ignorant masses
With words and images more addictive than grasses
Since when did black become white?
Since when did wrong become right?
With each generation, race is defined
Pure black roots have been redefined
Skin colours are redefined in broad daylight
And the people vote out of sentimental plights
Strange!
I want change
I don't want a range of change
That rearranges my need for change
Dancing around is this global financial crisis
This is cracking up the world into pieces
A mixed-race making grounds is a stepping stone
But there is no pure black root high up the throne
Listen!
There is no black in the Whitehouse
Listen!
There is no female in the Whitehouse
It is a blinding mystery
How we so easily forget our history
The struggles and the fights for identity
The hope of stability and equality of sexuality
Strange!
I want change
But I don't want a range of change
That superficially rearranges my need for change
The stronger the root, the stronger the stem
There is no one who can solve our problems
The problem of starvation
The problem of population
Passed on from generation to generation
It does not matter who holds autonomy
On decisions of matters on the global economy
Until we learn to be considerate
As we copulate to endlessly populate
Food resources are facing extinction
Natural forces are on fateful missions
Man made curses introduce present institutions
There is no cure
Unlike before!
Strange!
I want change
But I don't want a range of change
That superficially rearranges my need for change
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Just another day in paradise
More On Angels
ever thought of Angels
as everyday people?
Waking up, getting up,
going off to labor
Having to sleep on their bellies,
so’s not to crinkle their feathers
Walking out the door
Saying “morning” to their neighbor
Halos on… a bit askew
Robes… perhaps just a tad soiled
Nectar skipped this morning cause..
It was out of date and spoiled
Morning hair an ungodly mess
Forgot to shave last night
But what the hell, the boss wears a beard
A little five o clock shadow should be alright
Another day…another shekel
Making miracles, making nice
Holy moley, and God almighty
Just another day in Paradise
poem by David Whalen
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0016 Orpheus - or his lute?
It was his listening; he listened
to himself; he listened to himself
listening to his lute; his lute perforce
listened to itself; listened to itself
listening to him..listened to
the measures of all things, even
the measures of mankind..
space, air, listened to his listening;
listened as the eagle made a silent,
perfect circle around a centre in its mind
high above Delphi that clear morning;
listened to the silent cliffs across the gorge,
silently ominous in their listening;
the stream which trickles down past the carved theatre,
cool and clear enough to wash your face;
look up the mountain and hope it sacred, holy; it
plashes like curiosity pursued, down towards the river
which is a mere pencil line at the bottom of the gorge
in this so unexpected place;
the sea barely visible in the distance,
misty with its myths unspoken;
space listened and loved his music, allowed this scene;
a cool air, this morning elsewhere hot, descends gently
down the mountain to the gorge, curves past these rocks
where a dark shadow here or there
could be where the Sibyl listened too.
we thought, boarding the hot bus,
that we were tourists; then we looked,
became pilgrims; then something more,
more like worshippers of the unknown god
whose altar we left behind in Athens,
silent beyond questions,
listening to the space
as if the space itself
listened to some instrument well tuned,
a voice perhaps, silent, powerful.
the sun, the sunlight, moved from rock to rock
this cool, clear morning, waking
clumps of sparse bright flowers, woken
again by morning bees
who may be unaware – or born to know—
they forage at a world heritage site as do we visitors,
at Delphi, where still truth speaks in silence;
bees who listen to each other,
dance their satnav trails,
listen inwardly to flowers,
to honey, and what else
poem by Michael Shepherd
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