If the Moon on the skies Does not Roam
If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.
He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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Burn All The Letters
I am sorry that I set my sights
On the things I read
Something meant for your husband
Maybe you left it under the bed
Once upon a love those words blew free and secret
The pages lay around
Drifted to the hands of the publisher
And the greedy generations on down
Burn all the letters
(someone is always watching)
The governments on the phone
(whether openly or secretly)
Burn all the letters
(now breathe life)
Send them on
(into your story)
To a safer home
(I said burn it to secrecy)
Burn all the letters
Brand them in you before you go
Soldiers are coming to plunder
But there are some things they will never know
We made our love out of dignity
Dug our nails in the dirt
(hung our towel soaked souls out on the line)
Hung our towel soaked souls out on the line
We loved so hard that it hurt
To ease my pain I took a pen and paper
Incarnate came the bleeding
Send it back before the public eye
Perverts it in the reading
And burn all the letters
(someone is always watching)
Ah the governments on the phone
(whether openly or secretly)
Burn all the letters
(now breathe life)
Send them on back
(into your story)
To a safer home
(I said burn it to secrecy)
Burn all the letters
Brand them in you before you go
The soldiers coming to plunder
But there are some things they will never know
Burn all the letters
Ah the governments on the phone
On the phone
Burn all the letters
(all the letters)
Send them on to a safer home
(send them on to a safer home)
Burn all the letters
To you
And you to
To me
Coming to take what they can
They cannot read
What they cannot see
Mmm
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You've Got Her In Your Pocket
You've got her in your pocket
And there's no way out now
Put it in the safe and lock it
'cause it's at home sweet home
Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way
And you'll be there if she ever feels blue
And you'll be there when she FINDS someone new
What to do
Well you know
You keep her in your pocket
Where there's no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
'cause it's home sweet home
The smile on your face made her think she had the right one
Then she thought she was sure
By the way you two could have fun
But now she might leave
like she's threatened before
grab hold of her fast
before her feet leave the floor
and she's out the door
Cause you want,
To keep you in my pocket
Where there's no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
'cause it's home sweet home
And in your own mind
You know you're lucky just to know her
And in the beginning all you wanted was to show her
But now your scared
You think she's running away
You're searching your head for something clever to say
Dont go away
Cause i want,
To keep you in my pocket
where there's no way out
put it in the safe and lock it
cos' it's home sweet home
Home sweet home
song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Home Song
I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"
Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Love Letters
She held a pack of love letters tied with ribbons and bows.
these were the love letters that she would never show.
Every one of them was dated first to last
These were the letters that held a life past.
Times may pass and things may change
But memories stay the same.
The writing of love letters had slowly disappeared
But she held on to them from year to year.
She sat with the letters in her lap.
As the tears rolled down her eyes
He had said he would be with her
Till the day he died
And fifty years later
He met his maker
And was carried to the cemetery
by the undertaker.
The letters had been written
with tenderness and love
Proclaiming every thing
Even the stars above.
He said life was meaningless if with her
His life he could not share.
And losing her was something
he could not bear.
Now that he was gone and she
Was left all alone.
The house didn’t seem
like much of a home.
She knew her children would not understand
Why she held the love letters in her hand.
These were the memories that kept her alive
And on that she couldn’t deny.
But her mind and body was fading fast
And she knew she could not last.
So to her children she bequeathed
The letters that she cherished all her life
For that was her husband, and she was his wife.
These are the love letters that your father
Wrote to me when we were young and carefree.
He told me of all that life had to offer.
And of all the love he had for me
And that he wanted to raise a family.
When you read his letters you will know
Why I loved this man so.
And now it’s time for me to go.
Because your father awaits me on the other side
And we’ll be together for all of time
poem by Louis Rams
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If I'm just at the White House, I have meetings in my office, I sign letters, I plan different things. Late in the afternoon, I'll quit working and wait for my husband to get home.
quote by Laura Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Secret Meetings
I have secret meetings,
In my mind.
And...
I find they're the best,
All the of time.
Yes, I have secret meetings,
In my mind.
And...
I find they're the best,
All the of time.
In my mind to be condoned,
Secret meetings feeding peace.
In my mind I keep condoned.
Secret meetings feeding peace.
