Malade
The sick grapes on the chair by the bed lie prone; at the window
The tassel of the blind swings gently, tapping the pane,
As a little wind comes in.
The room is the hollow rind of a fruit, a gourd
Scooped out and dry, where a spider,
Folded in its legs as in a bed,
Lies on the dust, watching where is nothing to see but twilight and walls.
And if the day outside were mine! What is the day
But a grey cave, with great grey spider-cloths hanging
Low from the roof, and the wet dust falling softly from them
Over the wet dark rocks, the houses, and over
The spiders with white faces, that scuttle on the floor of the cave!
I am choking with creeping, grey confinedness.
But somewhere birds, beside a lake of light, spread wings
Larger than the largest fans, and rise in a stream upwards
And upwards on the sunlight that rains invisible,
So that the birds are like one wafted feather,
Small and ecstatic suspended over a vast spread country.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grey, Grey Sky
Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.
And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.
And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.
My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.
And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.
But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.
poem by Grace Hutton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nicklin’s Torment
I woke up in a cold sweat
and turned on the light.
A shadow was moving over me,
cast by a spider of the night.
By the time I’d blinked
it’d vanished from view,
but then I saw a larger one,
followed by another two.
I closed my eyes for a moment
hoping they would disappear.
When I slowly reopened them
the bedroom was spider clear.
With my hand I mopped my brow
and then saw several more,
they were crawling on the ceiling
and marching across the floor.
I told myself that I was dreaming
or suffering from withdrawal,
but that didn’t stop the spiders
from crawling up the wall.
Sweat dripping from my brow
was stinging in my eyes.
Spiders were now on my bed
at my feet and on my thighs.
The whole room was full of spiders,
on the ceiling, walls, and floor.
My bed was covered and so was I.
I screamed stop! But out came even more.
Spiders crawling on top of spiders,
in my mouth, nose and ears,
their scary eyes staring into mine,
I was choking with utter fear.
I tried in vain to fight them off,
but my hand didn’t move a one.
I must have blacked out just then,
when I awoke they had all gone.
Things are becoming better now
and the spiders are getting less.
I’m told they’ll eventually go for good,
along with my shakes, thirst, and mess.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wings In The Night
Now in the soft spring midnight
There's rush of wings and whirr,
Birds flying softly, swiftly;
The night's a-flutter, a-stir.
Home by the bitter seas,
They have sped home together.
So glad to be coming home
To the grey hills, the grey weather.
Calling and calling softly
One lights by the window-pane:
The rook, weary with building,
Turns to his sleep again.
Ere ever the moor-hens wake
And the wild duck come in,
The birds are about the house
With a long call and thin.
They have wakened the wood-pigeon
To make her plaintive moan,
The wood-pigeon lamenting
For sorrows not her own.
Oh, they are never birds,
But souls of men on the wind,
Seeking the mother's breast,
The heart that is soft and kind.
Souls of the Irish dead,
Flown from the fields of slaughter,
Home to the mother's arms
Over the wild grey water.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Grey World
Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.
Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.
Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Spiders In The Night
Spiders in the night
Creeping round the walls
Now you'll feel him
Crawling over you
Creepy crawly things
Filling up your bed
Soon you'll feel him
Crawling through your brains
You think he's there
Beware his bite
But when you look
The spider's not in sight
Spiders reappear
Taking peoples names
Everything is taken down insane
There's no way out
And there's no key
But here's a clue
The spider's really me
You're written in his book
The spider won't forget
You won't forget
The spiders in the night
The end is going night
Itsy witsy friends
The spiders disappearing from the night
You think he's gone
You think he's dead
There's no escape
The spiders in your head
All the spiders in the night
All the spiders in the night
All the spiders in the night
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne from Bark At The Moon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There's A Spider In My Room!
I’ve just spotted a spider in my bedroom.
Around the walls, he’s decided to zoom!
My eyes are now glued to the wall;
Not that I’m the least bit worried at all!
Oh no! Now he’s crawling on the ceiling,
And I’m getting a slightly anxious feeling.
He’s now hanging around over my bed:
Just above where I usually lay my head!
I’m sitting, watching him crawling around,
Praying that he doesn’t fall to the ground.
I dare not now switch off the light,
As, of him, I’ll suddenly lose all sight.
Why couldn’t he have stuck to the wall,
Where he would have been less likely to fall?
He’s running around as fast as he can.
Of any size spider, I’m not a great fan.
Unfortunately, at this time of year,
Outside, there are greater things to fear.
If I capture him now and throw him out,
I’ll get a crane fly in return, without a doubt.
A smallish spider, I can just about bear,
But, for crane flies, I really do not care!
I guess, a spider is the lesser evil of the two,
As they can’t fly at you, like crane flies do!
If it’s dark, maybe he, to, will go to sleep,
Or round the room, he may continue to creep.
So, maybe I’ll turn out the light and be brave,
And just hope the spider doesn’t misbehave!
