The enormous lake stretched flat and smooth and white all the way to the edge of the gray sky. Wagon tracks went away across it, so far that you could not see where they went; they ended in nothing at all.
quote by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Welcome Wagon
We are the welcome wagon girls
We're here to still your milk
If we drink it, we wont hurl
It goes down smooth as silk
We promise not to take too many
Just the right amount
I'll promise not to let Ms Jenny
Try and do the count
All we need to do right now
Is choose chocolate or white
I know there is a brown cow
But white, that don't seem right
Before we go out thru the doors
Make sure they're not the same
The chocolate's mine, the white is yours
Hey, this sounds like a game
Now the welcome wagon is filled
With milk for one and all
We'll try not to trip and spill
As we venture down the hall
poem by Kevin Seales
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr. Me
Once a boy named mister me bemoaned a great regret
I've floundered in the misty sea, but can't abide its mystery
I wound up sad, you bet
So onward go and edward ho into the bounding main
Enjoy the show look out below but mind the misty sea
Or end up sad like mister me
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
So take the hand of mister me and mister, make him glad
To swim the mister misty sea and cease the mister mystery
That mister, made him sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At The Edge Of The Edge Of The Edge
AT THE EDGE OF THE EDGE OF THE EDGE
At the edge of the edge of the edge
There is another invisible edge
And this too has an edge and another edge
Edges unending
Beyond our comprehension
Waiting for us to fall down and down-
On the edge of the edge of the edge
I write on
Has the great descent already begun
And am I in the midst of it
As I pretend to go on?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The wagon
I pushed a wagon through a muddy road
I pushed and I pulled all for naught
The wagon did not move nor did it stir
Its rear wheels stack in the murky mire
I withdraw thinking...
This wagon did not want to see the truth
This is why it will never change course or move
A wagon is a wagon
It trots the roads or be dragged on
It lives its life and endures its truth
It is only me
From whom the truth may hide
This plain truth engraved on a rock
Yet boggles taunts and tantalize in a mock
copy rights 2010
In business or in life, don't follow the wagon tracks too closely.
quote by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Edge Of The Edge Of The Edge
ON THE EDGE OF THE EDGE OF THE EDGE
On the edge of the edge of the edge
There is nowhere to go-
Home is lost,
And all the distances have broken down-
One cannot move
One can only fear-
On the edge of the edge of the edge
Falling is fear-
And holding one’s ground
One step at a time
Is a small miracle
One is not sure
One can make alone.
On the edge of the edge of the edge-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Lady Of The Lake
Theres a magical sound slidin over the ground
Makin it shiver and shake
And a permanent cry fallin out of the sky
Slippery and sly like a snake
With a delicate move kind of shifty and smooth
A shadow has covered the light
Then a beam in the shade from a silvery blade
Has shattered the edge of the night
I know she waits below
Only to rise on command
When she comes for me
Shes got my life in her hands
When a movement behind hit the side of my mind
I trembled and shook it away
Then another assault and I started to faulter
Fibres of steel turned to clay
With a bubbly turn now the water should churn
And push it way from the core
And a lady in white will bring sun to the night
Brighter than ever before
I know she waits below
Only to rise on command
When she comes for me
Shes got my life in her hands
Lady of the lake
Theres a magical sound slidin over the ground
Makin it shiver and shake
And a permanent cry fallin out of the sky
Slippery and sly like a snake
With a delicate move kind of shifty and smooth
A shadow has covered the light
Then a beam in the shade from a slivery blade
Has shattered the edge of the night
Straight down Im swirling around
Blinded and bruised by the strain
There must be some way to see
Diamonds out of the rain
I know she waits below
Only to rise on command
When she comes for me
Shes got my life in her hands
Lady of the lake
song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stop Dead
Stop!
Stop!
Stop dead,
Stop stop stop stop stop stop
I pulled up at a west end junction (seeker of attention)
A full body kit and bass bins pumping (size up competition)
Come on red light, get into green,
I hit the brake, I must be dreaming..
Im stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Got to fix on you.
Dont wanna loose you, from my sight
Where ya going to?
Gotta know now..
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Got to fix on you.
Dont wanna loose, you from my sight
Where ya going to?
Oh-oh-oh
Ive got my eyes on the action (killer reputation)
Heat crazed in full satisfaction (become a phaser? )
Do what you do and do it to me,
Body in motion, now you see me
(chorus)
Gotta know know.. stop!
Come on now, come on now
Come on now, come on now
Wise up to remain young victim (come on, ways of attraction)
A full scale attack on the system (come on, no one visor? )
Do what you do and do it to me,
Im into red line territory
And im..
(chorus)
Stop!, dead in my tracks again,
Im stop dead in my tracks
Stop!, in my tracks (yeah)
Im stop dead in my tracks
(oh-oh) gotta know know..
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 4)
Entering the flat
the Constable found no one there.
He searched every room,
nothing, only the fired gun on a note
left on the table.
