Related quotes: YES, he was that, or...

T.a.h.

YES, he was that, or that, as you prefer,—
Did so and so, though, faith, it was n’t all;
Lived like a fool, or a philosopher,
And had whatever’s needful to a fall.
As rough inflections on a planet merge
In the true bend of the gigantic sphere,
Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge,
So in the survey of his worth the small
Asperities of spirit disappear,
Lost in the grander curves of character.
He lately was hit hard; none knew but I
The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke,—
Not even herself. He uttered not a cry,
But set his teeth and made a revelry;
Drank like a devil,—staining sometimes red
The goblet ’s edge; diced with his conscience; spread,
Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke
His welcome in a tongue so long forgot
That even his ancient guest remembered not
What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend,
Still conjugating with each failing sense
The verb “to die” in every mood and tense,
Pursued his awful humor to the end.
When, like a stormy dawn, the crimson broke
From his white lips, he smiled and mutely bled,
And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Related quotes

The Stranger's Friend

The strangest things and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,
To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;
Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts discard—
But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.
I met him in Bourke in the Union days—with which we have nought to do
(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ like glue).
He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’
And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s Friend.’

It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’
For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,
To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes—
Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were filled with snakes.

In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood—in his cynical stages too—
In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was blue—
From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful end,
He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.

‘The feller as knows, he can battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d say—
‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know the hard-up bloke this way;
‘Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the bushman spoke,
The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.’

And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they scored,
For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the stranger’s board—
The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s bunk,
And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk.

And the chaps and the fellers would speculate—by way of a ghastly joke—
As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first—the Friend or the hard-up bloke?
And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned in the end,
When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s Friend.

It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think,
He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink,
To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way,
‘And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say.

At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as ice,
He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice;
Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose like smoke,
Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up bloke.’

They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true.
I have ‘battled’ myself, and you know, you chaps, what a man in the bush goes through:
Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and his strength are done,
That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend has one.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

EverCrimson War

The bloody hearts that we consume,
EverCrimson they are,
The bloody streams, crimson with terror,
Are not very afar,

For eventually war will strike,
These haven heaven lands,
EverCrimson forming round,
Death hitting sands.

Causing terror, freedom felt,
In the depths of the sea,
Where drowning can lead to freedom,
A free death possibility.

But still as this war comes,
We shall never prepare,
For this EverCrimson War,
We never daren’t stare.

For this battle will spread blood wide,
Not only blood but lost dreams,
For those that once lived,
Now dead as it seems.

Those dreams lost forever,
Never to come back,
Losing memories of childhood,
Now at severe lack.

The child at home playing,
Wanting war to end,
Never to know the death,
That EverCrimson War can lend.

For as well as dreams and death,
Souls will be lost again,
Reaching up to heaven,
But never these lonely men.

For we caused war, maybe end it,
But we started it at first,
So Mother Nature cannot be happy,
Only send us the worst.

Crimson war is bad enough,
Than having it Ever to stay,
I tell them, ‘it isn’t a game’
The dead in sorrow lay.

Listening to my words,
Understanding what I mean,
But nobody listens otherwise,
They will never wipe sins clean.

Only keep them forever,
Staining the blood EverCrimson red,
Never to be lost,
Reminding of the ones who are dead.

Those that were killed,
The ones they killed,
Hearts, lands, acres full of blood,
EverCrimson War only brings disaster…
To those who fail,
Will flash crimson, go stale,
Rotting bodies, rotting blood,
Mixed in with the dying mud.
EverCrimson War only brings disaster…

poem by Viraj Bhanshaly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The King Of Thule

IN Thule lived a monarch,

Still faithful to the grave,
To whom his dying mistress

A golden goblet gave.

Beyond all price he deem'd it,

He quaff'd it at each feast;
And, when he drain'd that goblet,

His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.

And when he felt death near him,

His cities o'er he told,
And to his heir left all things,

But not that cup of gold.

A regal banquet held he

In his ancestral ball,
In yonder sea-wash'd castle,

'Mongst his great nobles all.

There stood the aged reveller,

And drank his last life's-glow,--
Then hurl'd the holy goblet

Into the flood below.

He saw it falling, filling,

And sinking 'neath the main,
His eyes then closed for ever,

He never drank again.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Still Smiling........

