Turning Pages
Naiveté in younger years
And meager sense between my ears
What interested me the most
Were comic strips within the Post.
“Deep in Bengalla
Woods within the famed Skull Cave
The masked Phantom waits...”
Throughout advancing teenage years
My interest turned to social spheres
Again the Post is what I read
To see the people who were wed.
“Maryann Fulmer
And Nolan Zane Fullerton
Were married March 3rd….”
Turning the pages to sixty
I sport a silver-white goatee.
I still read the Post but only
Familiar obituaries.
“Nolan Fullerton
Of Whitehall, Pennsylvania
Passed away Monday…”
I keep turning the pages daily
Until the death bell tolls for me.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Related quotes
To the Reader
As you read, a white bear leisurely
pees, dyeing the snow
saffron,
and as you read, many gods
lie among lianas: eyes of obsidian
are watching the generations of leaves,
and as you read
the sea is turning its dark pages,
turning
its dark pages.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Do Not Post Your Poem Here
Do not post your poem here
Unless you've something worth a say!
You must not waste a space like this,
For space can waste away!
Do not post your poem here
With words which make no sense!
Be careful when you post it here
That you use the proper tense!
Do not post your poem here
Just to fill a space with words!
A poem should be well thought out,
Was it meant to be absurd?
Do not post your poem here
If in cliches you would write.
A poem should be fresh, yes sharp -
You'll know when it's just right!
Do not post your poem here
Just to see yourself in print.
You're wasting others time you know
With such, self centred stints!
I wil not post my poem here,
This one does not exist,
But did I tell you at the start
That I'm a nihilist?
poem by Joe Hughes
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October the Post Office Cat
Some thought she was a stray
That had come for scraps along the way
That might be left from the lunch
Of the post office staff; a kindly bunch.
But others knew her for what she was,
October the Post Office Cat.
She had a duty like any employee
To be on time and serve the public daily
And as any other as all know,
Had an official position just so.
October the Post Office Cat.
As soon as the walks were swept
And the doors were opened for the daily visits,
She found her space upon the walk
A bit removed so that none would balk
As they came to do their task or mail whatever.
October the Post Office Cat.
She often times was given the duty
Of minding some child whose custodian
Had business to attend
In dealing with the letters or packages within,
So she laid there carefully in the sun
Till end of day when her work was done.
October the Post Office Cat.
She was known by all who came along that way
Parking carefully throughout the day
Making sure that she was not disturbed
As she, her duties did perform.
Watching and listening to the sounds of pleasure
That only can be bestowed on one to treasure.
Yet adults knew not how to measure.
October the Post Office Cat.
On the post across the way
A yellow sign was placed on display
By the lady who ran the insurance office
Who wanted to be sure that others notice
That this was the path taken each day
As the cat came to begin her official stay.
October the Post Office Cat.
There came a time when she did not appear
And it was certainly a time to fear
That something had befallen this special one
Who worked so hard to please everyone
And the sign was removed so that all would know
That she wouldn't be there anymore.
October the Post Office Cat.
Then mysteriously the sign reappeared
On the post for all to read
Which proclaimed that this was the crossing
Reserved for the cat that all were missing.
And it's said that she comes each day
Although never seen by adults on their way
But the children know that she is there.
October the Post Office Cat.
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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The Barricades Of Heaven
Running down around the towns along the shore
When I was sixteen and on my own
No, I couldnt tell you what the hell those brakes were for
I was just trying to hear my song
Jimmy found his own sweet sound and won that free guitar
Wed all get in the van and play
Life became the paradox, the bear, the rouge et noir
And the stretch of road running to l.a.
Pages turning
Pages we were years from learning
Straight into the night our hearts were flung
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of heaven where Im from
All the world was shining from those hills
The stars above and the lights below
Among those there to test their fortunes and their wills
I lost track of the score long ago
Pages turning
Pages we were years from learning
Straight into the night our hearts were flung
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of heaven where Im from
Childhood comes for me at night
Voices of my friends
Your face bathing me in light
Hope that never ends
Pages turning
Pages torn and pages burning
Faded pages, open in the sun
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of heaven where Im from.
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of heaven where Im from.
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wing Pages Of The Butterfly
at the nursery
while people
are at purchase
and at transactions
a blue butterfly
comes by
and opens its pages to me
swift and quick
and it says to me:
'Read! Read!
Read my pages! '
'I can’t read, '
I say,
amused
at this brash butterfly
'Read and write!
