To Aunt Rose
Aunt Rose—now—might I see you
with your thin face and buck tooth smile and pain
of rheumatism—and a long black heavy shoe
for your bony left leg
limping down the long hall in Newark on the running carpet
past the black grand piano
in the day room
where the parties were
and I sang Spanish loyalist songs
in a high squeaky voice
(hysterical) the committee listening
while you limped around the room
collected the money—
Aunt Honey, Uncle Sam, a stranger with a cloth arm
in his pocket
and huge young bald head
of Abraham Lincoln Brigade
—your long sad face
your tears of sexual frustration
(what smothered sobs and bony hips
under the pillows of Osborne Terrace)
—the time I stood on the toilet seat naked
and you powdered my thighs with calamine
against the poison ivy—my tender
and shamed first black curled hairs
what were you thinking in secret heart then
knowing me a man already—
and I an ignorant girl of family silence on the thin pedestal
of my legs in the bathroom—Museum of Newark.
Aunt Rose
Hitler is dead, Hitler is in Eternity; Hitler is with
Tamburlane and Emily Brontë
Though I see you walking still, a ghost on Osborne Terrace
down the long dark hall to the front door
limping a little with a pinched smile
in what must have been a silken
flower dress
welcoming my father, the Poet, on his visit to Newark
—see you arriving in the living room
dancing on your crippled leg
and clapping hands his book
had been accepted by Liveright
Hitler is dead and Liveright’s gone out of business
The Attic of the Past and Everlasting Minute are out of print
Uncle Harry sold his last silk stocking
Claire quit interpretive dancing school
Buba sits a wrinkled monument in Old
Ladies Home blinking at new babies
last time I saw you was the hospital
pale skull protruding under ashen skin
blue veined unconscious girl
in an oxygen tent
the war in Spain has ended long ago
Aunt Rose
poem by Allen Ginsberg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Four Women
Nina simone
My skin is black
My arms are long
My hair is wooly
My back is strong
Strong enough to take the pain
Its been inflicted again and again
What do they call me
My name is aunt sarah
My name is aunt sarah
My skin is yellow
My hair is long
Between two worlds
I do belong
My father was rich and white
He forced my mother late one night
What do they call me
My name is siffronia
My name is siffronia
My skin is tan
My hairs alright, its fine
My hips invite you
And my lips are like wine
Whose little girl am i?
Well yours if you have some money to buy
What do they call me
My name is sweet thing
My name is sweet thing
My skin is brown
And my manner is tough
Ill kill the first mother I see
Cos my life has been too rough
Im awfully bitter these days
Because my parents were slaves
What do they call me
My
Name
Is
Peaches
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aunt Tabitha
THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM
WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,--
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,--
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay--
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the men were so wicked, I 'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha 'll tell me she never did so.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Four Woman
My skin is black
My arms are long
My hair is woolly
My back is strong
Strong enough to take the pain
inflicted again and again
What do they call me
My name is AUNT SARAH
My name is Aunt Sarah
My skin is yellow
My hair is long
Between two worlds
I do belong
My father was rich and white
He forced my mother late one night
What do they call me
My name is SAFFRONIA
My name is Saffronia
My skin is tan
My hair is fine
My hips invite you
my mouth like wine
Whose little girl am I?
Anyone who has money to buy
What do they call me
My name is SWEET THING
My name is Sweet Thing
My skin is brown
my manner is tough
I'll kill the first mother I see
my life has been too rough
I'm awfully bitter these days
because my parents were slaves
What do they call me
My name is PEACHES
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Floyd The Barber (KAOS-FM Radio Apr 87)
Bell On Door Ring (Clang), Come On In
Floyd observes my hairy chin
Sit down in the chair don't be afraid
Steaming hot towel on my face
I was shaved
I was shamed
I was shaved
Barney ties me to the chair
I can't see I'm really scared
Floyd breathes hard, I hear a zip
Pee-Pee pressed against my lips
I was shaved
I was shamed
I was shaved
I sense others in the room
Opie, Aunt Bea I presume
They take turns and cut me up
I die smothered in Aunt Bee's muff...