He had noticed the back window
was left slightly ajar.
He picked up the note
and quickly read it through,
then put it in his pocket
along with the gun.
He smiled to the neighbour
as he left the flat.
He told her to lock it;
Mr D would be coming back.
At the car he got in
saying that,
they had to go back
to the station.
He sat on a bench
near the waters edge.
The white walking stick
resting between his legs.
He could not look at his watch,
as that would give the game away.
A blind man is not supposed to see,
so he had no idea of the time.
All he could tell
that day was turning into night.
He stood up;
he had to stretch his legs.
He moved along to
the bench by the bridge.
The dark waters of the lake,
lapped against the shore.
Then he heard the footsteps
walking across the wooden bridge.
He knew by the sound
they were of a woman’s shoe.
He did not look up
to see who it was,
just listened, as they got closer,
until they were in front of him.
He could now see her face,
under the light of the moon.
Her hair was dark,
and danced on her shoulders.
He wanted to say something,
but though he better not.
The killer could be lurking,
in the bushes somewhere,
waiting for his chance,
when he thought
the coast was clear.
She stopped and stood,
near the waters edge;
she watched the moon’s silver finger
dance on the breeze-ruffled waves.
He sat unnoticed except
for his white walking stick.
The blind could see nothing
at least that is what he hoped
anyone passing would think.
Then from the darkness, he emerged.
A mask of death he wore.
He moved quietly up behind the woman,
extended his hands out to her neck.
To be concluded……
poem by David Harris
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Another Language
The whole world is flat
& I am round.
Even women avert their eyes,
& men, embarrassed
by the messy way
that life turns into life,
look away,
forgetting they themselves
were once this roundness
underneath the heart,
this helpless fish
swimming in eternity.
The sound of O,
not the sound of I
embarrasses the world.
My friends, who voluntarily have made
their bodies flat,
their writings flat as grief,
look at me in disbelief.
What is this large unseemly thing-
a pregnant poet?
an enormous walking O?
Oh take all the letters of the alphabet but that!
We speak the Esperanto of the flat!
Condemned to sign
language & silence, pregnant poems
for men to snicker at,
for women to denounce,
I live alone.
My world is round
& bounded by the mountain of my fear;
while all the great geographers agree
the world is flat
& roundness cannot be.
poem by Erica Jong
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The stone looks up to heaven for light
It starts as a lump of soft soil
The sun scorches it
And for years it has become this
Hard stone
It has no face
Just this blank flat and smooth
Edge
And some corners that the seasons
Shaped
It is strong now
Facing the sun looking for more light
Mustering some courage to afford
A stare
Without being destroyed
Indifference makes it
A name for itself
Hate it shuns out
Love, it still has to know
Perhaps in another season
The rain may send the message
When
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Autumn Landscape
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;
The fields are cold and still; the sky
Is covered with a blue-gray sheet
Of motionless cloud; and at my feet
The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves
The road runs rough and silent, lined
With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,
And poplars pallid as the day,
In masses spectral, undefined,
Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside the river's sober edge
A long fresh field lies black. Beyond,
Low thickets gray and reddish stand,
Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,
Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
Across a waste and solitary rise
A ploughman urges his dull team,
A stooped gray figure with prone brow
That plunges bending to the plough
With strong, uneven steps. The stream
Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,
Comes from far off; and crows in strings
Pass on the upper silences.
A flock of small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings,
Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
This day the season seems like one that heeds,
With fixed ear and lifted hand,
All moods that yet are known on earth,
All motions that have faintest birth,
If haply she may understand
The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Early Works - The Edge Of Winter
The edge of winter
colours blanket the ground
bare trees with skeleton arms
out stretch to catch the wind
sky grey and clouded
wind with biting chill
scarves tightly tied
around necks of passing strangers
roofs white from first frost
cars aside the road will not start
batteries flat not antifreeze
fires chimneys plumes
rosy cheeks, icy breath.
The edge of winter here.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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Triangles
Three triangles of birds crossed
Over the enormous ocean which extended
In winter like a green beast.
Everything just lay there, the silence,
The unfolding gray, the heavy light
Of space, some land now and then.
Over everything there was passing
A flight
And another flight
Of dark birds, winter bodies
Trembling triangles
Whose wings,
Frantically flapping, hardly
Can carry the gray cold, the desolate days
From one place to another
Along the coast of Chile.
I am here while from one sky to another
The trembling of the migratory birds
Leaves me sunk inside myself, inside my own matter
Like an everlasting well
Dug by an immovable spiral.
Now they have disappeared
Black feathers of the sea
Iron birds
From steep slopes and rock piles
Now at noon
I am in front of emptiness. It’s a winter
Space stretched out
And the sea has put
Over its blue face
A bitter mask.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Before a Fall
And what was the big room he walked in?
The big room he walked in,
Over the smooth floor,
Under the sky light,
Was his own brain.
And what was it he admired there?
He admired there
The oval mirror.
And what was it the oval mirror showed him there?