Read and write
about me,
and all flitting butterflies
Read
and write, you silly! '
it commands
And so I read
and I copy
and these are the words
the words from those
pages
the butterfly
holds up to me
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Idealism that makes no distinction between areas where our national interest lies and those from which it is remote does no good for America. The weariness of the post-Versailles, post-Korea, post-Vietnam eras is never far from the national mood.
quote by Dick Morris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whipping Post
I been run down, I been lied to,
I dont know why I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecked my new car.
Now shes with one of my goodtime buddies,
Theyre drinkin in some crosstown bar.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
My friends tell me, that Ive been such a fool,
And I have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and I look at what youve down.
But nothin seems to change, the bad times stay the same,
And I cant run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
Transcribed by rich kulawiec, [email protected]
song performed by by Allman Brothers Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Whipping Post
I been run down, i been lied to,
I don't know why i let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecked my new car.
Now she's with one of my goodtime buddies,
They're drinkin' in some crosstown bar.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
My friends tell me, that i've been such a fool,
And i have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and i look at what you've down.
But nothin' seems to change, the bad times stay the same,
And i can't run.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
Transcribed by rich kulawiec, [email protected]
song performed by by Allman Brothers Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For Years I Thought Each Word And Sentence- Sacred
For years I thought each word and sentence - sacred
If I had written it down it must be saved-
Now the piles of pages lie mostly unread
They will never be seen by anyone
Most of what I have done will be
Time passed and unremembered-
Will I be able to save some small part of this
Select the best of it?
A small part has been published
And now I post more –
Will any of it be cared for?
Is another question-
Most of what I have done
Writing that is passing time
Forever to be unknown much less remembered-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Work of Many Years
The work of many years
Lies in piles
Hidden from my care-
Years of effort
On pages most likely
Never to be read-
I don’t have the courage
To confront it
And try to save it all-
How much hope and effort did I give to those pages
No one will ever know?
How much of my life has simply been wasted
And will be thrown out in an hour as if it never were?
For years now I have been running away
From work done years before -
This poem too is a small escape
That will not save a single page
Of all I have done before.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Like a Kitten Left By The Road
Each time I first post
a newly written poem
I feel deep regret
that I’ve done it in haste
As if I’ve dropped off
An unwanted kitten
On a lonely country road
To fend for it’s self
Through a strange alien world
I’ve never truly dropped off a kitten
But if I ever did, I’m sure
After sixty seconds I’d be
Turning around and driving like an idiot
With a tear on my cheek, yelling
“ I’m comin’ to get you lil' kitty. I’m so sorry! ”
Well, that’s the way I am with my poems
Thirty seconds after I post them
I feel so sorry for them
Somewhere out there in hyperspace
All alone…so pitiful
Even the one’s that
I don’t like much myself!
Maybe all the other poems
Welcome it to the web
I sure hope so!
I really do worry about the little guys
One minute nestled in my warm little brain
And the next kicked out in the cold
Well Hell! Godspeed little poems and odes
And like God, I’m goin’ to look in you
From time to time
to make sure you’re doing OK
And If you’re not, then I’ll delet you
And bring you back home
Am I the only whackjob that feels this way?
Nah! I don’t think so.
poem by David Whalen
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Bloggers Blog Post On Postmortem Pages
dreamers ever lost
with their heads
hidden in expansive
white woven clouds
walking rainbows
vision mists tears
obscure heart beats
feeling pain sorrow
price dream freedom paid
blog post desires freedom laid
political deceit party squreach
impedes freedom loving speech
bloggers log civil rights abuses
wave upon wave of fact web pages
show strung beatings tortures corpses
bloggers blog post on postmortem pages
of freedom torture death discourse rages
reveal to silent world lives Mubarak steals
even Mubarak heinous freedom stealing rat
is powerless to suppress global internet beat
fear not Hosni shalt not escape his indictment sin fine
cometh judgement day hell cast in flames he will dine
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Post-Modern Poetry
The post-modern poem is the poet's surprise-
It has no agenda but its own interpretation-
It reads the ‘expressive I' as an infinite longing of the soul
To know and be known-
It writes out of many different places
But finds it difficult to call one its home-
It has many names and voices
But none speaks with an authoritative rhythm -
It is only its own alone home
And so I writing it know
It will not be found in me by those who write it as their own-
Chaos, perhaps, is its signature,
And loss of all the ancient rhythms and forms-
It wants to wander where it will as it does -
But I, I thinking back to what we were
And remembering years of reading others
Know too its voices are many even within the single self-
There is no ‘modern' anymore and no ‘post- modern' either
In the age where everything is accessible
And all is easily found and communicated
The single soul's signature cannot mean a name is real -
Only where all effort is and fails
Only where nobody really is
Only where many write and no one can really read
Perhaps beyond this
Beyond post- modern poetry
This poem too will teach Poetry how to live.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Words of an open book
Its been long enough
over the years my spine has grown tough
pages fading wishing they would go away
wishing i would be closed for just a day
i am tired of being so open with my feelings for all
anyone able to read me...or cause me to fall
its ridiculous can't you see?