I was shamed
I was shamed
I was shaved
song performed by by Nirvana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heads Were Dancing
You talked me into the game of chance.
It was 39, before the music started,
When you walked up to me and you said,
Hey, heads we dance.
Well, I didnt know who you were
Until I saw the morning paper:
There was a picture of you
A picture of you cross the front page.
It looked just like you, just like you in every way.
But it couldnt be true.
It couldnt be true.
You stepped out of a stranger.
They say that the devil is a charming man.
And just like you I bet he can dance.
And hes coming up behind in his long
Tailed black coat dance,
All tails in the air.
But the penny landed with its head dancing.
A picture of you, a picture of you in uniform,
Standing with your head held high,
Hot down to the floor.
But it couldnt be you.
It couldnt be you.
Its a picture of hitler.
He go do-do-do-do-do
He go do-do-do-do-do
He go do-do-do-do-do--
Do you want to dance?
Well, I couldnt see what was to be,
So I just stood there laughing.
A picture of you, a picture of you in uniform,
Standing with your head held high,
Hot down to the floor.
But it couldnt be you.
It couldnt be you.
Its a picture of hitler.
He go mmh-mmh-mmh-mmh-mmh
He go mmh-mmh-mmh-mmh-mmh
He go mmh-mmh-mmh-mmh-mmh--
Heads were dancing.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Reckoning
My mother was carried to heaven
On the day that I turned six,
She died of tuberculosis
Spitting blood in a coughing fit,
She'd been so ill for a long long time
That I couldn't recall her smile,
My father, he just grumbled, said:
'Your Ma will be gone for a while.'
'She's gone to sing in a choir up there,
Who knows how long she will be? '
But I saw the coffin that carried her out,
The hearse and the burial tree,
I watched as it sank down into the ground
And my father just left it there,
Went off to visit my 'aunt', he said,
A woman with long, blond hair.
I stayed at home, such a lonely child,
And went to a place in my head,
Where mother was fit and without a care
She laughed at the things I said,
My father left me alone a lot
So mother would tell me, 'Shush! '
We'd laugh and giggle when he went out
But talk in a sort of hush.
I played outside at other times
Where the grass grew long and wild,
I'd catch the skinks as they darted past,
I was always a curious child,
I'd bring the Sleepy Lizards home,
My father didn't mind,
He said I could keep the pets I caught,
I thought he was being kind.
But then one day he came on home
With this 'aunt', who moved right in,
He said they were married now, so I
Should call her 'Mum', not Jen.
I scowled, and went to my room to cry,
My mother was looking sad,
She said, 'just do what your father says,
I'm your Mother, but he's your Dad.'
This Jenny, she was all right at first
She tried to make me smile,
But I was feeling rebellious then,
And turned my back for a while,
I kept my rabbits and guinea pigs
And fed them out in their hutch,
But Jenny came out to look at them,
And she didn't like them much.
I knew, she wrinkled her powdered nose
And said, 'Oh pew! They stink!
We'll have to find you a hobby, one
That's pure and clean, I think.'
I heard her talking to father, say
That she thought I was rather slow,
She wanted the garden tidied up
So my animals had to go.
It was just about that time, I think
That my mother said goodbye,
She couldn't stay in that house, she said,
It was time for her to fly,
She left me alone in a great big world
So I brought a Lizard inside,
And put it under my bedclothes
Thought it a perfect place to hide.
When Jenny made the bed, she screamed
And shook me like a rag,
She went and got a kitchen knife
And a plastic shopping bag,
She made me put the Lizard in
Then she took the bag outside,
And stabbed and stabbed 'til the Lizard bled,
'Til my Lizard friend had died.
'Now bury it! ' she said to me,
'And don't you ever dare
Bring filthy animals into this house,
For if you do, I swear...'
At this she put the knife to my throat
And stood and watched me scream,
I saw the hate in her powdered face
It was like an awful dream!
Whenever my father left the house
She'd always scream and shout,
Knock me around for the slightest thing
Then drag me, throw me out,
Lock the door so I couldn't get in
And give me nothing to eat,
She said if I told my Dad on her
It would only get me beat.
