We lived within two hundred yards of the sea, and its voice was in our ears night and day.
quote by Edward Carpenter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Keep five yards from a carriage, ten yards from a horse, and a hundred yards from an elephant; but the distance one should keep from a wicked man cannot be measured.
Buried in the Sunset
Sun is crawling down
I wait for you
Two yards under
I was buried in the sunset
Im still alive here
Still waiting for you
Two yards under
I was buried in the sunset
Days are passing by
Its getting hard to breathe
Two yards under
I was buried in the sunset
I faked my death
since i felt a threat
Two yards under
I was buried in the sunset
Now real death is drawing near
as the sun breaks the new dawn
but Im no longer waiting for you
I sacrificed,
Two yards under
I buried myself in the sunset
- FaraM Siddiqui
poem by FaraM Siddiqui
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The Watcher on the Tower
I
The Voice of a Man
WHAT of the Night, O Watcher?
The Voice of a Woman
Yea, what of it?
The Watcher
A star has risen; and a wind blows strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
But God is there above it.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
II
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Night of sorrow!
The Watcher
Out of the East there comes a sound, like song.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
Have courage! There’s To-morrow!
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
III
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Is it other?
The Watcher
I see a gleam; a thorn of light; a thong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
The Morning comes, my Brother.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
IV
Voice of the Man
What now, what now, O Watcher?
The Watcher
Red as slaughter
The Darkness dies. The Light comes swift and strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night was long.—What sayest thou, my Daughter?
Voice of the Woman
The Night was dark; the Night was dark and long.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Even a tower a hundred yards tall has still its foundations on the ground.
Today! !
Today the sun was shine less
Today the moon was mood less
Today the birds were wing less
Today as the sun rose, they told me
Today as I woke
They told me
Last night I’ve lost my voice they echoed me
Today the mountains are height less
Today the clock was time less
Today the sky was wind less
Today my hands were workless
Today as the sun boiled, they told me
Today as I spoiled
They told me
Last morning I’ve lost my hands they assured me
Today the world was sightless
Today the room was lightless
Today the voices were figureless
Today my eyes were imageless
Today as the night dived, they told me
Today as I defined
They told me
Last afternoon I’ve lost my eyes they cursed me
Today the era was soundless
Today the room was noise less
Today the things were strike less
Today my ears were voice less
Today as the dawn fell, they told me
Today as I felt
They told me
Last evening I’ve lost my ears they pitted me
Last night I was voiceless
Last night I was hand less
Last night I was eyes less
Last night I was ears less
And now today I feel
That they’ll tell me
That I’ve lost, they’ll yell me
Lost a heartbeat
And now is grave less
Left in open far godless
Unmentioned they say expressionless.
poem by Nishtha Dutta
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Chicago's buoy was a couple of hundred yards astern of Arizona, and I was saddened to look at her.
quote by Jack Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Hundred Thousand Marching
One hundred thousand marching
One hundred thousand men
One hundred thousand heading
To a place and a time when
One hundred thousand dying
One hundred thousand cold
One hundred thousand praying
Forever young and never old
One hundred thousand lives were lost
One hundred thousand felt the pain
One hundred thousand maimed and slaughtered
And yet those armies march again.
poem by David Keig
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Nightingale of Eyelashes and Dreams
Dulcet voiced chanteuse,
song birds burn and flutter from within you,
your voice soars and shines,
dispersing over the night
like a flock of phosphorescent plumes.
Sing me your melancholy melodies and
mellifluous carols of unbridled revelry,
drown me in those salty waves of your yours,
flood the void left in the stilly suburban night
with your misty eyed nocturne.
Cut my ears with your sweet accompaniment of
silver shard piano keys.
Haunt my every thought with the harp string's
wounded maudlin echoing.
I keep your torch song burning
in a tinder box beneath my pillow,
at times I suffer high fevers,
and have succumb to many
a sleepless night.
However, I do not mind:
You are my Nightingale,
nurse of my eyelashes and dreams.
For your bedside remedies,
I've become a fiend,
when your voice is clean, healthy,
sterile of woe,
it possesses pure curative qualities:
sing to me just one of your songs each night,
and I shall live, youthful and vigorous,
for a hundred more years to come.
For every kiss, each morning,
would add another year upon that.
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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No Voice
There are times when we feel
we have no voice
we are suffocated by circumstances.
Our voice is lost in the void;
we wander with eyes open
and no mouth for things to say.
Those around us are oblivious
that our presence is near.
We are invisible
with only our ears to hear.
