Pinup
The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense
that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup
drawings on the wall above a bench of tools.
Your ears are ringing with the sound of
the mechanic hammering on your exhaust pipe,
and as you look closer you notice that this month's
is not the one pushing the lawn mower, wearing
a straw hat and very short blue shorts,
her shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts.
Nor is it the one in the admiral's cap, bending
forward, resting her hands on a wharf piling,
glancing over the tiny anchors on her shoulders.
No, this is March, the month of great winds,
so appropriately it is the one walking her dog
along a city sidewalk on a very blustery day.
One hand is busy keeping her hat down on her head
and the other is grasping the little dog's leash,
so of course there is no hand left to push down
her dress which is billowing up around her waist
exposing her long stockinged legs and yes the secret
apparatus of her garter belt. Needless to say,
in the confusion of wind and excited dog
the leash has wrapped itself around her ankles
several times giving her a rather bridled
and helpless appearance which is added to
by the impossibly high heels she is teetering on.
You would like to come to her rescue,
gather up the little dog in your arms,
untangle the leash, lead her to safety,
and receive her bottomless gratitude, but
the mechanic is calling you over to look
at something under your car. It seems that he has
run into a problem and the job is going
to cost more than he had said and take
much longer than he had thought.
Well, it can't be helped, you hear yourself say
as you return to your place by the workbench,
knowing that as soon as the hammering resumes
you will slowly lift the bottom of the calendar
just enough to reveal a glimpse of what
the future holds in store: ah,
the red polka dot umbrella of April and her
upturned palm extended coyly into the rain.
poem by Billy Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Seven Wonders
When shadows fall, hell close his eyes
To hear the clocks unwind
Powerless to leash the hands of time
Kindoms fall, the earth revolves
The rain will come this spring
And nothing he could say would change a thing
Seven wonders crowed the man
Knowing six are gone
And how the great illusion lingers on
He cant enfold, the sun or moon
Or wind within his hand
But count the times hell shout the great I am
With all the while, a pontiff smile
Veiling his disgrace
At never owning more than second place
Seven wonders crowed the man
Knowing six are gone
And how the great illusion lingers on
[instrumental]
Seven wonders crowed the man
Knowing six are gone
And how the great illusion lingers
While the sad confusion lingers
All the while illusion lingers on
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's The Little Things
You can burn my house
You can cut my hair
You can make me wrestle naked
With a grizzly bear
You can poison my cat
Baby I don't care
But if you talk in the movies
I'll kill you right there
It's the little things
It's just the little things
Aw it's the little things
It's just the little things
Yeah it's the little things
That drive me wild
I'm like a mad dog
I'm on a short leash
I'm on a tight rope
Hanging by a thread
I'm on some thin ice
You push me too far
Welcome to my nightmare
No more Mr. Nice Guy
You can steal my car
And drive it into the lake
You can stick me in the oven
And put it on bake
You could throw a big brick
Through my window pane
But if I ever hear you ask me
How I got my name
It's the little things
It's just the little things
Aw it's the little things
It's just the little things
Yeah it's the little things
That drive me wild
I'm like a mad dog
I'm on a short leash
I'm on a tight rope
Hanging by a thread
I'm on some thin ice
You push me too far
Welcome to my nightmare
No more Mr. Nice Guy
I've done it all
I mean I been everywhere
I've been beaten
I been stabbed
I been hung
I been burried alive
And I can deal with that
But its the little things
I've done it all
I mean I been everywhere
I've been beaten
I been stabbed
I been hung
I been burried alive
And I can deal with that
Cuz its the little things
It's the little things
It's just the little things
Yeah it's the little things
Just the little things
Aw just the little things
That drive me wild
I'm like a mad dog
I'm on a short leash
I'm on a tight rope
Hanging by a thread
I'm on some thin ice
You push me too far
I'm just a psycho
Pathic psycho
Pathic
I'm like a mad dog
I'm on a short leash
I'm on a tight rope
Hanging by a thread
I'm on some thin ice
You push me too far
Welcome to my nightmare
No more Mr. Nice Guy
It's just the little things
Aw it's the little things
It's just the little things
song performed by by Alice Cooper from Brutal Planet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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20th Century Promised Land
Stories came like the wind
Joining every bridge in the wind