She killed my rabbits, cooked them up
And served them from a pot,
She gave me a crooked, evil grin:
'You'd better eat the lot! '
I found myself in a black, black rage
Inside, at the things she'd done,
And hoped that my father would go on out
And buy himself a gun.
He never knew what she did to me,
I never would dare to say,
I knew that she'd get me on my own
And then there'd be hell to pay,
So I stayed outside in the barren fields
And found me a hessian sack,
Then went for a hunt with a long, forked stick,
It was time to get her back!
I waited until he'd gone away,
Was gone two days or more,
Then bit my tongue as she raved at me,
Spat hate from the kitchen door,
The morning came, and there wasn't a sound
To come from that angry head,
And I will never regret the day
I put a snake in her bed.
10 March 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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My, My, My Crazy Family
My mom and dad, russ, and chris.
My step mom and dads, eidy, richard, marty.
My brothers, micheal, bear and joe.
My sisters, big tiff, little tiff, black head lory, red head lory, kim, betty.
My by marriage brothers, duck, and rick.
My by marriage sisters, amanda, stacey, and tammy.
My gram mothers, mama, and nana,
My grandfathers, Pap(Had 4 brothers all 5 of them fought in world war2) , Papa(also fought in world war2) .
My uncles and aunts, uncle david, aunt cathy, aunt carol, aunt edna, ect.
My family is just so huge I can't list them all
Imagine the dating situation.
The pickings get pretty slim.
Especially when my blood line goes to place I don't even know.
But eh I guess that how every family goes.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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At My Aunt's Unveiling
AT MY AUNT’S UNVEILING
At my aunt’s unveiling
There were five of us
Only five
One was a woman
A friend of hers
Not the closest one
But someone who knew her
And wanted to be a friend.
Thousands of people had known my aunt
Hundreds had worked with or for her
She was born into a large family
But all of them were gone
Or out of it.
My sister and I were the relatives
My aunt had been very generous to us
And difficult for my sister
Who cared for her.
I had only been a taker all the years.
My aunt worked so hard for so many years
And she was ‘somebody’ in her world
There were five of us there
And the ceremony short
No minyan.
There was no sign of my aunt’s smile
Or her nervous energy or her superabundant love
‘Moll ‘as my mother called her
was not there.
I see her so clearly in my mind now
‘What does it all mean? ’ my father would ask my mother
after reading of the death of another person they knew
‘What does it all mean’
When my sister and I go
The memory of my aunt
Will be gone forever.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Old Aunt Mary's
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the 'Sunday's wood' in the kitchen too,
And we went visiting, 'me and you,'
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray--
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
We cross the pasture, and through the wood
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering 'red-heads' hopped awry,
And the buzzard 'raised' in the 'clearing' sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see--
And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince 'preserves'' she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom
Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--
Where the cream in a golden languor slept
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And O my brother, so far away,
This is to tell you she waits to-day
To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering-- 'Tell
The boys to come!' And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Black Rose
A black rose can stop the beat of ones heart…
A black rose brings the scent of death as it tears love apart…
A black rose makes nightmares reality…
A black rose fills my life with uncertainty…
A black rose is forgotten hopes and dreams…
A black rose is a broken girl laying in tears and painful screams…
A black rose is the pain of a shattered life…
A black rose is lost love in my hopeless life…
A black rose is the memories that haunt my restless soul…
A black rose took everything from me that once made me whole…
Including…you…
Truck Stop Runner
Stopped off on a long drive.
Down from the high country.
Spent a long time sitting here,
Long time counting hot miles.
Ohh, oh Id like a cup of black coffee and a piece of sweet cake.
But the girl in the print dress doesnt want my money--
She wont take it: she says--
Oh she says.
Oh she says I just know youre a leo,
I can tell youve got a lions heart.
She went on in this way for a while,
Like some 60s sister playing a part.
Ohh this cup of black coffee gonna do me just fine.
Through the dust in the mirror tiles I can see that door,
Keep it close behind.