We have no voice to shout our protests clear,
no voice to vent our anger at what we can hear.
Our voice is silenced by circumstances
some of which we do not understand.
We have no voice today or tomorrow,
and even if we had a voice
would it be heard?
Would our words fall
on vacant and deaf ears?
The question remain unanswered
for around us silence reins.
Silent as our protests
and frustration is all we gain.
One day our gag maybe lifted,
but will it be too late.
There maybe no one around us
and our anger will be lost,
lost in the silence when no one is there.
We can only hope that one day
when the silence clears
our voice among the millions
will finally be heard.
15 September 2009
poem by David Harris
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Nineteen
This is my voice,
Sad, prolonged, fever pitched,
With some intermittent turbulence
In between a concentrated discourse
But
Still in a slow, smooth, sailing like
A canoe on a very clear silent running river
And
Some rapids, and rocks somewhere, may distort,
This voice
Of mine,
Or
At the edge for which a waterfall rages,
This
Voice
Of
Mine,
May sound like a violent fall of a hundred heavy waters,
Not a drip, but a hundred heavy, heavy falling waters,
As though the whole word is falling down
On your
Shoulder,
This is my voice, sad, on a prolonged agony,
But somehow, when tickled may move into
A mystery, not discounting the possibility of
An ecstasy,
A fantasy,
And you, my love, my beautiful reader, may hear this voice
Speaking to you in a hush of silence,
This is my voice; hear it for what it is, that is all that I ask of you,
I am myself speaking. I am real, this voice of mine.
Listen to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I will be speaking to you in my own voice
This is my voice,
Sad, prolonged, fever pitched,
With some intermittent turbulence
In between a concentrated discourse
But
Still in a slow, smooth, sailing like
A canoe on a very clear silent running river
And
Some rapids, and rocks somewhere, may distort,
This voice
Of mine,
Or
At the edge for which a waterfall rages,
This
Voice
Of
Mine,
May sound like a violent fall of a hundred heavy waters,
Not a drip, but a hundred heavy, heavy falling waters,
As though the whole word is falling down
On your
Shoulder,
This is my voice, sad, on a prolonged agony,
But somehow, when tickled may move into
A mystery, not discounting the possibility of
An ecstasy,
A fantasy,
And you, my love, my beautiful reader, may hear this voice
Speaking to you in a hush of silence,
This is my voice; hear it for what it is, that is all that I ask of you,
I am myself speaking. I am real, this voice of mine.
Listen to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is My Voice
This is my voice,
Sad, prolonged, fever pitched,
With some intermittent turbulence
In between a concentrated discourse
But
Still in a slow, smooth, sailing like
A canoe on a very clear silent running river
And
Some rapids, and rocks somewhere, may distort,
This voice
Of mine,
Or
At the edge for which a waterfall rages,
This
Voice
Of
Mine,
May sound like a violent fall of a hundred heavy waters,
Not a drip, but a hundred heavy, heavy falling waters,
As though the whole word is falling down
On your
Shoulder,
This is my voice, sad, on a prolonged agony,
But somehow, when tickled may move into
A mystery, not discounting the possibility of
An ecstasy,
A fantasy,
And you, my love, my beautiful reader, may hear this voice
Speaking to you in a hush of silence,
This is my voice; hear it for what it is, that is all that I ask of you,
I am myself speaking. I am real, this voice of mine.
Listen to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ninety-nine And A Half
I got to have all your love, night and day.
Not just a little part, but all of your heart, sugar.
Chorus:
Ninety-nine and a half just won't do.
Oh, no, no, just won't get it.
Don' t be led in the wrong direction.
To start this thing off right, a man need a little love and affection,
Yes he do, now.
Chorus
All right. lookie here,
We got to bring it all down, start gettin' it right.
We got to stop this messin' around, and keep the thing up tight,
Yes we do, now.
Chorus
All right, sugar.
Got to have a hundred,
Got to have a hundred.
All right.
Ooh, i must do, i must do,
I must do now.
Oh! got to have a hundred!
Got to have a hundred!
Oh! got to have a hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hundred, too right.
Got to have a hundred, now. oh!
