Invocation To The Social Muse
Señora, it is true the Greeks are dead.
It is true also that we here are Americans:
That we use the machines: that a sight of the god is unusual:
That more people have more thoughts: that there are
Progress and science and tractors and revolutions and
Marx and the wars more antiseptic and murderous
And music in every home: there is also Hoover.
Does the lady suggest we should write it out in The Word?
Does Madame recall our responsibilities? We are
Whores, Fräulein: poets, Fräulein, are persons of
Known vocation following troops: they must sleep with
Stragglers from either prince and of both views.
The rules permit them to further the business of neither.
It is also strictly forbidden to mix in maneuvers.
Those that infringe are inflated with praise on the plazas—
Their bones are resultantly afterwards found under newspapers.
Preferring life with the sons to death with the fathers,
We also doubt on the record whether the sons
Will still be shouting around with the same huzzas—
For we hope Lady to live to lie with the youngest.
There are only a handful of things a man likes,
Generation to generation, hungry or
Well fed: the earth’s one: life’s
One: Mister Morgan is not one.
There is nothing worse for our trade than to be in style.
He that goes naked goes further at last than another.
Wrap the bard in a flag or a school and they’ll jimmy his
Door down and be thick in his bed—for a month:
(Who recalls the address now of the Imagists?)
But the naked man has always his own nakedness.
People remember forever his live limbs.
They may drive him out of the camps but one will take him.
They may stop his tongue on his teeth with a rope’s argument—
He will lie in a house and be warm when they are shaking.
Besides, Tovarishch, how to embrace an army?
How to take to one’s chamber a million souls?
How to conceive in the name of a column of marchers?
The things of the poet are done to a man alone
As the things of love are done—or of death when he hears the
Step withdraw on the stair and the clock tick only.
Neither his class nor his kind nor his trade may come near him
There where he lies on his left arm and will die,
Nor his class nor his kind nor his trade when the blood is jeering
And his knee’s in the soft of the bed where his love lies.
I remind you, Barinya, the life of the poet is hard—
A hardy life with a boot as quick as a fiver:
Is it just to demand of us also to bear arms?
poem by Archibald MacLeish
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Related quotes
Cina
My current situation disgusts me
I live in a time of great upheaval
Problems- specifically politically
It has it's own kind of evil
Riots in the streets of Chicago
I don't pay that much attention
But I do know it had to do with the meeting for NATO
Cops literally shutting down people expressing their opinion
That is absolutely terrible
Excuse me for thinking a person had his rights
So please define for me inalienable
People today are in a serious plight
Music now a days is absolutely debase
Call it to court for what it's done to this generation
But the judge drops the case
Because the defendants goons threaten to destroy his whole situation
So the heinous crime continues as follows
Not only deriding every good value
But also they have a special needs flow
Completely retarded, not even lyrical; we all know it's true
It influences people in an only negative way
It glorifies the 'Trap life'
Apparently smoking 'loud packs' is okay
I've watched this world fall in front of my eyes
The ideals of relationships?
They are totally debauched
We have married men giving strippers monetary tips
They cannot have sex with them so its considered the trade off
Woe to the generation after me
Things will only get worse
To the point where I'll remember these days fondly
And they will grow up on a devastated earth
I have no hope for these people nor this planet
Especially since they buy into the fake word; change
Yes, Obama did say it
Yet, things are worse but to me no need to explain
Because I get it
To win the race is the key
Behind the presidential desk they want to be seated
It's a contest to see who's better at lying
Upon further examination disgust is too light a word
My current situation is 100% destitute
It's made worse because people want to learn,
How to further 'help', but keep in mind no one asked you
poem by Martin McCollugh
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The Poet And The Lonely Lady
one summer a poet writes about
true love
and happiness
and this lonely lady
chances upon the lines of this poet
and she has tasted the sweetness
of happiness that love can bring
she loves every word in the poem
feels the ecstasy of every line
and every night
she says she cannot sleep
thinking, feeling,
wanting to be lost and be held in
his arms
she decides to love
the poet
ultimately
she travels to the place stated in his address
hoping to see him
so she will finally know
his love that touches her
in the bottom
of her heart
only to find out
it is sad
that the address does not exist
and the poet does not live there
and does not even
exist
perhaps only in the imagination
of those who want to love
and be loved
she is so sad she jumps into
a conclusion that love is a
lie
that the poet is a
liar
since then, she stops reading the poems
of that poet
(or any other poet)
who never dies
because he for once never ever lived
in the first place
except the poem
perhaps
which to date still convinces lonely ladies to live and believe
to love and be loved
that which defines
what love is
where love is found
and find it somehow in the arms of one
who is real, like it is alive, like it is true