Smiled When Mother Took Me Into Her Arms For The First Time,
Smiled When Saw World Outside The Hospital For The First Time,
Smiled Whenever Went To School,
Smiled Even Being Laughed At....
And Called A Fool....
Smiled When Stood First In The Class,
Smiled When I Wasn't Misunderstood..... At Last!
Smiled When My Poem Was Said Wow!
Smiled When Realised That Only Day Is Today....
And Time Is Now......
Smiled When Got My 'True' Love,
Smiled As I Always Felt We Are Two Doves,
Smiled Even When Came To Know He's Not Mine,
Smiled Even When He Married My Friend.....
And Raised A Toast Of Wine,
Smiled Even When Lost Every Hope,
Smiled Even When Wasn't Able To Cope,
Smiled Even When Knew My End Is Near,
Smiled And Enjoyed Cutting My Nerve.......
No Fear...............
Smiled At Every Moment Of My Life,
Whenever, Wherever And Never Cried.............

But Now, I'm Lying Under A White Cover,
Father Putting Me On Fire.........
With No Blessings Left To Shower.....
People Around Have Nothing To Do With My Death
But Are Crying.........
And I'm............
Still Smiling.................................

poem by Apurva Jain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Conductor Bradley

A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut
railway, May 9, 1873.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always may his name
Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came,
Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,

Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood
To do the utmost that a brave man could,
And die, if needful, as a true man should.

Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears
On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,
Lost in the strength and glory of his years.

What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain,
Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again
'Put out the signals for the other train!'

No nobler utterance since the world began
From lips of saint or martyr ever ran,
Electric, through the sympathies of man.

Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this
The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness,
Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!

Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain
That last brave act of failing tongue and brain
Freighted with life the downward rushing train,

Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave,
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.
Others he saved, himself he could not save.

Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead
Who in his record still the earth shall tread
With God's clear aureole shining round his head.

We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.
God give us grace to live as Bradley died!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Alchemist And The Mouse

Once there lived an alchemist in a strange and distant land,
So wise and famous and revered, great power he did command.
For he could turn base metal in a flash to solid gold,
And so the alchemist grew rich, as he in years grew old.

The alchemist had riches, but a mortal man was he,
And came unto his house one day, a gypsy to foresee
His fortune with a crystal ball that showed his time was nigh,
So he a magic potion made, his own death to defy.

And when this potion to give immortality was made,
He took the potion to his lips, but then his hand he stayed,
For there his pet, a small brown mouse, was sitting on his knee;
He gave the mouse a sip and waited, the effect to see.

So time it passed, the mouse it thrived, so then he drank the brew.
Now safe from death, his fame increased, and so his fortune grew.
And so the years went by, he didn't age, always was well;
He and the mouse lived on, and to them nothing bad befell.

The centuries rolled on, his friends and relatives were dead.
In time the human race was gone as onward time it sped,
But even Earth is mortal, and at last the Sun grew tired;
The Earth became a cold dark rock, its spirit had expired.

And all was black, for only feeble starlight pricked the sky,
And silence reigned for there were only two who didn't die;
There gazing out to space, the last two tenants of the house;
The sad and lonely alchemist; by his side an ancient mouse.

poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

On Sand Track

We walk barefoot on sand tracks
Leaving behind foot prints with nothing at stake
Within moment they will disappear
You need not look back or see from rear

Laughter is no free commodity
That is inbuilt and smells of humanity
You can crate or ignore
What else you can ask as more?

Eyesight is not a reason to worry
Immobility is not concern to feel sorry
We have lived life to its full length
Now why worry if that is taken over by death

We have lot more to share
As we were looked after with care
Let nature play its part and take us away
This is only right thinking to part the way

We remember almighty as creator
Our true guide, philosopher and mentor
What would have been we if not brought on this earth?
Let us faith due respect and unstinted faith

We gave to the world or family what ever we could
Now let them think about us or what they should
We are now lest concerned about what they may think
We have still enough of time on ship before it sinks

Let the end be also memorable and exemplary
Each stage has been made important are necessary
Like seasons change and leaves fall by taking clue
We must think only in those terms which are worth to view

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Remembered

There never was a mood of mine,
Gay or heart-broken, luminous or dull,
But you could ease me of its fever
And give it back to me more beutiful.
In many another soul I broke the bread,
And drank the wine and played the happy guest,
But I was lonely, I remembered you;
The heart belong to him who knew it best.

poem by Sara Teasdale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Martha And Mary

Martha her love and joy expressed
By care to entertain her guest;
While Mary sat to hear her Lord,
And could not bear to lose a word.

The principle in both the same,
Produced in each a different aim;
The one to feast the Lord was led,
The other waited to be fed.