Ringing out footsteps
Calling out stell-heels
I give voice
I give breath
Count out evenings and stars
How fast can these things move on
Taking roots back to yourself
And the reason for fear was moving on
And on
Some time
Great times
Troubled time
Fire for the times
Ringing out footsteps
Calling out steel-heels
Promised land
Great times in commotion
Here come every day
It only lasts an hour
Unhappy the land that has no heroes
No! unhappy the land that needs heroes
And the reason for fear was moving on
The speed of light was moving on
Dont cry
Tears are only wasted waters
Some say God her only loves the proud
Be damned on luck
But not dishearted
Nothing to prove
And nothing to present
I give voice
I give breath
Catching winds in my hand
My hand
Some times
Great times
Catching wind in my hand
My hand
Some times
Great times
Troubled times
Fire for the times
Ringing out footsteps
Calling out steel-heels
Promised land
Great times in commotion
Here comes every dat
It only lasts an hour
Unhappy the land that has no heroes
No! unhappy the land that needs heroes
Ill call you out
Ill scream you out
And I dont care if youre afraid
When city sounds invade the air
Catch the wind in their hands
Promised land
Catch the wind in their hands
Promised lands
Promised lands
Promised lands
Great times in commotion
Lyrics : j kerr music : simple minds (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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MAY' is here again
May is here again
I pray this month does not bring pain
Last month I was thinking of a calling trip
To a country God gives and they sip
Where happiness is called above
Hearts are white like dove
If I go, I may never return again
Because may has brought no pain
To tale of bountiful counts
How many followed last month in tuneless sounds
April had lodged my heart in cramp corner
A peep at the future, May can take me further
Exotic journey, April has call
In May due season my pains will fall
Might of last month I can’t retain
May is here again
poem by Godspower Oshodin
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The Return
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!
See, they return, one by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe,"
Inviolable.
Gods of the Wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!
Haie! Haie!
These were the swift to harry;
These the keen-scented;
These were the souls of blood.
Slow on the leash,
pallid the leash-men!
poem by Ezra Pound
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Ides of March
The Ides of March come.
Seven days preceding the 15th day
Of every other month.
What significance did the Romans give this?
And 'why' is the 13th of October their 'ides'?
Outside of poetic expression,
What value does 'ides' have?
And whose ides come to visit you and when?
Will they be in March, May, or July?
And then...
Will you notice them?
My mother use to say,
When I was a child and extremely naïve...
'The Ides of March will soon be upon you.'
I thought she meant 'eyes'!
Needless to say,
I was glad when March came and went away!
Not realizing then...
Every other month from March also had 'ides'.
I still want to know,
What importance do these 'ides' have and why?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Day Jane Fainted
Jane fainted in the town
by the coach
on Saturday morning
and her mother
and other women
were around her
and you stood
a little way away
wondering what
had happened to her
I think it must be
that time of the month
you heard one woman say
maybe
her mother said
but she's not usually
like this
she added
will she be all right?
you asked
bending down
next to one
of the women
who had gathered
her mother looked at you
and said
yes it happens
at certain times
of the month
oh right
you said
none the wiser
gazing at Jane
at her dark hair
her eyes closed
her features
white and sweaty
best give her some air
her mother said
and you all stood up
and her mother
fanned her
with her hat
then after a minute or so
Jane opened her eyes
and said
what happened?
I went all funny
and everything went white
you fainted
her mother said
waving the hat
in front of Jane's face
I want to get up
Jane said
and so you
and her mother
helped her
to her feet
and she leaned
against the wall
of the bank
and looked around
she'll be all right now
a woman said
it happens
another said
after a few minutes
they went off
to the shops
leaving you
and your mother
and Jane
and her mother
standing by the coach
I'll be all right now
Jane said
ok
her mother said
and you all walked
along the street
to the shops
Jane walking behind
with you
her hand stealthily
reaching down
for yours and giving it
a little squeeze
then releasing it again
looking up at the sky
which had become dark
threatening rain.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Dog
'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
And one was on me with a bound,
Seeking to lick my face,
And so I bought him for a pound
And took him to my place.