to the one beside her
who touches her
with his
warm hands
who melts
her in his eyes
because
even unwritten by any poet
this love is still so beautiful....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Want Out
From our lives' beginning on
We are pushed in little forms
No one asks us how we like to be
In school they teach you what to think
But everyone says different things
But they're all convinced that
They're the ones to see
So they keep talking and they never stop
And at a certain point you give it up
So the only thing that's left to think is this
I want out--to live my life alone
I want out--leave me be
I want out--to do things on my own
I want out--to live my life and to be free
People tell me A and B
They tell me how I have to see
Things that I have seen already clear
So they push me then from side to side
They're pushing me from black to white
They're pushing 'til there's nothing more to hear
But don't push me to the maximum
Shut your mouth and take it home
'Cause I decide the way things gonna be
I want out--to live my life alone
I want out--leave me be
I want out--to do things on my own
I want out--to live my life and to be free
There's a million ways to see the things in life
A million ways to be the fool
In the end of it, none of us is right
Sometimes we need to be alone
(Solo: KaiBoth)
No no no, leave me alone
I want out--to live my life alone
I want out--leave me be
I want out--to do things on my own
I want out--to live my life and to be free
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Or Death?
Every day we live, we always face death
We get closer to it, every time we take a breath
Life is special but death brings peace
Life brings reality and things you believe
Death is hard for everyone around
Death is quiet, no more bad sounds
Life is also hard, all the things we go through
Life can never be easy, no matter what you do
Death is sad, for those who cry
Death is meaningful, for those who die
Life is a work of art, it's nice to look
Life is full of teachings, like an open book
Death is the new life, might as well be dead
Death is a lot more, for what's up ahead
Life brings new things, always something new
Life brings surprises, something out the blue
Death is scary, nothing we want to see
Death is negative, a place we don't want to be
Life is full of love, with the ones close to you
Life is full of money, for those who sue
Death is empty, nothing compared to this
Death is a lot of things, too long of a list
But life is everything; don't wait till there's nothing left
Death can wait, so don't waste your last breath
So just pick your choice, which one? Life or death?
poem by Triauna Hall
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Automation
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
steal lady of the night.
She sits alone while birdies flock
to bid her a goodnight.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
the world's automated
and the lady in a metal cloak
will live alone, unaided.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
her hard drive stirs again
and while I type this poem,
so dies my mighty pen.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock,
so true, so true the fear
that life as we once knew it
has slowly disappeared.
Tick tock, tick tock,
computer's clock
we victims of our time.
The last bird flies above us
while all of nature dies.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Brutal world
Taken, Taken away, Taken away from the world
When life was removed you loss your hope, your drive & your passion girl
Its hard to give
Its hard to live
In this life I feel so ill
To this matter of homocide
Where the weak is victimizied
People are just taking lives
Because they can
This kind of love this kind of hate is surely unhealthy for any man any creature
Place to place people to people
Life to death ratio
The ones you love are sure to go
Some place else where you will wish to be
You will be wishing to see
The things in life so differently
From day to day
Tears fall from face to eye
In their own bloody remains they lie
People die Family go
This is the worlds daily show
Taken, Taken away, Taken away from the world
When life was removed you loss your hope, your drive & your passion girl
poem by Courtney Steele
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I Want Out
I want out
(m&l - hansen)
From all lives beginning on
We are pushed in little forms
No one asks us how we like to be
In school they teach us what to think
But everyone says different things
But theyre all convinced that
Theyre the ones to see
So they keep talking and they never stop
And at certains point you give it up
So the only thing thats left to think is this
I want out... to live my life alone
I want out... leave me be
I want out... to do things on my own
I want out... to live my life and to be free
People tell me a and b
They tell me how I have to see
Things that I have seen already clear
So they push me then from side to side
Theyre pushing me from black to white
Theyre pushingtil theres nothing more to hear
But dont push me to the maximum
Shut your mouth and take it home
cause I decide the way things gonna be
I want out... to live my life alone
I want out... leave me be
I want out... to do things on my own
I want out... to live my life and to be free
Theres a million ways to see the things in life
A million ways to be the fool
In the end of it, none of us is right
Sometimes we need to be alone
I want out... to live my life alone
I want out... leave me be
I want out... to do things on my own
I want out... to live my life and to be free
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Putting It On Record For Now...
