Into the Shadow
Come; let us walk towards the water's edge
through soft green grass, adorned with wild flowers.
Sheltered on a blanket spread, we will stretch
beneath the shadow of the Alder's boughs.
I shall lean sure against your beating heart
as setting sun dips towards ev'ning sky.
While long fingers creep silently across
the day, in knowledge of you, I shall lie.
When darkness moves into the dim of night
and we must fold the blanket of our dreams
into the ending of our grateful lives
closing our way along the bright white beam
may dominion keep our two hands entwined
and keep them thus until the end of time.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Related quotes
Blanket
Let not vanish the oversea service
With wool soft,
As the flash of fire-worms.
On the blue blanket,
‘Made in Korea’ printed,
Made Korean hands immortal,
But ‘SHEEP’ written nowhere.
As December threatened with mist,
Blanket kept me warm.
My soul shuddered a night,
Shaken by the fever storm,
And I crept tired,
Under blanket refugee like,
Then a Paracetamol pill lulled me.
Under the woolly blanket,
Bloom dreams amorous
At silvered fragrant night:
Entangled tender branches,
Then did chit bud fresh,
Within the folds unruly
Of the blanket blue.
Simple sheep on hillock grazed,
Giving wool great,
Eternal changed:
Things simple so changed great.
Evil showers heavily,
Earth is frozen,
And need a blanket to warm up.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Footprints
Its beautiful outside, an old hand gathers wood,
Can he see me sitting here? his mind is somewhere else.
His friend have flown away, hes left out in the cold.
He wont sit by my fire, he says he likes it in the snow.
Where footprints never go, he likes it in the snow.
Its getting dark outside, the old hands going home,
Has he someone waiting there? or is he living on his own?
Where footprints never go, he likes it in the snow...
White blanket, hiding the traces of tears she didnt see,
Oh white blanket covers the memory
Of all that used to be. all that used to be.
But his heart keeps aching in the same old way,
He cant help feeling that she might come back someday.
Its beautiful outside, a magpie looks for food.
The old hand throws a crumb,
Do you think hes found a friend?
Where footprints never go, he likes it in the snow...
White blanket, hiding the traces of paths he didnt take
Oh white blanket covers the memory
Of moves he didnt make
Oh white blanket, hiding the traces of tears she didnt see
Snow white blanket simply covers the memory
Of all that used to be.
But his heart keeps aching in the same old way
He cant help feeling that she might come back someday.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dying Too....
the bed takes only sleep
it has lessened its variety
before that
years ago
it was something else
it was more than its nature
a playground,
even a sea where boats sail
where seagulls nest
it was a spread of green cool grass
even clouds
it was even an island of paradise
with parakeets
and orchids and singing creeks
or squeaks
a bed ages
those who are in love, and remains to be so
keeps it
friendship starts to seed
flowers bloom, roots widespread
and the bed still becomes a home
of shed skin, white hair,
uncut fingernails
and missing words, and unspoken dreams
it's long partners, the ceiling and the fan
and the bulb that blinks sometimes
still vigil the whole night
time changes everything, it is sad,
the bed wears the blanket in white
dusts accumulate, pictures are removed
from the headboard
the bed also dies, and then waits again
sometime, for the weary, the hopeful
and the like all the rest, the dying too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Alder Tree
Alder tree, O alder tree,
Over his grave reclining;
I've braided a wreath of the fairest flowers
That ever were fed by the spring-time showers.
Or nursed by the summer shining.
Short, but lovely, their lives have been,
Like his in the damp sod sleeping,
And I strew them now on the hillock green,
Where a mournful watch I'm keeping.
Alder tree! O alder tree!
Is it a voice of sorrow
That sighs 'mong thy leaves in the silent night,
When the radiant hue of the moonshine bright
Announceth a pleasant morrow?
'Tis a voice of wailing, O alder tree,
'Tis the evening breeze that weepeth,
'Tis the nightingale singing a song like me,
O'er the grave where my loved one sleepeth!
poem by Charles Mackay
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Boulevard Of Broken dreams
I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone
I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
When the city sleeps
And I'm the only one and I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk a...
My shadow's the only one that walks
beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's
beating
Sometimes I wish someone up there will
find me
'til then I walk alone
I'm walking down the line
That divides me somewhere in my mind
On the border line
Of the edge and where I walk alone
Read between the lines
What's fucked up when everything's alright
Check my vital signs
To know I'm still alive and I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk a...