But Mary chose the better part,
Her Saviour's words refreshed her heart;
While busy Martha angry grew,
And lost her time and temper too.

With warmth she to her sister spoke,
But brought upon herself rebuke;
One thing is needful, and but one,
Why do thy thoughts on many run?

How oft are we like Martha vexed,
Encumbered, hurried, and perplexed!
While trifles so engross our thought,
The one thing needful is forgot.

Lord teach us this one thing to choose,
Which they who gain can never lose;
Sufficient in itself alone,
And needful, were the world our own.

Let groveling hearts the world admire,
Thy love is all that I require!
Gladly I may the rest resign,
If the one needful thing be mine!

poem by John Newton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The King [ I ]

AMONG the sons of Englishmen
Full many feel like real tears,
For, though he reigned but scarcely ten,
He bore the burden many years.
He lived the dead past doubly down,
He shamed, by manliness and truth,
The lies that beat about a crown,
And round a known man in his youth.

For he had lived as men have done
Since Adam’s time, to prove them true.
He proved it in his manhood’s prime,
And to the end, as strong men do.
And so he died, and, ever since,
And on through years the words shall ring:
“He lived a man, he lived a prince,
And died a gentleman and King.”

Unto the friends of his hot youth,
In his wise age, he still was true.
He showed, by steadfastness and truth,
What kings as well as men can do;
Till all was manlike or forgot,
Long years ere he found his release;
He made them loyal who were not,
He won respect, and kept the peace.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A New Madrigal To An Old Melody

(It is supposed that Shadow-of-a-Leaf uses the word 'clear' in a
more ancient sense of 'beautiful.')

As along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mystery
The moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,
In a deep dreaming wood that is older than history
I heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;
So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,--
_Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!
Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittany
For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth._

Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.
I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.
I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,--
My fool, my lost jester, my _Shadow-of-a-Leaf_!
And 'why,' I said, 'why, all this while, have you left me so
Luckless in melody, lonely in mirth?'
'Oh, why,' he sang, 'why has this world then bereft me so
Soon of my Marian, so long laid in earth?

'In the years that are gone,' he said, 'love was more fortunate.
Grief was our minstrel of things that endure.
Now, ashes and dust and this world grow importunate.
Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.
Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.
Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?
Memory and true love,' he whispered, 'are perishing,
With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.'

'Ah, no!' I said, 'no! Since we grieve for our grief again,
Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!
And memory may wake, like my _Shadow-of-a-Leaf_ again,
Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave.'
So we sang it together--that long-forgot litany:--
_Fall, April; fall, April; bring new grief to birth.
Bring wild herb of grace, and bring deep healing dittany,
For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth._

poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Vampire

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I!)

Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand,
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand.

A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honor and faith and a sure intent
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
(Even as you and I!)

Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned,
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know she never knew why)
And did not understand.

The fool we stripped to his foolish hide
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside --
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died --
(Even as you and I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white hot brand.
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing at last she could never know why)
And never could understand.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Old Bob Blair

I got so down to it last night,
With longin' for what could not be,
That nothin' in the world seemed right
Or everything was wrong with me.
My house was just a lonely hole,
An' I had blisters on my soul.

Top of my other worries now
The boys are talkin' strike, an' say
If we put up a sudden row
We're sure of forcin' up our pay.
I'm right enough with what I get;
But some wants more, an' then more yet.

Ben Murray's put it up to me:
He says I got some influence
Amongst them, if I agree
'Which I will do if I have sense'
We'll make the boss cough up a bit.
That's how Ben Murray looks at it.

I don't know that the old boss can.
I've heard he's pushed to make ends meet.
To me he's been a fair, straight man
That pays up well an' works a treat.
But if I don't get in this game,
Well, 'blackleg' ain't a pretty name.

This thing has got me thinkin' hard,
But there is worse upon my mind.
What sort of luck has broke my guard
That I should be the man to find
A girl like that? . . . The whole world's wrong!
Why was I born to live and long?

I get so down to it last night
With broodin' over things like this,
I said 'There's not a thing in sight
Worth havin' but I seem to miss.'
So I go out and get some air
An' have a word with old Bob Blair.

Bob's livin' lonely, same as me;
But he don't take to frettin' so
An' gettin' megrims after tea.
He reads a lot at night, I know;
His hut has books half up the wall
That I don't tumble to at all.

Books all about them ancient blokes
That lived a thousand years ago:
Philosophers an' funny folk
What he sees in them I don't know.
There ain't much fun, when all is said,
In chap that is so awful dead.

