Over the tops of it, beginning to dusk under a young white moon, trailed a wavering ghost of smoke, and at the end of it I came upon the Pocket Hunter making a dry camp in the friendly scrub.
quote by Mary Austin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Coventry in November
They say it was a Hunter’s moon
The night the City died
They say it was a hunter’s moon
The day the people cried
They say it was a hunter’s moon
That took our house away
They say it was a hunter’s moon
When the devil came to stay
An ageing now I’d like to know
Won’t someone tell me soon,
Why the reaper came to mow
in the light of the hunter’s moon
poem by Adrian Wait
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Camp Fires of the Past
A thousand, thousand camp fires every night,
in ages gone, would twinkle to the dark
from crest and valley in the rolling bush,
from mulga scrub and mallee scrub, from dunes
of Central sand, from gaps in straggling ranges,
from gibber plains and plains of iron-wood,
through leaves and in the open, from the mangroves
by shore of Carpenteria, from rocks
and beaches of the Bight.....for countless aeons,
a thousand, thousand camp fires burned each night,
and, by the fires, the Old Men told their tales
which held their listeners spellbound.... Every night
among the fires men chanted to the beat
of stick and boomerangs and clap of hands,
or drone-and-boom of didgeridoo, the songs
rising and falling, trailing, quickening,
while eyes gleamed bright, through smoke drift, bodies shone
and dusked in fitful glow amid the shadows.......
poem by Rex Ingamells
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scrub, Scrub, Rub-a dub dub
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub, dub
cleaning is such a chore.
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub, dub
cleaning's such a bore.
Washing, dusting every day,
seems there is no end.
I know that when I'm finished
it will start all over again.
Windows, floors and kitchen sinks
just can't seem to stay clean.
The kids go out. The kids come in
and there's the same old scene.
Wash the clothes. Let them dry.
Put them on to wear.
Before the day is over
there's a spot that wasn't there.
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub dub
when will it ever stop?
If I could find those rub-a dub men
I'd gladly give them my mop.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunter’s Moon
In a trench on the frontline
with a periscope, I survey
the no man’s land in front of me.
The moon is a hunter’s moon
where any movement is silhouetted
against the night sky.
I sit and watch
for the clouds across the moon
when we will get the orders
to climb over the top and charge
to meet the enemy eye to eye
never knowing if you are going to die.
You will if you are caught
under a hunter’s moon.
12 December 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shadwell Stair
I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.
Along the wharves by the water-house,
And through the cavernous slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.
Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
And eyes tumultuous as the gems
Of moons and lamps in the full Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the pool.
Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
Where I watch always; from the banks
Dolorously the shipping clanks
And after me a strange tide turns.
I walk till the stars of London wane
And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
But when the crowing syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Ghost Dance
Long ago a prophet appeared,
A Piute Medicine Chief known as Wovoka.
He spoke to the Lakota people and others,
Of how to banish the white man.
They knew not they faced such great numbers.
This Messiah taught the Ghost Dance,
And promised come next spring,
New soil would smother all white men,
Sweet grass would cover the land,
Wild horses & buffalo would return,
All who danced the Ghost Dance,
Would be taken up into the air,
Suspended while new earth was laid down.
Kicking Bear assured Sitting Bull that,
If their people wore Ghost Dance shirts,
White mans bullets could not strike them so,
They painted their shirts with sacred symbols.
Indian agents grew nervous, moved quickly,
Telegraphing Washington for more troops.
Soldiers surrounded Sitting Bulls camp,
A fight ensued and many were killed.
Ghost Dance was thwarted,
before magic could fulfill...
'The Second Coming” prophecy belonged to the white man,
For they worshiped 'A Most Jealous god”
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Camp of Souls
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the 'Camp of Souls.'
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the 'paint of death,'
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue 'last smoke.'
13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.
19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the 'song of grief'
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their 'Camp of Souls.'
31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.
37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.
43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the 'paint of death';
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.
49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk 'Springing Fawn.'
55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.
61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.
67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the 'Camp of Souls.'