My shadow's the only one that walks
beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's
beating
Sometimes I wish someone up there will
find me
'til then I walk alone
I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
When the city sleeps
And I'm the only one and I walk a...
My shadow's the only one that walks
beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's
beating
Sometimes I wish someone up there will
find me
'til then I walk alone...
poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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A Sight In Camp
A SIGHT in camp in the day-break grey and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital
tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended
lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious, I halt, and silent stand;
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first,
just lift the blanket:
Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grey'd hair,
and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you, my dear comrade? 10
Then to the second I step--And who are you, my child and darling?
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third--a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of
beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man, I think I know you--I think this face of yours is the face
of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Walking With the Senses
My invisible feet make themselves
Stick up under my thick pink and white blanket:
Closer to my body than I'd like.
I never stop begging my legs to grow.
My circle pink-edged mirror gazes up with its silver eye
At the white ceiling - not receiving a stare in return.
If the flowers embedded in my blanket could talk -
They'd say 'With the senses forever walk.'
On the open plain (Catena Rondo)
Some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds,
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun;
on this earth so it's been since time begun,
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds,
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun
they rejoice over a day that is new
are fresh with the glistening morning dew;
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun
they rejoice over a day that is new
as bees and butterflies flutter along
birds do sing the happiest kind of song
they rejoice over a day that is new,
as bees and butterflies flutter along
wild deer graze at the soft tender green grass
while they in massive herds do slowly pass
as bees and butterflies flutter along
wild deer graze at the soft tender green grass
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds
grow to strength in a world full of big weeds,
wild deer graze at the soft tender green grass,
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds,
blooms appear with heads searching for the sun;
on this earth so it's been since time begun,
some flowers rise up bright from tiny seeds.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Darkness
Gene pitney
Darkness, only darkness
Land of shadow
Thats where my heart goes
Now Im alone, Im on my own
Voices, I hear voices
Sounds in the still night everywhere
But youre not there
No, youre not there
Imagination brings you so near
I reach for your lips, but theyre not here
All of my memories are closing in as one
I walk a little faster, than I start to run
Darkness, only darkness
Land of shadow
Thats where my heart goes
Now Im alone, Im on my own
I long to hold you, thrill to your charm
But how can I hold shadows in my arms?
I reach to find you, stumbling through the night
Searching in my sadness, looking for the light
But theres darkness, only darkness
Land of shadow
Thats where my heart goes
Now Im alone, Im on my own
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perceptions of Pink
You asked me the other day if I saw in pink.
I wasn’t so much surprised by the question
(because I knew neon was how you saw the world)
as I was caught off-guard by it;
no one ever asked me if I saw in color before.
I gave you the first answer that came to mind–
No. I saw the world in cliches and over-used metaphors.
I told you I love anything average and sappy.
Yet, I started thinking more about pink;
specifically, a handmade, chenille, pastel-pink blanket.
I brought my textured pink close enough to examine,
I saw the threads that were frayed, the ones soft with use,
and the occasional red and white strings not hidden well enough.
I saw the craftsmanship: the passion that moves into forms
and the discipline it takes to create.
If you were to walk by me and my blanket of cliches,
you would say you saw a handmade, chenille, pastel-pink blanket.
I invite you yo look closer, as I have done,
to the red passions, the cool-white of discipline, the interwoven threads,
and you will see that everything is the color pink.
poem by Carrie D'Amato
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Secrets Of The Loving Person
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Attachments
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A White Christmas
'Twas the night before christmas.
With a blanket of white.
That covered the earth all through the night.
The trees sparkled like diamonds.
With a glitter so bright.
That each little twinkle made its own christmas light.
A hope and a prayer a white christmas would be.
Awaiting the dawn so all could see.
The beauty and joy a white christmas does bring.
To the holiday season as carolers sing.
For twas the night before Christmas.
God answered your prayer.
With a blanket of white.
Placed with God's loving care."
poem by Carla Jean Laglia Esely
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Beauty Sleeping Breathes
The silhouette of the horizon is wavering, as a mile a minuet we pass
Chalk figures etched into the hillside by ancient hands echoing the grandeur lost of our kingdom green.
Searching for love in the shade of the hangman’s tree,
I'm seeking freedom in the shadow of misery.
Beneath a blanket death the springtime maiden - beauty sleeping breathes
Beneath a blanket of fallen leaves, there she receives comfort warmth from her mothers bosom
Suckling upon the roots of the world tree no serpent is she that sets us free.
The Willow man is singing, heralding the Oak kings return.