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Saw God
i saw god this morning...
and brushed her long grey hair,
as she sat in her favorite chair,
watching the sunrise through
an open window....
the stray cat lay in her lap,
perfectly still,
while birds with hidden faces
sang songs to the stillness...
and time itself began again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Through The Veil for Dave Walker
there's a light
in the window
of the house
forgotten by time;
a book on the table,
unopened.
footprints on the floor
covered with dust.
a cup in the sink
half-empty.
the wind blows
curtains grey with time....
whispering, whispering....
names that cannot
be heard.
voices, echoes,
creaking the floor.
a book of photographs
on the closet floor.
walking through the mist,
the fog and the shadows,
touching small particles
of being left like gifts....
lives unwrapped into mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Relieved again was I
A summer afternoon
Sun hidden in clouds
That formed a thin screen
Over the entire sky
Dispersed sun light
Crows flying in a formation
As I was witnessing
Through a window from
The sixth floor
Doves fluttering from
One window to the other
Hot wind blowing but
Adding some comfort to
The sweating and mildly drenched body
And wiping off some sweat inside
Busy traffic down on the roads
Exhausts’ spewing
Screaming brakes
And sudden halts
Sleepy gulmohar leaves with
Yellow little flowers on top
My eyes shifted to a bee
As it passed near my face
With a zing and a sharp sound
How quick and smart it was
I stopped watching outside
But inside the balcony
My eyes following the fast bee, our hero
Oh, my god he got stuck
Onto to a spider web
A net spread to catch a prey
“Our hero bee is a prey now”
Was my inner cry
No he was not letting that happen
Struggling with his legs
And trying to get out of the web
A big spider in the middle of the web
Woke up off its sleep
Because of ripples in the web
And fast approaching its prey
Struggle on one side
Chase on the other
Spider almost reached its prey
With its legs placed in a position
Over the struggling bee
Spider lowering its body
Onto its prey for a fatal bite
It was a fraction of a second
Our hero succeeded in
Breaking the web and fleeing
Bee came off but took sometime
Before getting his original speed
A disappointed spider went back
To the centre of the web for its
Afternoon nap
Bee again flying around me
In merry and gay
How relieved was I
I looked back and recollected
“For what I am here”
On this sixth floor
Yeah, it was a hospital
My daughter admitted
And was laboring to
Deliver her first kid
Walked towards the
Labour room
And my wife nagging me
“Where did you go? ”
I had no answer, but
Before I started answering
A nurse appeared and
Said to both of us
“Congrats, it is grandson”
Relieved again was I
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Purity
In the dark tabernacle,
a shaft of sunlight
illumines the heart
and shines through
a million years of dust.
Clouds and clouds of swirling
dust
spiralling
through the light
which spills in a golden pool
on damp, grey stone and iron rust.
When the light moves
it does not take the dust there to it.
When the dust slides into darkness,
the light does not pursue it.
Why then does the heart invent
heart bruising burdens to shoulder?
(Why does the heart consent
to the illusion of growing older?)
poem by Brian Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Boris The Spider
Look, hes crawling up my wall
Black and hairy, very small
Now hes up above my head
Hanging by a little thread
Boris the spider
Boris the spider
Now hes dropped on to the floor
Heading for the bedroom door
Maybe hes as scared as me
Wheres he gone now, I cant see
Boris the spider
Boris the spider
Creepy, crawly
Creepy, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
There he is wrapped in a ball
Doesnt seem to move at all
Perhaps hes dead, Ill just make sure
Pick this book up off the floor
Boris the spider
Boris the spider
Creepy, crawly
Creepy, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Creepy, creepy, crawly, crawly
Hes come to a sticky end
Dont think he will ever mend
Never more will he crawl round
Hes embedded in the ground
Boris the spider
Boris the spider
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spiderman
Spider man, spider man
Does whatever a spider can
Spins a web any size
Catches thieves just like flies
Look out!
There comes the spider man
Is he strong?
Listen, bud
Hes got radioactive blood
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead
Hey, there!
There goes the spider man
In the chill of the night
At the scene of a crime
Like a streak of light
He arrives just in time
Spider man, spider man
Friendly neighborhood spider man
Wealth and fame
Hes ignorant
Action is his reward
Look out!
Here comes the spider man
To him, lifes a big bang up
Whenever theres a hang up
Youll find the spider man.