Three acres by the shore I own,
A hut, a pint wood;
And there for fifteen years alone
He shared my solitude.
It was his own, his only world,
And when with hunting spent,
Each night beside my bed he curled,
And slept in sheer content.
My dog is dead. Though lone I be
I'll never have another;
For with his master-worship he
Was closer than a brother.
My foot is frail and I am old,
Yet how my heart can pity
Pups straining on a short leash-hold
And pent up in the city.
From all thought of self above,
And purged of sex emotion,
I know no form of living love
So deep as dogs devotion.
I have no hope at all of heaven,
I've lived in sin and strife;
But thank God! I at least have given
One dog a happy life.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Force Of Prayer, Or, The Founding Of Bolton, A Tradition
'What is good for a bootless bene?'
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?
'What is good for a bootless bene?'
The Falconer to the Lady said;
And she made answer 'ENDLESS SORROW!'
For she knew that her Son was dead.
She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.
--Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.
The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
This striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across THE STRID?
He sprang in glee,--for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?--
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.
Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long, unspeaking, sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a lover the Lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death;--
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a further-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.
He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, 'Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory!'
The stately Priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at evensong.
And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend!
poem by William Wordsworth
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One Summer 1958
You sat with Fay that summer day
on the flat concrete roof
of the World War Two bomb shelter
down below the tall flats
where you both lived
and you said
do you want to go
to the movies with me?
she looked across
at the coal depot
with its trucks loading
and unloading
I don't have no money
she replied
you looked at her
my dad'll pay
you said
he's always giving me money
for the movies
she shook her head
and you looked ahead
at the sun shining above
the rain tracks
over the coal depot
you had on your blue jeans
and white tee shirt
and she you noticed
turning your head
had a red and white dress
which came just over her knees
and she wore sandals
on bare feet
besides my mother wants me
so she can see me
Fay said with a sigh
she raised and lowered
her legs against
the concrete wall
her sandals making
tapping noises
as they hit the wall
and you noticed bruises
along her thigh
as she moved
and her dress rode higher
what are those bruises
on your leg?
you asked
she looked down
and stopped moving her legs
and pulled her dress hem
over her knees and thighs
I fell
she replied
down the stairs
you looked at her arms
where other fading bruises
blended into her skin
like worn-out badges
we can see a Western film
you said
I'm sure
there's a Jeff Chandler film
so my dad tells me
but she shook her head
too violent
Mother says
Fay uttered looking away
but there's kissing stuff too
you added
Fay looked at you
her blue eyes
moving over you
like a smoothing
palm of a hand
I'm not allowed
to go to the movies
Daddy says
its sinful and only
wicked people
go there
to be tempted
by the Devil
she sighed
and you both sat in silence
for a while
watching pigeons fly
in the blue summer sky
then she turned quickly
and kissed your cheek
and said
don't have to go
to no movie
to see kissing
and you thought
of the boring bits in films
where the cowboy
gets kissed by the girl
after a gun shoot out
and having been kissed
by Fay
you were glad
and guessed that kissing
wasn't at all
too bad.
poem by Terry Collett
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Medley: Hallelujah / Last Month Of The Year
(l. cohen/traditional)
Hallelujah was originally contained in leonard cohen's various positions, while last month of the year is a blues traditional. on the cd booklet this song is credited only as hallelujah.
I heard there was a secret chord
That david played and it pleased the lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this :
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrough ya
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Baby i've been here before
I've seen this room and i've walked this floor
I used to live alone before i knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not some victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
There was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do ya
But remember when i moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was hallelujah
Well, maybe there's a god above
But all i've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
[and here starts last month of the year]
Tell me what month was jesus born in
Last month of the year
Tell me what month was jesus born in
Last month of the year
Got january, january, march oh lord
Got april, may and june lord
You got july oh yeah
September, october and november
Got the twenty fifty
December is the last month of the year
What month was jesus born in
Last month of the year
What month was jesus born in
Last month of the year
Got january, february, march oh lord
Got april, may and june lord
You got july oh but
September, october and november
Got the twenty fifty
December is the last month of the year
(thank you melbourne)
song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death Has Dominion
Officer Burks brings Max
the Bloodhound
into the alley
and Max immediately
strains at his leash.
