More Than Myself
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.
poem by Anne Sexton
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For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all…
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Away The Bowl
Our grateful hearts with temperance burn,
Away, away the bowl,
From dram shops all, our steps we turn,
Away, away the bowl;
Farewell to rum and all its harms,
Farewell the wine-cup's boasted charms,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
See how that staggering drunkard reels!
Away, away the bowl;
Alas, the misery he reveals,
Away, away the bowl;
His children grieve, his wife's in tears!
How sad his once bright home appears!
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
We drink no more, nor buy nor sell,
Away, away the bowl!
The grog-shop's offers we repel,
Away, away the bowl.
United in a temperance band,
We 're joined in heart, we 're joined in hand,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
poem by John Pierpont
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The Voice The Snake
(curly m.c./f.gregorian)
.
The first bowl on the earth
The second bowl on the sea
The third bowl on the rivers
The fourth bowl on the sun
The fifth bowl on the beast
The sixth bowl on the stars
The seventh bowl on the air
.
And the earth turned grey
Sea turned black
The rivers turned red
The sun turned cold
The beast turned pale
The stars turned fast
The air turned to poison
song performed by by Enigma
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Voice & The Snake
(curly m.c./f.gregorian)
.
The first bowl on the earth
The second bowl on the sea
The third bowl on the rivers
The fourth bowl on the sun
The fifth bowl on the beast
The sixth bowl on the stars
The seventh bowl on the air
.
And the earth turned grey
Sea turned black
The rivers turned red
The sun turned cold
The beast turned pale
The stars turned fast
The air turned to poison
song performed by by Enigma
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Feeling
that feeling of being
a gold fish
inside a round glass bowl
where your world
is only water and
sand
and then hand takes
it and breaks the bowl on the floor
a gold fish wriggles
gasping for air
there is none
do you feel this now?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When You Love You Do Not Lose If You Only Will To Keep It
when you love
when you love deeply and truly
like you have placed everything in you inside a small bowl
so fragile, breakable and perishable
shiny piece, porcelain white, unstained,
or a fruit glossy for the moment
or a flower blooming only for a day
like the way he loves you like the way he changes his mind
after you have given it all
when love is pronounced dead on arrival
do not weep
do not scream do not ever utter a word fit for sorrow and departure
keep the love that you still want everlasting
deep in your heart that love still clings and still works for your delight
be selfish on this, and be so private
do not give that up as a nightmare keep it as a dream always
and deep in your heart
you have so much to gain as a memory that shall last forever
and in this way
you have never lost
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Brenda's Lonely Fish
I am a tiny flame of gold
That flickers in a jar
I see the world in circles
Eyes watch me from afar
But I can only swim all day
In circles round and around
Out of the glass I see the world
But cannot hear a sound
Trapped inside a goldfish bowl
I swim round and around
I can never catch my tail
Or swim into the sea
Forever watched by strangers eyes
Alone and never free
The world is waiting somewhere
In a river rushing by
Full of fishes big and small, leaping up to touch the sky
But I can only wonder as I swim around all day
Inside my shiny glassy globe
At all thoses fishes out there at play
My mother is called Brenda
She won me at a fete
She's twenty stone and five foot one
And needs to lose some weight
Because I am a tiddler she said
I'll eat that fish
I'll fry that little tiddler
He'll make a tasty dish
For what's the point of keeping
One fish inside a glass?
Without a mate he's miserable
His life span's cut by half
So I'm being humane
To ease his pain, at last
I know I'm vegetarian
But one fishy dish can pass
I'll fry him quick in olive oil
With some nice brown onion rings
On a bed of rice he'll taste real nice
And he won't feel a thing
For death it comes to all of us
But for him it's not too soon
For their's no future for a lonely fish
Trapped in a bowl in my front room.
Of course I could take him to the pond
But the cat is sure to get him
He's better of inside my gut
Then it's easy to forget him!
poem by Yvette Smith
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The Storm...!
My tiny car
Is gliding on
The grey band
Dissapearing into
A white wall
Gelled water
Falling from the sky
Floating across
The windshield
Has transformed
The wiper blades
Into two giant icicles
Swooshing across the glass
Making creepy sounds
The whiteness
Has conceled
The world around
Making me a fish
Swimming in a
Bowl of milk
A fish swimming alone
In a giant bowl of curdling milk
Trying to reach to the glass wall
And press its eye on to the glass
To peek at the solitary face
Gazing at the glass bowl
With her chin resting on her hand
Waiting...
Waiting for me to
Emerge through the milky darkness
To show my face...!
[Ah... glass walls... cruel invisible separators...]
poem by Rowving Smith
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Seamen Three
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be;
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Three Men of Gotham
SEAMEN three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be.--
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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The Old Flame Is Finally Gone
there was this old flame inside the house made of wood
it is alive supported by a wick and a bowl of oil
it is a comfort for blackouts and we all look at it with wonder
we keep it from the wind and the rain and it stands still
one day we find ourselves in great grief
the bowl of glass is shattered and the oil is spilled on the ground
the wick is gone and we searched for it for days
someone so cruel destroyed what we looked up to
then the night comes in without electricity we grappled
the house is silent under a sky without stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How ironic, to be my last game that I ever played would be against Dan in a Super Bowl. The thing I always was afraid of was playing in a Super Bowl when it was raining. I can't throw a wet ball.
quote by John Elway
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Farewell The Bowl
Farewell to the cup, we have tarried too long,
Where the juice of the grape adds its witch'ry to song.