He put his book down when I came,
He took his specs off, patient-like.
He's been in Rome; an' who can blame
The old man if he gets the spike
To be jerked back so suddenly
By some glum-lookin' coot like me.

At first he looks at me quite dazed,
As tho' 'twas hard to recognize
The silly fool at which he gazed;
An' then a smile come in his eyes:
'Why, Jim,' he says. 'Still feelin' blue?
Kiss her, an' laugh!' . . . But I says, 'Who?'

'Why, who, if not the widow, lad?'
But I says, 'Widows ain't no go.'
'What woman, then, makes you so sad?'
I coughs a bit an' says, 'Dunno.'
He looked at me, then old Bob Blair
He ran his fingers through his hair.

'God help us, but the case is bad!
An' men below, an; saints above
Look with mixed feelin's, sour an' sad,
Upon a fool in love with love.
Go, find her, lad, an' be again,
Fit to associate with men.

'Don't leave yourself upon the shelf:
It's bad for man to live alone.'
'Hold on,' says I. 'What ails yourself?
What are you doin' on your own?'
Quickly he turned away his head.
'That's neither here nor there,' he said.

I saw I'd made a clumsy break;
An' tied to cover it with talk
Of anything, for old Blair's sake.
He don't reply; but when I'd walk
Outside he says, 'What's this I hear
About the mill boys actin' queer?'

So then we yarns about the strike,
An' old Bob Brown frowns an' shakes his head.
'There's something there I hardly like;
The boss has acted fair,' he said.
'Eight years I've toiled here constantly,
An' boss an' friend he's been to me.

'I know he's up against it bad;
Stintin' himself to pay the men.
Don't listen to this tattle, lad,
An' leave that dirty work to Ben.
He tries to play on others need;
It's partly devil, partly greed.

'Ben's not a reel bad lot at heart,
But ignorant an' dull of sight,
An' crazed by these new creeds that start
An' grow like mushrooms, overnight;
An' this strange greed that's spread the more
Since the great sacrifice of war.

'Greed everywhere!' sighed old man Blair.
'Master an' man have caught the craze;
An' those who yesterday would share
Like brothers, now spend all their days
Snatchin' for gain - the great, the small.
And, of, folly of it all!'

He tapped the small book by his hand.
'Two thousand years ago they knew
That those who think an' understand
Can make their wants but very few.
Two thousand years they taught
That happiness can not be bought.'

'Progress?' he shouted. 'Bah! A Fig!
Where are the things that count or last
In buildin' something very big
Or goin' somewhere very fast?
We put the horse behind the cart;
For where's your progress of the heart?

'Great wisdom lived long years ago,
An' yet we say that we progress.
The paint an' tinsel of our show
Are men more generous, or kind?
Then where's your progress of the mind?'

(I think Bob Blair's a trifle mad;
They say so, too, around these parts;
An' he can be, when he's reel bad,
A holy terror once he starts.
dare say it's readin' books an' such.
Thank God I never read too much!)

I says I'm sure I don't know
Where all this progress gets to now.
He smiles a bit an' answers low,
'Maybe you'll find out, lad, somehow.
But talkin' makes my old head whirl;
So you be off, an' - find that girl.'

I says Good night, an' out I goes;
But I was hardly at the door
When his old specs is on his nose,
An' his book in his hand once more;
An', as I take the track for home,
Bob Blair goes back to Ancient Rome.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Hard For Them to Believe

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
As if my thoughts,
Could not produce my deeds.
As if my efforts,
Did not match where I lived.
Since I was born and lived in the ghetto.
And I should not be aware or know,
Of those things I did!

As If my blackness was for them limited!
Like it was for friends I had,
And some relatives.
All believing then I was trying to be white...
And not the black neighborhood kid!
Who did for me,
What I knew was right!

They believed I should be,
That kind to clown and be down to Earth.
And not have a mind as creative as mine!
With dreams to fulfill...
That broke down barriars and walls,
Others believed I existed behind!
And not to know my own value or worth.
Or reach for heights...
Few I knew took effort to climb!

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
I am not asked 'that' question anymore.

Today,
Some try to downplay...
My affect!
But I had always known,
To be grateful to be blessed.
And let God handle the rest!

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
Of course I knew.
From the very beginning.
But the few who did not know...
Now they do too!

And nothing has changed...
From where I live,
To what I do.
And that is a fact...
Hard for them to believe!
That I can say who I am.
Be who I am.
Stay where I am and know it!
AND achieve!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Dedicated to Paddy Martin (Rondeau Redouble)

It's time to ring Church bells on this new day,
When dawn still means sad tears for a friend,
A very dear friend who's gone away
'Cause fought a fight of faith until the end.