It showed him the roots
Through the ceiling,
The gross armchair, the bookcase
Shuttered with glass,
The Hymns bound in velvet,
The porcelain oven,
The giant egg cups,
The hairy needles,
And the silence
And the smell of smouldering dung
Hung between the walls
(Which were yellow as dandelion).
And how did he leave?
On the smooth floor
His neat feet jarred
And his teeth grew down
To his heart, and he slipped
On the white stairhead -
Which ended?
Which ended in coldness
And darkness,
Through which he fell
(So they tell)
With little hope, and slowly.
poem by Geoffrey Grigson
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Wine Story
An Abridged Story of Wine
The bottom of the nave used to be a lake's bed, but one night,
when moon was white as search light and the sky maroon,
the lake vanished. Dead fish and toenail clippings at the bottom,
but the soil was rich, and the people who used to fish for a living,
planted vine which bore healthy grapes, but grapes fermented
and wine was discovered. A drink that made them merry, they
sang, slapped flat stones together and made music.
But if drinking too much they ended fighting and used stones as
missiles, and given to arguing about the quality of snow that fell
the year before. In clay pots they sold red wine and became rich,
till Moslems came, forbad the making of wine, they planted pale
yellow orange trees instead. But the juice of sweet blue grapes
has an unstoppable allure it fills heart with music, the production
was moved to hidden dells in Alentejo. When Arabs, defeated by
Christian hordes, fled; Iberia had abundance of red wine but also
sugary orange juice.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Table Bay [2]
I can hear the waves roar,
slamming shingle on the rocks, the beach
drawing in and out
on Bloubergstrand
and the cadence is a age old shuddering
of waves breaking, continuing like before
and in the distance Table Bay
lies stretched out specked with
hundreds of little lights
like a enormous crown
with the flat mountain top
on display, etched against the night sky
and its full tide, the moon is full
yellow and magnificent
and the place of good hope,
lies on the shore
with waves breaking forever more
and lonely the beach stretches out before me,
in a long white ribbon
and the dark water goes out to the horizon,
almost as far as I can see
and the sea wind is fresh and new
and there's no light in sight
on the wavering ocean
just a darkness that envelopes me
as the waves
are throwing pebbles out
and drawing them in
before breaking on the beach
and there's nobody to be true to,
nobody to trust, only the reality of the here and now
and all hope, all promises, all joy and pain
remains the same
swept in and out of a confused world
forever breaking, forever rushing in.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Walking and Talking on the Edge-(somnambulism and somniloquence)
1) Walking and Talking on the edge
This way, that way, out of the way
Sleeping Somna' walking semieyed
Walking and Talking on the edge
Sleeping Somni' talking aloud
'Wait, wait, I too shall join'
Walking and Talking on the edge
This way, that way, out of the way
2) Walking and Talking on the edge
This way, that way, out of the way
Somna' semi- fell from upstairs
Walking and Talking on the edge
Talking Somni' fell from the cot
Two friends ended in a strange way
Walking and Talking on the edge
This way, that way, out of the way
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Trouvée
Oh, why should a hen
have been run over
on West 4th Street
in the middle of summer?
She was a white hen
--red-and-white now, of course.
How did she get there?
Where was she going?
Her wing feathers spread
flat, flat in the tar,
all dirtied, and thin
as tissue paper.
A pigeon, yes,
or an English sparrow,
might meet such a fate,
but not that poor fowl.
Just now I went back
to look again.
I hadn't dreamed it:
there is a hen
turned into a quaint
old country saying
scribbled in chalk
(except for the beak).
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Edge Of A Broken Heart
And there I stood, just like a soldier
I was tough, until I saw her
I said hello, but she just turned away
Hey romeo, whatcha doin with my girl,
Who are you using now, well I turn and walk away (turn and walk away)
Im gonna please her, now you can believe it
Ill be there to catch her when she falls
Oooo, here I am (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im a man (on the edge of a broken heart)
Here we stand (on the edge of a broken heart)
So run if you can cause you know
Im a man on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im on the outside, looking inside
Youre with him, whos on the wrong side now
Do you still think of me
Ive tried to call, but no one answers
Two silhouettes, a private dancer
Lights go dim, as the music starts to fade, away (turn and walk away)
Im the one who needs you, now you can believe it
Ill be there to catch you when you fall
Ooo you better believe Im the man (on the edge of a broken heart)
Here I am (on the edge of a broken heart)
And we stand (on the edge of a broken heart)
So run if you can cause you know
Im a man on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Solo
Ooohh
And when I hold out my hands Ill be reaching for you
I give it all that Ive got, thats all I can do
When youre waiting for love
Ill be waiting for you (on the edge of a broken heart)
Only for you (on the edge of a broken heart)
Oh baby for you (on the edge of a broken heart)
So run if you can, you know
Im a man on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im on the edge (on the edge of a broken heart)
Im on the edge (of a broken, broken, broken broken, broken, broken, broken)
song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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