And the thoughts that flow'd freely are sombre and dull,
Our brains become heavy, farewell to the bowl,
Farewell, farewell, farewell, farewell to the bowl.
Oh, tarry no longer where joy flies away,
The heart and the soul lose their richest array,
Where eye mocketh eye, as unmeaning they roll,
The tongue whispers folly-farewell to the bowl.
Oh, think, if the maiden, who smiles in thine eyes,
Once saw thy proud mind in this shameful disguise;
Her heart would reject thee, how sadly her soul
Would pity and leave thee-oh, flee from the bowl.
Oh think, e'er the moment of thinking is past,
And chains of the mighty upon thee are cast!
Return-ere the iron shall enter thy soul,
And the dregs of thy life-a curse on the bowl.
poem by John Pierpont
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Moving with it
moving, moving, moving, moving, moving, moving, moving
I’m about to jump out and hit the sky close mind and
Tell it as is
like it hit the high line and walked too far
Here it comes making it seem light is here yet creates
A loving sense of determination as though it has the
High emirates
Watch out time is here biting you so hard you forget to
Look back through the rear view mirror seeing the dust
Bowl out into the cracks of the bowl and eat it like a fruit
Salad that punches you so hard you lose focus like a boxer
Hitting the soft feathered wall nice and slow.
Oh no where has it gone flew so far yet I’ m so close to
Feel your warm breath touch me like the cold eyes of
Today
Can you feel it go through you like a lighting hitting a
Simile of a red rose bleeding slow purple violet swaying
On the vines of the grapes that fed us with such a pleasant
Cold hearted death of life.
I am watched with the eyes envious love yet filled with the
Content of it all.
I require pent up motion clearing me with a heroic acts of commotions
Can’t you accommodate me and take me to the location that you locate
Don’t hear me come through the bowl that has fed me with an improper
Self correlation of it all as we ride high amongst the clouds that is now
And tomorrow shall follow it with the same sort of acting.
Explorations: XXVI
I stand
At your door-step
With an empty bowl
I can't ask you
Why I'm made
To stand there
I can't ask you
Why my bowl
Is empty;
The bowl
The emptiness
And I
Are all your design
Are your creation!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Indian minor
It landed on the wall
that divided the front yard
from the back
where my yellow BMW
was sheltered under a roof
It was dark brown with a yellow bill
and sharp small black intelligent eyes
watching everything
much like a crow or raven.
Every now and then
it darted down
to land next to the bowl
with the dog’s pellets
pecking them up
as another bird would seed.
The dog would eat every now and then
and sometimes guard its bowl
lying there defying that bird,
but when ever it would go
that bird would
have its feast,
till one day
that I took that bowl away
into the dogs pen
and then that bird
sat screaming on that wall
as if I had stolen
his dearest possessions
from him
as if there was nothing else to steal.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Bowl Be Shared!
if wealth causes indifference,
apathy, and insulated selfish behavior...
let me be poor until i die.
let me be rich in my poverty...
and feel every small wound,
share every small sorrow,
dance with every small joy...
let me struggle with my brothers
to find human simple dreams.
let me feel companionship,
both the good and the bad.
and let me sleep with caring....
let my hands get dirty,
let my bowl be shared!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Lying Mirrors
When you look in the mirror does it tell a lie.
Does the mirror tell you who you are inside.
Does it tell you, that you have inner and outer beauty.
Or does it make you ask why do i do this to me.
Trust what the mirror tell you is a complete lie.
The mirror will make you ignore your heart and listen to your mind.
No matter what inside and out you are beautiful.
And never let the lying mirrors fool you.
Remember, believing you have much beauty goes a far way.
And when you look in the mirror 'I am beautiful' is what you should be able to say.
poem by Olivia Thimes
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Cameron
Cameron the cat would never miss a trick –
Often in the garden on patrol.
Otherwise sleeping, though frequently meeting
His one and only love – that earthen bowl!
Cameron the cat took everything for granted -
Sure, the street lay under his control.
Contentedly snoozing – perhaps he 'd been boozing –
And toasting all that counts: his dearest bowl!
Cameron the cat would seek to take advantage –
His gullible owners often on parole.
Purring pathetically, and almost poetically,
He'd meow them into stacking up his bowl!
Cameron the cat was nonetheless a gem –
His owners saw him as their heart and soul,
But having to accept that he was so adept
At persuading them to fill his flipping bowl!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Three Wise Men of Gotham
Three wise men of Gotham,
They went to sea in a bowl,
And if the bowl had been stronger,
My song had been longer.
poem by Anonymous English
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