there is this lady-judge
who had two talented and intelligent sons
with leadership qualities
she loved them so much
her husband is a lawyer who defended the poor
and the oppressed
they live on top of a hill away from the rest
they live a very private life
and mind their own affairs
her sons believed in an ideology of liberating the poor from their chains
left her home and fled to the mountains
the military searched them
and they vanished
there were many things that were rumored
one body was found beside a river ridden with bullets
rotten and worms were consuming each wound
another body was later found on the other side of the mountain
under the forest trees with a face that is severely disfigured
they speculated that they were the bodies of her two sons
missing for years and now thought of dead
the lady judge is strong
we do not speak about it
if she were weaker she would have gone insane
her husband got sick
and found no meaning in lawyering for the masses anymore
i must remember this
and write about it
because no one has done it
this i put on record
we did nothing to appease her
we did nothing to
put into the hands of the law those culprits
those were the harsh times
we only prayed
we only offered flowers
we only left towards our own respective homes
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Friends
Words and music by Andy Summers
I likes to eat my friends and make no bones about it
I likes to eat my friends, I couldn't do without it
Ain't a man or poet, friend, I know just how you'll taste
Your limbs go sliding down my throat and never go to waste
Your death, of course, will sadden me, until I grok your essence
I know your life was not in vain when digestion is commencing
Consider this a celebration and the deepest pact of friends
And I hope that you will dine on me when I come to an end
(ah....)
Even friends may come to you with a new found revelation
But think of it as life renewed and not their termination
"To know you is to eat you" should be the code of lovers
Death brings the highest act of love preserved for one another
(ah....)
People say that what you are is only what you eat
And my friends become a part of me, oh well it's then that life's complete
To know you is to eat you, the act of love supreme
Each one of us inside himself can appetise the dream
(ah....)
(to fade
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Question
Why do we never get an answer
When were knocking at the door?
With a thousand million questions
About hate and death and war.
Its where we stop and look around us
There is nothing that we need.
In a world of persecution
That is burning in its greed.
Why do we never get an answer
When were knocking at the door?
Because the truth is hard to swallow
Thats what the wall of love is for.
Its not the way that you say it
When you do those things to me.
Its more the way that you mean it
When you tell me what will be.
And when you stop and think about it
You wont believe its true.
That all the love youve been giving
Has all been meant for you.
Im looking for someone to change my life.
Im looking for a miracle in my life.
And if you could see what its done to me
To lose the the love I knew
Could safely lead me through.
Between the silence of the mountains
And the crashing of the sea
There lies a land I once lived in
And shes waiting there for me.
But in the grey of the morning
My mind becomes confused
Between the dead and the sleeping
And the road that I must choose.
Im looking for someone to change my life.
Im looking for a miracle in my life.
And if you could see what its done to me
To lose the the love I knew
Could safely lead me to
The land that I once knew.
To learn as we grow old
The secrets of our souls.
Its not the way that you say it
When you do those things to me.
Its more the way you really mean it
When you tell me what will be.
Why do we never get an answer
When were knocking at the door?
With a thousand million questions
About hate and death and war.
Its where we stop and look around us
There is nothing that we need.
In a world of persecution
That is burning in its greed.
Why do we never get an answer
When were knocking at the door?
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life After War
Being nice is not enough…
A relationship is tough…
Living by the relationship…
If you are ready that’s cool…
But in that way you never…
Finished school…
And the teen age life you…
Never lived…
Protecting your country was …
Your Adams rib…
Now because of what you did…
Joining the army at 17…
That uniform was your dream…
But the conflict that came and went…
Give your life a different scent…
Marriage at such a young age…
Entwined in war gave rage…
Hiding to the world…
Now back home to face the girl…
Her being your wife…
And the war…then that strife…
What an after life…
War rules kelp you living…
Back in the world…
People are not giving…
Sleeping in mud…
Running up and down hills…
This “back to the world”…
Life isn’t real…
After 13 months you still wish to kill…
For that was your only drill…
Now you are an adult…
Living on a whole new boat…
The laws are new and has truly…
Changed…
Now I am somewhat deranged…
Strange…
Bottled…
Up is anger plenty…
Sympathy I don’t have any…
Tears fill my eyes…
Now my life I surmise…
Surprise…
In the mind dead or alive…
The nightmares rise…
Now all tensed up inside…
The least little thing…
And life is disrupted…
Not to mention the demands of a relationship…
Ooooo! I what to bust that lip…
But this calls for a new chip…
Because of the things which I never did…
For in the army my teenage…
Year were hide…
Being a trooper you have this duty…
Making you true to the flag…“Back to the world” a drag…
The people here play tag…
In the world I come from…Tag will get you killed…
Prejudice…has not changed…
In the hood the same old thang…
So now I try to concentrate my brain…
Just to fit in…you know be plain…
But people still thought me insane…
So to God I go…
Prostrating on the floor…
Pray and pray…and pray some more…
The things I did to other…
I dare tell my mother…
With her I could not live…
For deep within I pout…
And at the world I shout…
In the hospital…
Cause shouting isn’t right…
The nightmares get worse each night…
My whole being filling with tears…
Doctors keep putting me on those pills…
Soon they become a thrill…
Is my life real?