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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(Waiting For) The Ghost Train
A straw headed woman, and a barrel chested man,
A pocket full of posies with a hat brim full of sand,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
A dog chasing the tumbleweeds, across the sandy floor,
That drift along the platform, through the ticket office door,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
But don't tell me there's nothing coming, you don't fool me,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And I hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
The station master's writing with a piece of orange chalk,
A hundred cancellations, still no one wants to walk,
Keep the hungry children from the skeletons in the back,
Paid to keep an eye out for the gipsy caravan,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And I hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
And I hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ghost Train
A straw headed woman, and a barrel chested man,
A pocket full of posies with a hat brim full of sand,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
A dog chasing the tumbleweeds, across the sandy floor,
That drift along the platform, through the ticket office door,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
But don't tell me there's nothing coming, you don't fool me,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And i hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
The station master's writing with a piece of orange chalk,
A hundred cancellations, still no one wants to walk,
Keep the hungry children from the skeletons in the back,
Paid to keep an eye out for the gipsy caravan,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
Ooh - waiting for the train that never comes,
I hear the ghost train rumbling along the tracks - set them free,
And i hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white (don't try),
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
And i hear them,
It's black and white don't try to hide,
It's black and white don't try to hide...
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gimme that moon to play with
`Gimme that moon to play with, Ma! Gimme those stars!
Gimme those clusters and stuff them all in my pocket!’
He flushes, he cries, he stares at the moon
Jasoda wipes his tears, ‘Don’t be so crazy, Kanha!
The moon is far up in the sky! There are kids in every house,
You alone don’t seem to have any sense!’
`Gimme that moon to play with, Ma! Gimme those stars!
Gimme those clusters and stuff them all in my pocket!’
Taking water in a bowl, she showed him the moon
And consoled Narsaiyya’s Lord!
`Gimme that moon to play with, Ma! Gimme those stars!
Gimme those clusters and stuff them all in my pocket!’
poem by Narsinh Mehta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mist
The mist moved across the field
swallowing up everything in its path.
A white blanket that hovered
inches above the ground.
It came in the cool of dawn
and vanished like a ghost
near the beginning of the day.
While it stayed, you could not see
anything within a foot of thee.
The mist that came like a sleeking ghost
was now gone after being hit
by the rays of the morning sun.
27 September 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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While I get a few coins from my pocket
Yesterday there were young black men
standing in underpants
at the Apies river
and they were busy
washing their clothes
in the dark brown water
In one of the remote corners
of Sunnyside
a big cardboard box stands
at a shop’s entrance
on the sidewalk
and I see an old white man and woman
crawling out of it one winter morning
and they have got a half white bread
that they share with a white and black fox terrier.
At shoprite in Voortrekker street
a young black man
tries to sell fake perfume
and wants to know nothing
about removing his head
from the car’s window.
I place his goods
next to my car’s door
and tell my darling
to close her window
while he walks round the car
to get him out of the car.
At a pick-a-pay
there’s a small white woman
that’s a car guard
and always helps politely
to get the bags into the boot.
Then I realised
that if you just look around
there are countless people,
that life bites into pieces
and I wonder where
everything in this country is going?
While I get a few coins from my pocket
out of my pocket,
I feel guilty
to live like a king
and to see
others struggle around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Be Young Again
Times goes slow when young
times flies when we get old
playing from morning till dusk
lot of musk and mud
forever to be young again
from skateboards, to bicycles, to palaying war
picking on girls, teasing them to the gills
fishing down the river, making pacts
how to be so young again
from tags to mag
racing cars, to earning scars
winning games, winning hearts
kissing girls and doing swirls of dance
to be so young again
remembering all the fun
now its time to tell the young ones
what it is to be so young
poem by Michael Peterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shades Of Grey
If you start here late no one will know what you did
No the streets are straight its the soul thats crooked
Ive been treated fine Ive been treated elegantly
But Im not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is east west is west
And bowery is screaming while delancey rests
Well Im south of the skating but Im north of the cash
I could sure use the money but Im ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last nights rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
Theres at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all to prove I was there
And I love the curses but Im not one for the trenches
And I do love the walking but thank God for the benches
Its hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second had is working but the minute hand is broke again
I know time will pass but I dont know when
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here but where I cant tell
Theres dreams here a plenty but theyre being withheld
And Im more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock thats broken
The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures
And trash is art and cash is culture
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Violet Pressed in a Copy of Shakespeare
Here in the inmost of the master's heart
This violet crisp with early dew
Has come to leave her beauty and to part
With all her vivid hue.
And while in hollow glades and dells of musk,
Her fellows will reflower in bands,
Clasping the deeps of shade and emerald dusk,
With sweet inviolate hands,
She will lie here, a ghost of their delight,
Their lucent stems all ashen gray,
Their purples fallen into pulvil white,
Dull as the bluebird's alula.
But her where human passions pulse in power,
She will transcend our Shakespeare's art,
From Desdemona to a smothered flower,
Will leap the tragic heart.
And memory will recall in keener mood
The precinct fair where passion grew,
The stars within the water in the wood,
The moonlit grove, the odorous dew.
The voice that throbbed along the summer dark
Will float and pause and thrill,
In lonely cadence silvern as the lark,
To fail below the hill.