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
Make a journey here sometime.
You know theres a party going on,
A ladder in my stocking you can climb,
Theres a ladder you can climb.
Oh she looked so liberated.
She was looking fit to start.
She got this back to front and sideways,
Wore her sleeve upon her heart.
Ohhh, oh, just one more coffees bout all I can take.
Have to do a truck stop runner now.
Im not man enough to make it,
She says.
She says.
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
Make a journey here sometime.
You know theres a party going on,
A ladder in my stocking you can climb,
Theres a ladder you can climb.
Stopped off on a long drive.
Down from the high country.
Spent a long time sitting here,
Long time counting hot miles.
Ohh, oh Id like a cup of black coffee and a piece of sweet cake.
But the girl in the print dress doesnt want my money--
She wont take it: she says--
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
Make a journey here sometime.
Kick off those tired sports shoes--
Got a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
Theres a ladder you can climb.
Truck stop runner.
Ill be a truck stop runner.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Aunt
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o’er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;
I know it hurts her,—Âthough she looks
As cheerful as she can;
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.
My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When through a double convex lens
She just makes out to spell?
Her father—Âgrandpapa I forgive
This erring lip its smiles—Â
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;
He sent her to a stylish school;
’T was in her thirteenth June;
And with her, as the rules required,
“Two towels and a spoon.â€
They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;
They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small;
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins;—Â
Oh never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.
So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track
“Ah!†said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
“What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!â€
Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,
Tore from the trembling father’s arms
His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been
And Heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Girl On Terrace
I see a girl,
Standing on terrace,
Face covered with long curls,
Staring in the empty space,
She’s watching the stars, or the clouds,
I don’t know,
But her pale face is glowing in moonlight,
Showing her mood is a bit low,
She’s trying to catch,
Someone in the empty air,
Realizes soon it was just a shadow,
And lies back on the empty chair,
Her face is again in her hands,
Seems like gaining some words or thoughts,
Just a second passed and I hear a sob,
It seemed she was in pain,
Something hurt her a lot,
She was continuously touching,
The chair beside her,
Slowly and affectionately,
Like she was touching a person,
Close to her,
Again she realized,
There was no one sitting there,
It was again a shadow,
And seemed like she was going to shatter….
Suddenly, I saw a smile,
Reflecting pain, on her face,
Maybe she remembered something good from her past,
Or just an incident case,
She flinched,
As she remembered something,
Her face was worse than I first saw,
Her silent sobs now louder,
Than any other creatures creeping,
It seemed she was living an empty life,
Full of darkness and shadows,
I don’t know what had happened to her,
Wonder if she was hurt by circumstances, friend or foe?
Suddenly, she stood up,
And was going back downstairs,
The rhythm of stick, made me realize she was blind,
Maybe that was the pain,
Beneath her beautiful pale layers,
But I soon realized,
Her pain was more than that,
Of course,
I wanted to ask about the person in her empty shadows,
The reason for her silent sobs,
But that young girl,
On the terrace,
Sometimes smiling, sometimes sobbing,
With her pain and empty shadows,
Was lost………….
poem by Apurva Jain
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humor ***** ART OF WAR
The book, the Art of War by Sun Zsu, had inspired a lot with my aunt especially when she came acrossed the highlighted points of the book,
' ferocious as the fire, silent as the forest, immovable as the mountain, fast as the wind.'
She implanted those thoughts on her son for his everyday real battle in life but it went in different direction:
Fire: her son became a hot-tempered fellow
Forest: he loved messy things and untidy
Mountain: yes immovable as the laziest guy on earth
Wind: full of airy thoughts son and with empty head
My aunt was totally disappointed. She thought her son would be like Napoleon Bonaparte, Mao Zedung, Adolf Hitler and others who once treasured the book, the Art of War.
poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
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Aunt Jess
Our 'Aunt' Jess died just days ago; her partner phoned last night;
the funeral was private, perhaps for reasons which
we now might guess; a village can be peaceful,
but that's no guarantee they'll be accepted -
those too full of life to be discreet.