And my head I keep cool and collected.
Yes, I have secret meetings,
In my mind all the time.
And...
It's keepng me cool and collected.
Yes, I have secret meetings,
In my mind all the time.
And...
It's keepng me cool and collected.
Yes, I have secret meetings,
In my mind all the time.
And...
It's keepng me cool and collected.
I have secret meetings in my mind all the time,
To unwind...
From the beatings of the times.
With corruption on the pedestal directing the crimes.
I have secret meetings in my mind all the time,
To unwind...
From the beatings of the times.
With corruption on the pedestal directing the crimes.
I have secret meetings in my mind all the time,
To unwind...
From the beatings of the times.
With corruption on the pedestal directing the crimes.
With corruption on the pedestal directing the crimes.
I have secret meetings to unwind.
I have secret meetings to unwind.
I have secret meetings to unwind,
From the beatings of the times.
With corruption on the pedestal directing the crimes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Monkey In The Moon
Once I was so sure, once I was so blind
Wonder what you said if you read my mind
Angel in a car, devil on a cross
Scarecrows in the fields, jesus on the rocks
Letters in the rain. rabbit on the run
God was made for you, lizards for the sun
Monkey in the moon, I can see you through
Monkey in the moon, this ones made for you
( message understood? )
Flower in a word, words without a priest
Wings without a bird, beauty without beast
Signal overkill, trains are overdue
Fool upon a hill, ocean overview
Letters in the rain. . .
Fool upon a hill, trains are overdue
Except what we forgot nothings really new
Head above the clouds, eyes are opened wide
Windmill burning down, walk into the light
Walk into the light
Monkey in the moon...
Letters in the rain
This ones made for you
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost Bloom
You are God’s best-kept secret, Li Shaojun,
Your smile lights up the dimmest, darkest day,
And in your eyes, there shines a love so strong
That men are shamed, and look the other way.
For men are shallow, falling at your feet,
Protest undying love, then look a-stare
To see some dark-eyed daughter in the street,
And think that heaven has moved, to your despair.
While you provide what life has left to give,
Though age approaches, nothing turns your head,
Your eyes are fixed on what the elders teach
That love endures, until that love is dead!
Until that love is dead, or walks away,
Your love is faithful, fixed on one alone,
But this was never seen as quite enough
By those, whose feet were always set to roam.
Your culture still dictates the way you live,
The way you cleave to thoughts he may return,
That you may once again fill up his skies,
His one horizon, once he’s come back home.
In China, there’s no heaven, and no hell,
Except the place the lonely woman walks,
Who, long betrayed, seeks only to dispel
Her sadness, and her dreadful sense of loss!
Forget the past, forget the wayward feet,
Look only to the future now, Shaojun,
The best is yet to come, your lover’s fate
Will seek you out, before this life has done.
20 April 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Woman
Woman,
You must be led by your husband around always;
For the tiller of the ground is stronger in the mud of your love,
And like the sole of your feet in the day of the heat.
Cole, hole, mole, pole, bole, sole, dole, role;
On the face of the waters of love to read out your letter,
For the message is very clear to my ears and i am ready.
Love, dove, rove, hove, move, cove, wove;
My reward is better to me but i heard your voice!
And you are my witness of this love because,
You must be led by your husband always.
Shine and bring forth my lover!
For the right time has come for me to go to the West;
And many of my friends are being eyposed because of lust,
But the naked woman next to me is on guard.
Like the first of the tree which is sublte and crafty,
But i do have my monetary blessings to share with you;
Woman,
In the deep sleep of your love will i call you to wake up!
For the world is always at war with each other.
You must respect your husband for,
You are made from the flesh and bone from a man's side;
So upon you is your husband as your head,
And i will be watching you always in the full moon.
Walk through the door of my mind and let me teach you,
And like the half moon of love resting on your shoulders;
So shine and bring forth your love always around your husband.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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His Word Is Not His Bond
(girls let me tell you what a liar will do
Hes always coming with something new
Hell steal your heart...)
He lives in the waste
Void of culture and taste
His eye on a prize beyond
His every word is in the right place
But his word is not his bond
His face is comely
His heart it bleeds
Yet its but a mantel
He has donned
Mark him only by his deeds
For his word is not his bond
Id love to take him
Out of this room
And gently break him
Id love to see him dance!