The bark and leaves of willow tree still bend,
His time on death row found another way.
His spirit into heaven will ascend.
It's time to ring Church bells on this new day.

Though gentle wind through branch of tree would play,
He stretched his clouds to rain upon the land.
We need to cry with him, we need to pray,
When dawn still means sad tears for a friend.

In words sad tears learning how to bend,
Let roses live their dream of yesterday
And try to say goodbye to our friend,
A very dear friend who's gone away.

When things are transfigured in their way,
To death the roses all perfumes can lend.
We read his poems and for him we pray
'Cause fought a fight of faith until the end.

His love made everyone to be his friend,
He wrote in such a fine poetic way,
But human heart will be a piece of land
'Cause spirit goes to reach The Lord today.

MCN: CKTAK-UDWYR-KQXNQ

poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Thank You For Your Assistance

You made choices in your life.
With accusations made to others,
That I believed I knew 'everything'.
And if that was remotely true...
People would have lived happier lives.
And you,
Come to me with attitude,
Accusing me of ignoring 'you'?

~Sir...
May I please use the PA system in your store?
I am trying to locate someone who is totally lost.~

'Sure.
Go to customer service and let them know,
You have my approval.'

~Ladies and Gentlemen...
May I have your attention, please.
I wish to locate someone that is lost.
And I'll repeat what I just said to them,
To you...
In the hopes we can find this person's mind!

THIS is what I said:

If you see this fool in your presence...
Please direct them outside,
Where I am going to breathe some fresh air.

I thank you for your assistance.~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Cerberus

Your breath once sacred on my neck
Now has the putrid stench of a stray dog
I cannot imagine a single slice of your skin on mine
For I should vomit your vile stench infused
Into me from your osmosis touch
You are the worst kind, the scum of the dishonest
You took me down and then wanted me to believe that I was lost
That my heart was too wild to tame
When it was laid out for your dog feet a crimson Persian
That my spirit was yearning to be free
Yet your betrayal was the only cage
Your dog kisses haunt the secret curves of my body
Where I let you in so gently, so lovingly – like a
Child unconditional
What do you know of unconditional when
All you have is your dog power, decaying mass over nothing
Emptiness coming for you dog man
Cerberus, you wove a many headed tale which
Entwined me; my silky fur will be wiped clean with
Stroke after stroke of my rough tongue – and I
Shall cough you up, a vomitous mass of
Dog fur – then I shall purr again for
freedom

poem by Elmarie Swart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Gigantic

And this I know
His teeth as white as snow
What a gas it was to see him
Walk her every day
Into a shady place
With her lips she said
She said
Hey paul, hey paul, hey paul, lets have a ball (3x)
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big big love
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big big love
Lovely legs there are
What a big black mask
What a hunk of love
Walk her every day into a shady place
Hes like the dark, but Id want him
Hey paul, hey paul, hey paul, lets have a ball (3x)
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big big love
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big big love
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big big love
Gigantic, gigantic, gigantic
A big big love

song performed by by Pixies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Seeking

Bright eyes, sweet lips, with sudden fevers fill
My strong blood, running wildly, as it must;
But lips and eyes too soon beget distrust.
A soft touch sends a momentary thrill
Through sense unsubservient to the will;
But warm caresses leave a dim disgust;
Like Dead- Sea apples, kisses turn to dust.
I kiss; I feast; but I am hungry still.

O, where is She — that straight and upright soul —
True friend, true mate, true woman — where is She?
True heart — as true as needle to the pole —
True to the truth, not only true to me —
Worth all I have to give — the best — the whole.
When shall these eyes Her unknown beauty see?

poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Forbidden Fruit

He presses it to his lips,
Bares his teeth,
And nips at the flesh.
Sweet liquid escapes his lips
And races with his tongue
From the corner
Of his mouth.
He catches the nectarous droplet
And draws it back inside.
Oh my!
How I long for a taste!
To touch his delicious lips with mine.
To fold my tongue through
The warm sweetness of him
Again...again and again.
Ohhhh to hear my name groaned
Through his baritone voice
As my body sings his song.

His eyes....his beautiful eyes are....

Uh oh! !

He sees me!

I feel crimson warmth spread
Across my face
And wonder..
How long have I been staring at him?

poem by Ruby Honeytip
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

En.Citatepedia®.ro