So, rest in peace, we say and mean;
most of us, thank God, not knowing un-peace in
its most extreme;
and now we'll never know the story which she only partly told
and which I could not bear to probe,
that night when she and I, then younger, talked about
that topic which some tiptoe gingerly around,
some leave unsaid. And why, I asked,
did someone tell me that she'd changed her name
eight times when still a child?
Some live lives so livid red
that perhaps they're best not told; or if they are,
then carefully. In '44, towards the end of 'Hitler's war',
great bands of Jews from Eastern Europe,
from the camps, or outhouses of village farms,
cellars, sewers, God knows where, set out together from the East
ahead of those advancing Russian tanks,
and through the very heart - if that's the word -
of Germany; by night; and gathering on route
just like some ragged snowball, groups of the unidentified
and paperless; but soon too many souls there
not to draw a sentry's eye. Of that exhausted day
in Christian church when only she survived - and why -
you'd not believe, and I'll not tell.
So she, long orphaned, finally arrived,
and though few knew it, became a live memorial
to the eight families who, over the years,
had shielded her 'our child'. Destined, it seems, to live;
as lively aunt to child as anyone could wish.
And when I'd heard from others close,
and gently guessed, more from her silences,
just what she'd suffered 'at the hands of men' -
so choice a phrase - or how survived,
I could not be surprised she chose to live
at ease with lover of her kind.. Aunt Jess,
should I be sorry that I didn't ask you more?
I did not like to pry; and you
so needed to get on with life.
So yes, Aunt Jess:
please rest in peace.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When Hitler Came To Breakfast
When Hitler came to breakfast
He just sat quietly there
With that silly little moustache
And that dark and greasy hair.
He didn't really talk much
And he had a frightened look
We tried to jolly him along
By practising salutes.
I really hate that Brooks man
He finally exclaimed
With that awful movie
Now remind me what's its name?
We all sat stunned in silence
No one dared to speak
We'd got it from the video store
Only just last week.
Oh we've never seen THAT movie
We said in unison
But then we gave the game away
By humming that one song.
You know the one i mean i said
The best one on the score
I don't know that one at all he said
Can you sing a little more?
Can you imagine me and Hitler
Singing in our hall
Singing 'bout his regime
And his eventual fall.
'Springtime' warbled Hitler
Was the time i liked the best
In those freezing bunkered winters
I wore itchy woollen vests.
I might just like that movie
It shows a side of me
That Eva may just once have glimpsed
But others didn't see.
I suddenly was woken
And where this breakfast it had been
The room now was quite empty
And I awoke as from a dream.
poem by David Keig
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Black Rose
a black rose i have at tide
a black rose will come and die
color so dark
stops a dogs bark
noone knows why
when you see it you gently cry
black rose brings death
black rose is too much
its power so strong
its power will long
Blood Oranges
In 1936, a child
in Hitler's Germany,
what did I know about the war in Spain?
Andalusia was a tango
on a wind-up gramophone,
Franco a hero's face in the paper.
No one told me about a poet
for whose sake I might have learned Spanish
bleeding to death on a barren hill.
All I knew of Spain
were those precious imported treats
we splurged on for Christmas.
I remember pulling the sections apart,
lining them up, sucking each one
slowly, so the red sweetness
would last and last --
while I was reading a poem
by a long-dead German poet
in which the woods stood safe
under the moon's milky eye
and the white fog in the meadows
aspired to become lighter than air.
poem by Lisel Mueller
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A Single Black Rose
A single Black Rose to turn the tide
A single Black Rose to make one die
A single Black Rose to ensnare the soul
A single Black Rose to widen that hole
A single Black Rose to melt the heart
A single Black Rose to force a start
A single Black Rose to entwine the bodies
A single Black Rose to dictate the deaths of these
A single Black Rose to lie upon her breast
A single Black Rose to stop the tears from soaking his vest
A single Black Rose to mourn this memory
A single Black Rose to become a plot in this cemetery
A single Black Rose to take a life
A single Black Rose to end his strife.
(8/21/2007)
poem by Michael Koelliker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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