Why do I still want to kill?
Leaving the hospital without…the doctors…
Consent…
Reliving the past…
My friends dying all around …
At home they cannot see my pain…
Now my body hears no sound…
After all the dead bodies I found…
Some younger then me…
Damn! Why can’t my government see…
What a teen life they stole …
Now I am middle age…
That’s getting old…
And still to the flag I will give my soul…
Even when they lied to me…
While I was rising my hand…
After I do …I became a man…
So now the after math…
Death seem to smooth…
Why did live…
And not die in that bloody pool…
My death to even the score…
I can’t live like this any more…
My responsibilities are not the same…
People playing silly games…
In the world I live games got you dead…
Crowds give me fear…
I treat them as if hunting a deer…
My relationships are slow…
I grow as time go…
But still down deep inside…
Mountains of shame I hide…
And yet there is this American pride…
What is it we me…
Many friends back in that catastrophe…
My life ain’t no good for me…
Help me…to die…and be a hero…
Let me be among the ARMIES best…
Those who died have pass the test…
Not living in this new world…
Not seeing new rules…
Women I have learn to respect…
They are the only ones who gave a hack…
And the flag…as I die …I still respect…
My friends of that far away land…
I’ll come back again…
Love you my brothers…
For you the brave have no color…
Whisperkwane
[email protected] om
Dedication to All who keep this home land free…
For the trooper of all wars (VIETNAM) …
I pray everyday…that my life I can take away…
I remember you…all…Hoping the government will as well.
Shout out: to 173rd…the heard 1967-75
Bong Song…jungle…Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol (lrrps)
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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My Rhymes Are My Own
Some of those who happen to be strangers to me
Say what I write is stuff as opposed to poetry
But that's their opinion and that suits me fine
And what is their business could never be mine.
As for me other writers professional or amateur I never criticize
For from my years of living I have come to realize
That the Wordsmith Trade all of it's writers does need
Though at making a living from writing few known to succeed.
In a success driven Human World many for success do compete
And many ambitious people live on every street
Yet not everyone does live at a fashionable address
And not everyone known to be a great success.
I thank those who of me have kind things to say
In life you win some and lose some as life is that way
And those who criticize me are those I've never known
But I can vouch for one thing my rhymes are my own.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Living
To toil all day and lie worn-out at night;
To rise for all the years to slave and sleep,
And breed new broods to do no other thing
In toiling, bearing, breeding — life is this
To myriad men, too base for man or brute.
To serve for common duty, while the brain
Is hot with high desire to be distinct;
To fill the sand-grain place among the stones
That build the social wall in million sameness,
Is life by leave, and death by insignificance.
To live the morbid years, with dripping blood
Of sacrificial labor for a Thought;
To take the dearest hope and lay it down
Beneath the crushing wheels for love of Freedom;
To bear the sordid jeers of cant and trade,
And go on hewing for a far ideal, —
This were a life worth giving to a cause,
If cause be found so worth a martyr life.
But highest life of man, nor work nor sacrifice,
But utter seeing of the things that be!
To pass amid the hurrying crowds, and watch
The hungry race for things of vulgar use;
To mark the growth of baser lines in men;
To note the bending to a servile rule;
To know the natural discord called disease
That rots like rust the blood and souls of men;
To test the wisdoms and philosophies by touch
Of that which is immutable, being clear,
The beam God opens to the poet's brain;
To see with eyes of pity laboring souls
Strive upward to the Freedom and the Truth,
And still be backward dragged by fear and ignorance;
To see the beauty of the world, and hear
The rising harmony of growth, whose shade
Of undertone is harmonized decay;
To know that love is life — that blood is one
And rushes to the union — that the heart
Is like a cup athirst for wine of love;
Who sees and feels this meaning utterly,
The wrong of law, the right of man, the natural truth.