His protogee deals
In confusion and fog
Of power he is fond
Wheels within wheels
Like master, like dog
His word is not his bond
Im trying to swim
But Im caught in the shallows
And I sense that Ive been conned
Deliver him
To the gallows
His word is not his bond
His word is not his bond!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like Alice Does.
Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,
her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed
watching, studying her
hand and brush going
downward and out and
downward and out, and
as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother
doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe
of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through
her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice
over the old white radio
playing some country song,
and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,
and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with
her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush
threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.
poem by Terry Collett
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I Confessed To You
As I read the old love letters,
you sent back to me.
The ones in which I confessed to you
how I wanted our love to be.
I told you in them
how I was sensitive to your touch,
and how I loved you so much.
It was obvious that you
did not feel for me the same way.
You never answered the letters,
but sent them unopened back to me.
Years have now passed
and I kept each and every one.
I dig them out occasionally
and have a good read through,
and then I sit down
and read them to you.
When I wrote them,
there was one thing I did not know.
You could not have read
the letters even if you wanted to.
You were blind and I did not know,
but that never stopped our love.
Now as we grow older together
with each passing day.
Our love grows a little stronger
in lots of different ways.
Those faded old love letters
we keep, as our reminder
love has no bounds.
4 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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Home On The Range
Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Oh give me a land where the bright diamond sand
Flows leisurely down the stream
Where the graceful white swan goes gliding along
Like a maid in a heavenly dream
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Oh often at night, when the heavens are bright
From the light of the glittering stars
Have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed
If their glory exceeds that of ours
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forgotten Dead, I Salute You
Dawn has flashed up the startled skies,
Night has gone out beneath the hill
Many sweet times; before our eyes
Dawn makes and unmakes about us still
The magic that we call the rose.
The gentle history of the rain
Has been unfolded, traced and lost
By the sharp finger-tips of frost;
Birds in the hawthorn build again;
The hare makes soft her secret house;
The wind at tourney comes and goes,
Spurring the green, unharnessed boughs;
The moon has waxed fierce and waned dim:
He knew the beauty of all those
Last year, and who remembers him?
Love sometimes walks the waters still,
Laughter throws back her radiant head;
Utterly beauty is not gone,
And wonder is not wholly dead.
The starry, mortal world rolls on;
Between sweet sounds and silences,
With new, strange wines her beakers brim:
He lost his heritage with these
Last year, and who remembers him?
None remember him: he lies
In earth of some strange-sounding place,
Nameless beneath the nameless skies,
The wind his only chant, the rain
The only tears upon his face;
Far and forgotten utterly
By living man. Yet such as he
Have made it possible and sure
For other lives to have, to be;
For men to sleep content, secure.
Lip touches lip and eyes meet eyes
Because his heart beats not again:
His rotting, fruitless body lies
That sons may grow from other men.
He gave, as Christ, the life he hadÑ
The only life desired or known;
The great, sad sacrifice was made
For strangers; this forgotten dead
Went out into the night alone.
There was his body broken for you,
There was his blood divinely shed
That in the earth lie lost and dim.
Eat, drink, and often as you do,
For whom he died, remember him.
poem by Muriel Stuart
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I'm Gonna Lock My Heart
Jimmy eaton / terry shand
I'm gonna lock my heart
And throw away the key
I'm wise to all those tricks you played on me
I'm gonna turn my back on love
Gonna snob the moon above
Seal all my windows up with tin
So the love bug can't get in
Park my romance right alone the curb
Hang a sign upon my heart
"please don't disturb"
And if i never fall in love again
That's soon enough for me
I'm gonna lock my heart
And throw the key
And it i never tall in love again
That's soon enough for me
I!m gonna lock my heart
And throw away the key
I'll never fall in love again
I'm gonna lock my heart
And throw away the key
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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about a friend named A. K.
if you only knew where he lives
a dark corner of this hospital ward
his hands and feet jacketed at times
during times of seizures and fits
if you could have only seen how he
sits for hours on the floor beside an iron door
how the wind that touches him pains him
like his skin is removed from this flesh and bone
if you could have heard his screams and then
when nurses rush to him to give his dose
of sanity back through the usual injections
if you could have only felt the beatings of his
heart and his tremors running through all his fingers
if you could have only seen him on lucid intervals
how he scribbled his lost lines through his laptop
spending hours recalling what should have been forgotten
my dear friend if you have the heart of someone human
you could not have called him moron
for whatever he is, he is part of you and me and us and this world
if you have seen him all alone trying to meet his soul halfway
between a murmur and an incantation
you could not have said such a very cruel word
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Eyes Are Not The Same
Her son blossoming
into his dead father’s
face
shocking her
wearing his old man’s coat.