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunrise
Ive been waiting to hear your voice for too long now
One way conversations do not work somehow
Tell me how does one get your soul in touch with the one above
When one way conversations pay a price for the use of love
I tried so hard last night you would not talk to me
I live with the fear of the few with the gift
And I know whats going to be
Why did you never speak my name in front of my family
You gave a gift that you then took away
Like you never did before
Your name might be God but you dont say that much to me
Your name might be God but you dont say that much to me
We might be your black sheep
But you forgot us a long time ago
We might be your lost sheep
But its time you remembered us now
As we spend our days together, nothing can go wrong
No one told the truth about it because it was so strong
If you ever think of me, if you hear my name
If you read between the lines, youll hang your head in shame
These ? ? ? ears will never hear, the ice will never freeze
Whatever I have done for you I did because you complained
( whatever you may think of me whatever you may say
Ive lived my whole life in danger,
Youve lived your life in hate )*
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode To My Father
Your voice
Like bell tones
Rung unforgotten
Melodies in my ears.
Your life:
A text book for the ages.
On this side
Of eternity
Without a complaint,
You lived
Outside the pages.
When you are called
This heart
Will pound with praises.
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Ninety-nine & A Half
I got to have all your love, night and day.
Not just a little part, but all of your heart, sugar.
Chorus:
Ninety-nine and a half just wont do.
Oh, no, no, just wont get it.
Don t be led in the wrong direction.
To start this thing off right, a man need a little love and affection,
Yes he do, now.
Chorus
All right. lookie here,
We got to bring it all down, start gettin it right.
We got to stop this messin around, and keep the thing up tight,
Yes we do, now.
Chorus
All right, sugar.
Got to have a hundred,
Got to have a hundred.
All right.
Ooh, I must do, I must do,
I must do now.
Oh! got to have a hundred!
Got to have a hundred!
Oh! got to have a hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hundred, too right.
Got to have a hundred, now. oh!
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Hundred Times Over
A hundred times over words have flowed through my fingers to the keys
A hundred times over I have released the freedom that is in my mind,
A hundred times over I have become one with my inter most longing,
A hundred times over I have taken a journey to show you my own world.
A hundred times over I have written of pain and life, of sorrow and joy,
A hundred times over I have used my art to show you what's in my mind
A hundred times over again I will show you.
A hundred times over I have cried for those, whose names are untold,
A hundred times over I have showed you their pain.
A hundred times over I have become their connection to you,
A hundred times over I have showed you the beauty of our world,
A hundred times over I have taken you somewhere you may never see,
A hundred times over my words have screamed the horror of darkness,
A hundred times over I have sung to you the beauty of light,
A hundred times over I have taken your hand to lead you to a new place
A hundred time over I have written for those who have no words to write
A hundred times over I have tried to show truth in a world of lies,
A hundred times over I have have tried to show the world's beauty,
A hundred times over again I will lead down these paths,
A hundred times over and over again I will show you reality,
A hundred times over and over again I shall show you my world,
A hundred times over and over again until you have memorised truth,
A hundred times over again until you can repeat what I have told,
A hundred times over again shall I create an art of words, time, of life.
A hundred times over again I shall do this,
A hundred times over again.
A hundred times over.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Crysis!
I perceive the sound
it filters into my ear
the voice is too familiar
the unmistakable pitch
its the woman's voice
i swear i have lived this moment
too many a times.
each time it makes me sad
every i wish i could help
every i shed i tear,
the woman's voice so tender
thus the shrill cuts in
the silence of the dark
many hear her
beg for mercy-for help
help-which i was not of
if only a four year old could help
the woman from her beast husband
always pawing her
night to the other
if only i could help-the woman
out of her crysis
poem by Pen anthony
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One Hundred Ripples
One hundred ripples I mark today
One hundred steps along my way
One hundred steps lead to the pond
One hundred trees there do surround
One hundred birds nesting among the trees
One hundred bees filling the air with these
One hundred bees buzzing about in the air
One hundred flowers are pollinating there
One hundred flowers provide the aromas sweet
For one hundred bouquets given to lovers as treat
One hundred lovers walk the winding pathway
One hundred times to find romance there each day
One hundred times they will reach to explore
One hundred pebbles found along the pond shore
One hundred pebbles carry wishes through the air
One hundred ripples on surface creating there
One hundred ripples then spreading out will begin
One hundred waves soon lapping at the shore again
One hundred waves providing the means for
One hundred more pebbles to reach the shore
One hundred pebbles scatter along the pathway
One hundred steps retraced at the end of the day
One hundred small steps... this latest poem was conceived to denote
One hundred little ripples... spreading from 100 poems I wrote
poem by Mary Havran
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The word ""good"" has many meanings. For example, if a man were to shoot his grandmother at a range of five hundred yards, I should call him a good shot, but not necessarily a good man.
quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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