The reader will grow weary of the play,
Finding his hearts half understood,
And with the young moon in the early dusk will stray
Beside the starry water in the wood.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crubside Prophet
im just a curbside prophet
with my hand in my pocket
and im waiting for my rocket to come
im just a curbside prophet
with my hand in my pocket
and im waiting for my rocket
ysee it started way back in nyc
when i stole my first rhyme from the m.i.c.
at a west end avenue at 63
the beginning of a leap year, february, 96
with a guitar picked up in the mix
i committed to the licks like a nickel back of tricks
well look at me now
look at me now
look at me now, now, now, now
i'm just a curbside prophet
with my hand in my pocket
and i'm waiting for my rocket to come
i'm just a curbside prophet
with my hand in my pocket
and i'm waiting for my rocket
well youre never gonna guess
where ive been been been
and i have no regrets
that i bet my whole checking account
because it all amounts to nothing up in the end
well you can only count on the road again
well soon be on the radio dial
and i been payin close attention to the willie nelson style
like a band of gypsies on the highway while
im one man pushin on the california skyline drive
up the coast mc brag the most
i m pickin up my pace and makin time like space ghost
raising a toast to the highway patrol and to most
but my cruise control's on coast
cause im touring around the nation
on extended vacation
see i got Elsa the dog who exceeds my limitation
i say,
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vapor Train Reflected in the Frog Pond
The old watch: their
thick eyes
puff and foreclose by the moon.The young, heads
trailed by the beginnings of necks,
shiver,
in the guarantee they shall be bodies.
In the frog pond
the vapor trail of a SAC bomber creeps,
I hear its drone, drifting, high up
in immaculate ozone.
poem by Galway Kinnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Meet the hunter.
Meet the hunter.
Oh, the day past and the sun disappear,
Night come and is time to put on the mask,
Hunger and ready to go hunting,
Hungry for meats and sausages,
Any catch both would be nice,
Boys and girls make the best to impress.
Holy showing legs and chest;
In this tiger den, with all hungry meats eater!
Hunting for a big fatty meat!
Who know the hunter will be hunts?
Let see who play the game smarter?
Dress in suit and tie, who know empty pocket or full?
Stand up front, the look can easily past everyone eyes.
If lucky you got a free drink, mostly you digs on your own pocket,
Be real stranger to stranger, buy you drinks?
In this western den, buy your own sweetie.
You think, you wise, really a fool!
Everyone out smart one another,
and nobody is a fool.
poem by See Fee Lee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bad Brakes
Bad brakes whole car shakes
Looks like Im heading for a breakdown
Black smoke engine beginning to choke
I must be heading for a breakdown
I pulled up for a mouth of coca-cola
Down at samuels cafe
Saw a little spanish lady coming over
Said lady are you going my way she said o-lay
Bad brakes carburettor shakes
Looks like youre heading for a breakdown
Black smoke engine beginning to choke
We must be heading for a breakdown
We hit the road at 90 miles an hour
Heading for frisco bay
She said senor you got cop on your shoulder
I said oh now wed better not stay
We got to get away with our
Bad brakes carburettor shakes
Looks like were heading for a breakdown
He was catching up nose right inside our mirror
When the motor blowed
We climbed out and she began to shiver
Oh no sir please let us go
He said dont you know you got
Bad brakes carburettor shakes
Looks like you bought yourself a breakdown
Black smoke engine beginning to choke
And youve got yourself a breakdown
Bad brakes engine beginning to shake
Looks like weve got ourselves a breakdown
Black smoke engine beginning to choke
We got ourselves a breakdown
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I can't see the moon
the thin fibers that hold me together strain against the tautness
the weight becomes unbearable
and I can't see the moon
following the sting, and clouded by haze of my own making, I seek it
that feeling of discovery, of self worth
and I can't see the moon
wisps of smoke shelter me through the torrents
lost in agony, inconsolable
and I can't see the moon
darkness crowds the dark thoughts
suddenly you are out of reach
and I can't see the moon
life is just an illusion darling
but I'll believe you if you tell me it isn't so
yet I still can't see the moon
I lost my trust, but never should have
I am not the one you feel
and I can't see the moon
I thought I found you, but you weren't there at all
somehow you forget I am next to you. your beauty obscures
and I still can't see the moon
all the anger I have felt slips through my fingertips
live while you can
because I can't see the moon
paradise awaits on the other corner of life, knowing
if you love a lot you'll find strength to sing alone
and perhaps you will see the moon
there are a thousand things I want to say
but I can only think of one.
yet I still can't see the moon.
poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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