Partaking not of selfish aims, withholding not
The word that strengthens and the hand that helps:
Who waits and sympathizes with the pettiest life,
And loves all things, and reaches up to God
With thanks and blessing — He alone is living.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Picture Book
When I was not quite five years old
I first saw the blue picture book,
And Fraulein Spitzenburger told
Stories that sent me hot and cold;
I loathed it, yet I had to look:
It was a German book.
I smiled at first, for she'd begun
With a back-garden broad and green,
And rabbits nibbling there: page one
Turned; and the gardener fired his gun
From the low hedge: he lay unseen
Behind: oh, it was mean!
They're hurt, they can't escape, and so
He stuffs them head-down in a sack,
Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,
And Fraulein laughed, 'Ho, ho! Ho, ho!'
And gave my middle a hard smack,
I wish that I'd hit back.
Then when I cried she laughed again;
On the next page was a dead boy
Murdered by robbers in a lane;
His clothes were red with a big stain
Of blood, he held a broken toy,
The poor, poor little boy!
I had to look: there was a town
Burning where every one got caught,
Then a fish pulled a nigger down
Into the lake and made him drown,
And a man killed his friend; they fought
For money, Fraulein thought.
Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.
'Ho, ho!' Then she explained it all
How robbers kill the little boys
And torture them and break their toys.
Robbers are always big and tall:
I cried: I was so small.
How a man often kills his wife,
How every one dies in the end
By fire, or water or a knife.
If you're not careful in this life,
Even if you can trust your friend,
You won't have long to spend.
I hated it--old Fraulein picked
Her teeth, slowly explaining it.
I had to listen, Fraulein licked
Her fingers several times and flicked
The pages over; in a fit
Of rage I spat at it...
And lying in my bed that night
Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found
A stretch of barren years in sight,
Where right is wrong, but strength is right,
Where weak things must creep underground,
And I could not sleep sound.
poem by Robert Graves
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Aging Poet
Come and see the old poet
Laying in his bed of ashes and dust
His love in ruins
His mentality frozen by restless rust
His hungry heart emptied of it's fertile blood
His souls melodic purpose nearly gone
The mellifluous music now so silent
The end, of a once wonderful and powerful song.
What happened to this poet
With dread you may ask,
The ancient story ofcourse
The evils of age and wear, and so damned many things out there
Working at his heart, fulfilling their wretched task.
When poets speak truth and beauty into this old world
Any breath may be their last
For so many evil spirits will stalk them
With an endless passion to haunt, from the past
The deepest hearts, so oft, become weary and tossed
As all about them seems dreadfully lost
And everything fearful and frustrating and unknown
Becomes thriving weeds where once, long ago
With such ease a radiant, eloquent garden had grown.
Still this old poet wrote
For was his vocation so to do
Even through the battles with doubt
He held on, ever true
Words from his heart
He rended to give
The conundrum being
It cost him his life, to fully live...
So look! Look deep
Here lays the old poet - in state
Having succumbed - like all the living shall
To mankinds unavoidable fate.
May all the aging poets forever
Rest in peace, and ever be blest
For the sempiternal words they lay upon us
- dug with pain from the depths of their souls
Are nothing less than the very best.
(for: Townes Van Zandt)
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Broadcast
She puts on the light
She looks in the mirror
And cries to herself
Its becoming much clearer that
Hes not where he says
Hes not hanging with her
She flicks off the light
And she turns with a shiver
And when he comes home
He blood races cold
Its like being caught
In a rough strangle hold
Theyve done it so long
But for now shell just keep hanging on
Cause the little things remind her
Of the good times they have had
Whenever she recalls those things
Its hard to think that hes so bad
It seems no matter where she goes
She hears this song on the radio, radio
And when she does she smiles to it
And no matter how hard she tries
She can turn it up
Or let it die, let it die
Even though she knows
Hes driving her to ruin
Shes falling in love
With a new boy and his smile
But she cant admit
To herself her hearts run wild
Her story time dreams
Of a fairy tale life
Are holding her back
To keep fighting this lost life
So she still holds on
To the hope he might change
But one hundred percent
Of the time hes the same
And now her heart has been smashed
The wheel has been broke
But she clings to the end of that rope
Cause the little things remind her
Of the good times they have had
Whenever she recalls those things
Its hard to think that hes so bad
It seems no matter where she goes
She hears this song on the radio, radio
And when she does she smiles to it
But no matter how hard she tries
She can turn it off
Or let it die, let it die
Even though she knows
Hes driving her to ruin
It seems no matter where she goes
She hears this song on the radio, radio
And when she does she smiles to it
But no matter how hard she tries
She can turn it off
Or let it die, let it die
Even though she knows
Hes driving her to ruin
song performed by by Unsung Zeros
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of Villon and Fat Madge
‘'Tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.' -Falstaff
‘The night cometh, when no man can work.'