He's onto the scent
of a killer.
Nose to the gravel,
Max sniffs back and forth,
slobber dripping
from his hammock lips,
his head never rising.
Burks knows Max
will corner the killer,
but not so fast.
He almost trips when
Max breaks his leash
and charges forward,
jaws agape,
incisors bare,
till a shot is heard
and Max drops,
a bullet in his head,
blood puddling
in little lakes
around him.
It is ever so:
Max was slain
by the same killer
wanted by everyone
since the beginning
of time, the killer
who waits
in alleys and caves
and other dark places
primed to harvest,
one by one,
all of us
if our time comes.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Dancing The Tango
i give the initial steps forward and then
you compliment them with some steps backward
and with my left hand on your waist
putting even a slight pressure there
you notice the understandable push and you know
exactly where next to go
without me telling you
even in a whisper
we look up high in the ceiling with dignity
as i carry you
to the places that i want to go
my right hand holds yours
and sometimes i give the signals for the slowing of our steps
as though we are casually walking in the park
the audience look at us
amazed by the grace and
passion in our eyes...
very well like marriage, i said to myself
the fingers speak
the eyes understand
the body moves towards a common direction
the mouth simply listens
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hammer Friend, Hammer Loud
building workers
hammering
with tremendous thrust
to dust the roof
of old construction
long time
unbearable sound
of repeated hammering
puzzled my nerves
but when I observed
the accurate task...
got excited
sometimes it needs
to be hammered
old values
old dogmas
even the old
institutions
holding the global observance
need to be smashed to form
the new constitution
to save the civilians
the nations
and obviously the earth
where we live the human
here hammering workers alone
but millions of millions
when get charge to hammer
just imagine
the dust
irresistible
to expose
a new dawn....
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Which Way Will The Wind Blow
People on the sidewalk
Making small talk
Keeping up with life
Ask no questions
Make no decisions
Just do whats right
Oh, do you wanna runaway
Oh, do you wanna breakaway
Someones screamin
Calling out for help
But everyone looks after themselves
No one cares or gives a damn
How can we live in this land
Are you looking out for you
One hand can change
This world, its true
Some will stay and some must go
But do they really know
Oh, which way will the wind blow
Which way will the seas flow
Which way with time
Oh, which way will the world turn
Whos hand will control it in our time
With our hands on eyes
Fingers in our ears
Weve been like this
For too many years
Let others do what they do
Without asking if its good for you
Turn it round, upside down
Plug it in, turn up the sound
Lets hear whats in your head
Before its too late to be said
song performed by by Uriah Heep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bells Are Ringing
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round
They hear the instructions
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (they travel great distances to the sound)
They are persuaded by the music of the bells
Theyre not responsible for anything they do
(no) the people know
(no) the way to go
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
They hear the sound (they hear the sound)
They hear the sound (they hear the sound)
They hear the sound (they hear the sound)
They hear the sound
The bells are ringing
And everyones walking
With arms extended in a trance
Forgetting their washing
Neglecting the children
Theyre dropping all businesses at hand
A voice is telling them to act a different way
They tilt their heads so they wont miss what it will say
(no) and when its so
(no) theres this to know
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round
They hear the instructions
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound
They are persuaded by the music of the bells
Theyre not responsible for anything they do
(no) the people know
(no) the way to go
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
A girl with cotton in her ears
Is shielded from the bells effect
As if by hidden signal
The people turn to face her
One thousand eyes are staring
They pull away her earplugs
The bells are pealing
And theyre revealing
The simple key to happiness
It isnt evil
It isnt good
Its only what the people miss
The bells explain what theyve been lacking all along
They were disorganized and that was what was wrong
(no) and now they know
(no) the way to go
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
The bells are ringing (bringing the people round)
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
The bells are ringing (bringing the people round)
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (they travel great distances to the sound)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where are you going little girl?