In the mirror
it’s as if
age like an evil spell
has befallen only her
& her dead husband
(dead a decade now)
hasn’t changed at all.
Their wedding photograph
smiles upon the wall.
She calls her son
by his father’s name
who, smiling, turns
& laughs:
“Who? ”
just the way
her husband would have had.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Out On My Own
Your smiles they don't come easy
Like they used to come before
The awkwardness and boredom
Is scattered out across the floor
I can feel your love waxin' and wanin'
And a quick look in your eyes needs no explainin'
I'm out on my own
Livin' alone
I'm an old reluctant gypsy
I don't like campin' anymore
And the dreams and disappointments
Scatter out across the floor
I'm nervous on this train I feel it derailin'
And I can read the letters that nobody's mailin'
I'm out on my own
Livin' alone yeah
Somethin' deep inside of me
Must have died some time ago
I haven't called no place my home
Since nineteen-ninety-four
I'm out on my own
Thirty-somethin' single
And tired of runnin' everywhere
And I can wear a welcome out
When I ain't even there
I'm nervous on this train I feel it derailin'
And I can read the letters that nobody's mailin'
I'm out on my own
Livin' alone I'm livin' alone
And I got nowhere to go
Look at me I'm out on my own
I'm out on my own
But it's gonna be all right now
It's gonna be all right
It's gonna be all right
Oh yes I know it and I know and I know it's gonna be all right
song performed by by Keith Urban
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Lorca
Dear Lorca,
These letters are to be as temporary as our poetry is to be permanent. They will establish the bulk, the wastage that my sour-stomached contemporaries demand to help them swallow and digest the pure word. We will use up our rhetoric here so that it will not appear in our poems. Let it be consumed paragraph by paragraph, day by day, until nothing of it is left in our poetry and nothing of our poetry is left in it. It is precisely because these letters are unnecessary that they must be written.
In my last letter I spoke of the tradition. The fools that read these letters will think by this we mean what tradition seems to have meant lately—an historical patchwork (whether made up of Elizabethan quotations, guide books of the poet’s home town, or obscure bits of magic published by Pantheon) which is used to cover up the nakedness of the bare word. Tradition means much more than that. It means generations of different poets in different countries patiently telling the same story, writing the same poem, gaining and losing something with each transformation—but, of course, never really losing anything. This has nothing to do with calmness, classicism, temperament, or anything else. Invention is merely the enemy of poetry.
See how weak prose is. I invent a word like invention. These paragraphs could be translated, transformed by a chain of fifty poets in fifty languages, and they still would be temporary, untrue, unable to yield the substance of a single image. Prose invents—poetry discloses.
A mad man is talking to himself in the room next to mine. He speaks in prose. Presently I shall go to a bar and there one or two poets will speak to me and I to them and we will try to destroy each other or attract each other or even listen to each other and nothing will happen because we will be speaking in prose. I will go home, drunken and dissatisfied, and sleep—and my dreams will be prose. Even the subconscious is not patient enough for poetry.
You are dead and the dead are very patient.
Love,
Jack
poem by Jack Spicer
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Love Letters
I have a bunch of
Love letters
That express just how he feels
Every word every line
Are memorized in my mind
He tells of how he misses
Sweet moments yet to be
So that we can build a future
Just for you and me
His heart so warm
His love so grand
Sends shivers down my spine
I blush at tender moments
That only we two can share
The ecstasy of love
I write my declaration of love
In those letters from my heart
________________________
As the song goes
Love letters straight from your heart
Keep us so near while apart
I'm not alone in the night
When I can read every word that you write
©Copyright Kaila George 2012
poem by Kaila George
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