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shades of Grey
Black is the color of the night
Grey is the shadow of you I sight
White is the shirt you wear
Black is your suit I declare
White is the wall you lean against
Grey is our path I sensed
Black is the memory I lost
Black is the road we never crossed
Grey is the prospect of the day
Grey is the taxi driving away
Black is the truth to never find you
Black is everything I can't undo
Black is my room without light
White is my color of hope in spite
Grey is the circle around my heart
Black is the truth like a work of art
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sometimes I am amazed of the magic that is done
It all started with something insignificant
Like dust,
Sticking on a window pane, and I want it
Dusted off, it is dirt, it is unwanted,
And I do not even know what to do next
About such
Insignificance and feelings of simply
Trying to get rid of dust immediately,
But then, I begin to think about this
Dust, this me, this dust in me,
Some dusts on my feet, some dusts on
My forehead, and some dusts in my ears,
Some dusts in my eyes so obstructive
Of what I really am, and I know what to do next,
The bulb lighting in my head in a sudden,
I touch the dust,
I feel the dust with my fingers, and I am crazy enough
I taste the dust on my window pane,
And I shiver,
I am shaking to its taste, the taste of nothingness
If was from dust that I really come,
I now remember,
It will be to dust that I shall return,
I am now reminded,
And the dust that I used to see
As dirt, as something so insignificant, is now,
A magical patch, glistening, so filled with meaning,
I am nothing but dust; I am biting the dust,
I am very insignificant, in that window pane, at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gannets
I've never once seen them on land though from the shore I see
Them with folded wings from dizzy heights diving into the sea
And then they rise out of the waves and upwards again fly
These hunters of the ocean who stalk their prey from the sky.
To watch gannets fishing is an amazing sight
They fly above the ocean and dive from a great height
I once see one dead on a beach it was washed in by the tide
Born on a cliff ledge overlooking the sea and out at sea it died.
The gannets are true fishing birds on humans for food they don't rely
They roost and breed on remote ocean cliffs and of human kind are shy
They are birds I don't often see they are seldom close to the shore
Though I recall I once watched them fish for a half an hour or more.
True ocean birds born by the sea and out at sea they die
With folded wings they dive for fish like rockets from the sky
A guttural noise the only sound they make they do not have a song
They take their living from the sea and to the sea they belong.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jane and You and the Hollow Tree.
Jane waited for you
by the narrow road
that led to Linch farm
the water tower visible
against the afternoon sky
of pale blue and white
cold clouds
she was dressed
in a grey coat
and her dark hair
was pinned back
with grips
you noticed
blueness
about her lips
the cold taking toll
wasn't sure
if you would show
she said
the coldness
and such
I said I would
and I say
what I mean
you replied
once you were close to her
she took her hands
out of the coat pockets
and linked her arm
through yours
where shall we go?
she asked
you know it better
around here than I do
you choose
you said
let's go up
the dust track
to the hollow tree
on the way up
to the Downs
she said
ok
you said
and so you walked along
and up the dust track
side by side
and she talked
of the wintery trees
and what birds
there were still about
and how she liked
spring best with the coming
of flowers and birds nesting
and you listened
looking at her
as she spoke
watching her lips move
how when she spoke
her white teeth showed
and now and then
her tongue would show
and it reminded you
of that kiss she gave you
up by Diddling church
as you stood looking
at the grave stones
and she gazed at you
and then kissed
and her tongue
touched yours
and it was like heaven
as if someone
had opened up
your heart
and stuck
their tongue in there
and as you thought
about that kiss
she talked of some girl
of a cowman
who'd got pregnant
and how did that happen?
she asked
and you said nothing
but listened on
and then you reached
the hollow tree
and climbed inside
and sat down
looking out
of the hole
in the side
and it felt cosy
in there
like a small home
and she leaned
in against you
and there was silence
and you looked at her
at her eyes
and hair
and how her lips
were parted
and her white teeth
showed and her tongue
waiting to speak
and you wondered
about that kiss again
and whether
it would happen this time
there in the hollow tree
out of sight
of others
and she showed you
tucked between
her small breasts
a small locket
which used to be
her mother's.
poem by Terry Collett
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Alma Mater
A haunted town thou art to me.
-- Andrew Lang
To-day in Florence all the air
Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair;
In the tall street gay folks are met;
Duomo and Tower gleam overhead,
Like jewels in the city set,
Fair-hued and many-faceted.
Against the old grey stones are piled
February violets, pale and sweet,
Whose scent of earth in woodland wild
Is wafted up and down the street.
The city's heart is glad ; my own
Sits lightly on its bosom's throne.
* * * * * * *
Why is it that I see to-day,
Imaged as clear as in a dream,
A little city far away,
A churlish sky, a sluggish stream,
Tall clust'ring trees and gardens fair,
Dark birds that circle in the air,
Grey towers and fanes ; on either hand,
Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land?
* * * * * * *
Oh, who can sound the human breast?
And this strange truth must be confessed;
That city do I love the best
Wherein my heart was heaviest!
Driving past Van Reenens pass
It’s as if the dark grey sky
slowly folds up around the car.
The windscreen wipers
fights a loosing battle,
while the car’s tyres
slides across the road.
I stop for a moment
and take photos,
of the winter snow landscape.
Outside it’s freezing cold
and soaking wet
and I feel snowflakes,
falling softly against my cheek.
Everywhere a white cloak is spread
and over brown fields of grass,
the fuel station and houses
and as far as I can see
there’s a white magic land.
It looks as if the road
runs to the horizon
into the whiteness
and the ice cold wind stings,
while I stand shivering.
The snow grinds under the tyres
and the car slips a little
when I drive away
and I feel like
staying in a lodge for a while.
.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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