What though the beauty I love and serve be cheap,
Ought you to take me for a beast or fool?
All things a man could wish are in her keep;
For her I turn swashbuckler in love's school.
When folk dropp in, I take my pot and stool
And fall to drinking with no more ado.
I fetch them bread, fruit, cheese, and water, too;
I say all's right so long as I'm well paid;
‘Look in again when your flesh troubles you,
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.'
But soon the devil's among us flesh and fell,
When penniless to bed comes Madge my whore;
I loathe the very sight of her like hell.
I snatch gown, girdle, surcoat, all she wore,
And tell her, these shall stand against her score.
She grips her hips with both hands, cursing God,
Swearing by Jesus' body, bones, and blood,
That they shall not. Then I, no whit dismayed,
Cross her cracked nose with some stray shiver of wood
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.
When all's made up she drops me a windy word,
Bloat like a beetle puffed and poisonous:
Grins, thumps my pate, and calls me dickey-bird,
And cuffs me with a fist that's ponderous.
We sleep like logs, being drunken both of us;
Then when we wake her womb begins to stir;
To save her seed she gets me under her
Wheezing and whining, flat as planks are laid:
And thus she spoils me for a whoremonger
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.
Blow, hail or freeze, I've bread here baked rent free!
Whoring's my trade, and my whore pleases me;
Bad cat, bad rat; we're just the same if weighed.
We that love filth, filth follows us, you see;
Honour flies from us, as from her we flee
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.
I bequeath likewise to fat Madge
This little song to learn and study;
By god's head she's a sweet fat fadge,
Devout and soft of flesh and ruddy;
I love her with my soul and body,
So doth she me, sweet dainty thing.
If you fall in with such a lady,
Read it, and give it her to sing.
poem by François Villon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The POET from the POEM
That lady -
whose eyes can see no ordinary eyes can see,
and desolate winds crying for her name
till truth and lies are all the same;
who knows how she ate the stars at night,
yet left the old moon sleeping in the sky?
Certainly she married that awful death
only not to die.
Out of her hands there came blood,
till blood covered her flesh.
And the blood had life...had sweeter life
till blood became her flesh.
How can you know the poet from the poem,
or sift the melody from its song?
Judge me, for I'll say
that lady -
is the poet and he being the blood, her poem.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To My Children...
be true to your own paths.
each of you has a destiny
that is your own.
each of you is on a journey,
that only you can take.
there will be storms, tragedies,
and fleeting moments of triumph.
above all, keep on walking.
be respectful!
respect the people you meet...
their thoughts, their feelings,
their religious views,
their sexual orientation,
their way of life...
but be true to yourself.
doubt all things!
question all things!
even what i've told you.
prove all things to yourself.
keep what works for you.
work hard, love even harder.
give more than you take.
care past the point of caring.
live each moment as if
it were your whole lifetime.
be not afraid to touch
to get involved, to get dirty.
help as many people as you can.
forgive quickly,
for you will need forgiveness..
take in stray dogs and cats.
remember that i love you...
when you feel alone, depressed,
or just plain weary...
that still small voice patting
you on the back is me...
i am proud of you,
and i believe in you!
keep walking!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Found Out About You
All last summer in case you dont recall
I was yours and you were mine forget it all
Is there a line that I could write
Sad enough to make you cry
All the lines you wrote to me were lies
The months roll past the love that you struck dead
Did you love me only in my head?
Things you said and did to me
Seemed to come so easily
The love I thought Id won you give for free
Whispers at the bus stop
I heard about nights out in the school yard
I found out about you
Rumors follow everywhere you go
Like when you left and I was last to know
Youre famous now and theres no doubt
In all the places you hang out
They know your name and know what youre about
Whispers at the bus stop
I heard about nights out in the school yard
I found out about you
Street lights blink on through the car window
I get the time too often on am radio
You know its all I think about
I write your name drive past your house
Your boyfriends over I watch your light go out
Whispers at the bus stop
I heard about nights out in the school yard
I found out about you
song performed by by Gin Blossoms
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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