being this open is killing me
i no longer want to be seen by every passer-by
i don't want everyone to read my
life after just one glance
can I read nothing more?
why am i so open?
but now everyone knows
everyone should not know everything about me i protest!
but its no use
there is no trick, nothing no abuse
that can take this way no way to close myself
I remain open to the world
as they tear out my pages and break all i have left
...my spine
poem by David Knox
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10/31/2007 Command Post Controller
I work in the command post,
You wouldn’t know there everywhere from coast to coast.
We work while everyone else is wake and sleeping,
We do things that help our nations safe keeping.
No one understands the command post because,
No one fully grasps what the command post does.
Know this though,
Controllers are at work even in the snow.
Holidays we are still here,
24-7 every day of the year.
I work in the command post,
Family I miss the most.
But I don’t gripe nor complain,
I’m proud to serve I have no shame.
Next time your working your nine to five,
Remember controllers actions help keep you alive.
When you lay your head down and asleep you drift,
Remember a command post controller is still on shift.
poem by Coreena Dejesus
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Introduction To Post-conceptual Poetics(3)
conceptual poetry is not like poetry but post-conceptual poetry is more like a poem of immortal death-death reflecting the happening of death.At the same time death or concept or conceptual metaphor becomes a butterfly flying into the textual eyes of the reader, reflecting and analysing the post -death death, poetics of life which can only be grasped by changing levels of realizing energy of focus on the combination of truth-condition and satisfaction-condition.This is the ghosted identity of post-conceptual poetics in the 21st century digital-culture raising hunanity in a surversive way.
Introduction To Post-conceptual Poetics(2)
conceptual poetry is not like poetry but post-conceptual poetry is more like a poem of immortal death-death reflecting the happening of death.At the same time death or concept or conceptual metaphor becomes a butterfly flying into the textual eyes of the reader, reflecting and analysing the post -death death, poetics of life which can only be grasped by changing levels of realizing energy of focus on the combination of truth-condition and satisfaction-condition.This is the ghosted identity of post-conceptual poetics in the 21st century digital-culture raising hunanity in a surversive way.
The Sign-Post
The dim sea glints chill. The white sun is shy,
And the skeleton weeds and the never-dry,
Rough, long grasses keep white with frost
At the hill-top by the finger-post;
The smoke of the traveller's-joy is puffed
Over hawthorn berry and hazel tuft.
I read the sign. Which way shall I go?
A voice says: "You would not have doubted so
At twenty." Another voice gentle with scorn
Says: "At twenty you wished you had never been born."
One hazel lost a leaf of gold
From a tuft at the tip, when the first voice told
The other he wished to know what 'twould be
To be sixty by this same post. "You shall see,"
He laughed -and I had to join his laughter -
"You shall see; but either before or after,
Whatever happens, it must befall.
A mouthful of earth to remedy all
Regrets and wishes shall be freely given;
And if there be a flaw in that heaven
'Twill be freedom to wish, and your wish may be
To be here or anywhere talking to me,
No matter what the weather, on earth,
At any age between death and birth, -
To see what day or night can be,
The sun and the frost, tha land and the sea,
Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring, -
With a poor man of any sort, down to a king,
Standing upright out in the air
Wondering where he shall journey, O where?"
poem by Edward Thomas
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My sense is that, when you look at what people such as former Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein have said over the years, you don't go with a story unless you have two independent sources to confirm it.
A concert for the mushroom
A concert for the mushroom
Post modern
Pre mortal
Ab normal
Sur real
This is the whirl of time
This is the voice of smoke
This is the spiral of crime
This is the dead end choke
Sir, it’s real!
Madam, they kill!
Simulae posed
Post mortem masked
Modernly slaughtered
Pre meditated
Dust dedicated
Inter located
Exter okayted
Imp- exp- pumps
Imp- exp- pumps
Pumps the heart of earth
Sir, it’s real!
Madam, they kill!
Post
Split
Atomic
Human
Destr uctively
Anatomic
Conductors
Rage their war
Of sticks
Sir, it’s real!
Madam, they kill!
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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