the wooden boat
on one end the little girl with her paddle
a little longer than her frail body
then her mother and her younger sister
under a yellow umbrella against the sun
i can feel her firm tiny hands that hold the paddle
stab the river and stir to make this murkiness
she holds it on clear directions she struggles to push
the water to move the boat
as the sun scorches her brown skin
shiny and thin and yet so unfrightened
i am asking the philosophical question
to you elvi where are they going?
and you where are you going too?
do not answer me with the name of a place
it is the usual answer, tell me more about what i do not know
the one that stirs the river that one that pushes the boat
the one that must make the mother fold her umbrella
the one that must make the little girl stop her paddling
the answer that exhausts all options
the one that must make us shift our paradigms
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Summer's Here At Last!
I wake up early and the sun is shining in the sky.
It sends my still sleepy spirit soaring to a real high.
Having recently had so many a grey and rainy day,
It's nice to see some sunshine finally come our way!
The roads are chock-a-block as folk get away
To local beaches, where they'll spend the day.
Loving couples are strolling slowly hand in hand.
There's a massive queue for the ice cream man.
Some folk are dressed in shorts and strappy tops,
While on their feet, they wear sandals or flip-flops.
Some ladies laze in a bikini reading a good book,
With a pair of sunglasses to complete the look.
Some people in the park relax in a deck chair.
There's a definite smell of suntan lotion in the air.
Birdsong is heard from the branches of the trees,
As is the constant buzzing of the bumble bees.
A beautiful bright blue butterfly catches my eye.
I pause and watch enchanted as it flutters on by.
Kids dash in and out of the shallow paddling pool -
Playing in the water, whilst keeping nice and cool.
I hear the hum of an electric lawn mower.
I see ripples on the river left by a lone rower.
I hear a garden sprinkler chit-chittering away,
Giving crucial hydration on this hot summer day.
Way up high, in the cloudless pale blue sky,
A small plane leaves a smoke trail as it flies by.
The inviting smells from a barbeque drift past my nose.
I hear someone squeal as they're drenched by a hose!
Wind chimes are stirred by the soft summer breeze -
With their plinking, tinkling sounds, my ear, they please.
I wish that days like this could just last and last,
But they always seem to fly by extremely fast.
All too soon, this perfect day comes to a close.
Will tomorrow be another sunny day? Who knows?
poem by Angela Wybrow
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A Picture Of Papa
here is papa's picture
before he died
30 years ago
beside his izuzu pick-up
carrying a bottle of gin on one hand
and a gun on his holster
his right hand holds
the waist of a young woman
in white shorts
he has a pipe on his mouth
a smoke over his head
and he is grinning like a
macho lover
that young woman is not my mother
he says she was his true love
but she was taken away
by the rebels
mother died when i was six
but i already understood what was really going on
papa was very proud of me
he liked my drawings and my
games
i am the only boy
i do not smoke and i do not drink
and i married
the only woman that i really love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The time.
Often I have to walk of no time
Sometimes I have to free it's way
because it is in a strange hurry
Other occasion I have to take it by my hand
When barely play the old feet
Like a sneaky witch...
The time that no longer resembles either itself
Takes me forward with invisible hands
As like wants to waist me over the peak stream of Drin River
Other times behaves like a wayward child
And cannot reach how to answer to it
Sometimes makes me to rip it like a shirt with dirty old patches
Sometimes I make its roots to soak my time of water
Because looks like it's gone mysteriously in my unseen hands
The time
The most matured mist that moves according itself
With no time to even eat itself
And forgets to measure it's loss
Trimmed and extended
Squashed in itself
Like a cubic of barren minds
The time that got stuck at place of no place
Bearing myself in, also
Calling me an easy simple element... Which it's not true...
The time with transparent of double green rhythm
Through the entangled hair
A time lost more then one time and not for my fault
Time of disobedience
Omissions
The time that
In a day to come, shall eat for sure you and me
Ignoring us like we never have been before
The time
Always marches with us and without us
And we only deceive ourselves
Like that we have it in forever in our hands...
The time.
poem by Vasil Marku
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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