The Summer Sun is rising and to no surprise smiles return once more upon the faces
Of those who can find no joy within the hibernation that Winter decrees.
The shadows of the night reflect themselves in contorted passion,
Strange gnarled expressions whisper in my ear the secrets of now and then
The fear of darkness is the fear of death enveloping, suffocating the skin.
poem by David Lacey
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Part 5 of Trout Fishing in America
WORSEWICK
Worsewick Hot Springs was nothing fancy. Somebody put some
boards across the creek. That was it.
The boards dammed up the creek enough to form a huge
bathtub there, and the creek flowed over the top of the boards,
invited like a postcard to the ocean a thousand miles away.
As I said Worsewick was nothing fancy, not like the
places where the swells go. There were no buildings around.
We saw an old shoe lying by the tub.
The hot springs came down off a hill and where they flowed
there was a bright orange scum through the sagebrush. The
hot springs flowed into the creek right there at the tub and
that' s where it was nice.
We parked our car on the dirt road and went down and took
off our clothes, then we took off the baby's clothes, and the
deerflies had at us until we got into the water, and then they
stopped.
There was a green slime growing around the edges of the
tub and there were dozens of dead fish floating in our bath.
Their bodies had been turned white by death, like frost on
iron doors. Their eyes were large and stiff.
The fish had made the mistake of going down the creek too
far and ending up in hot water, singing, "When you lose your
money, learn to lose."
We played and relaxed in the water. The green slime and
the dead fish played and relaxed with us and flowed out over
us and entwined themselves about us.
Splashing around in that hot water with my woman, I began
to get ideas, as they say. After a while I placed my body in
such a position in the water that the baby could not see my
hard-on.
I did this by going deeper and deeper in the water, like a
dinosaur, and letting the green slime and dead fish cover me
over.
My woman took the baby out of the water and gave her a
bottle and put her back in the car. The baby was tired. It was
really time for her to take a nap.
My woman took a blanket out of the car and covered up the
windows that faced the hot springs. She put the blanket ontop
of the car and then lay rocks on the blanket to hold it in place.
I remember her standing there by the car.
Then she came back to the water, and the deerflies were
at her, and then it was my turn. After a while she said, "I
don't have my diaphragm with me and besides it wouldn't
work in the water, anyway. I think it's a good idea if you
don't come inside me. What do you think?"
I thought this over and said all right. I didn't want any
more kids for a long time. The green slime and dead fish
were all about our bodies.
I remember a dead fish floated under her neck. I waited
for it to come up on the other side, and it came up on the
other side.
Worsewick was nothing fancy.
Then I came, and just cleared her in a split secondlike
an airplane in the movies, pulling out of a nosedive and sail-
ing over the roof of a school.
My sperm came out into the water, unaccustomed to the
light, and instantly it became a misty, stringy kind of thing
and swirled out like a falling star, and I saw a dead fishcome
forward and float into my sperm, bending it in the middle.
His eyes were stiff like iron.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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For Emma
If it were not for God
You could have found yourself at
The center of the
Altar of my being
You are my sun
When my moon left me
Extreme darkness
You are the river
Flowing to my life
Your soft sound
Of the flowing waters
Made me raise
All my goldfishes
In my own little garden
You are the center flower
And all the morning sunshine
That I can take shall all be yours
All my days shall talk about you
And I shall write
About all
About you
My last love
My lust
My moaning nights
A warm sweet scented blanket
You are my everyday longing
My quiver
My soundest sleep
Of such soft pillow
Inside a night of
Loving dreams
I am insatiable
Your white body on those black nights
Sparked a meteor
Into my vast universe
Your love
Moans
And I shall be
The wildest hunter for saber-tigers
In the safari
It is you,
After all these years
The queen
Who gave an extension
To my ending life
Another day
For better health
As you shall grow in my heart
You shall be forever
Unfathomable,
Ungrasped,
Untitled
You are my force-softness
Combined
My singing silence
My beating drum
My chant
Forever tireless
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Baby Running Barefoot
When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grass
The little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,
They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;
And the sight of their white play among the grass
Is like a little robin’s song, winsome,
Or as two white butterflies settle in the cup of one flower
For a moment, then away with a flutter of wings.
I long for the baby to wander hither to me
Like a wind-shadow wandering over the water,
So that she can stand on my knee
With her little bare feet in my hands,
Cool like syringa buds,
Firm and silken like pink young peony flowers.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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A Purple Chequered
Do you remember this blanket? Soft, purple,
chequered was, wiped in the corner.
At the picnic mosquitoes cut and not
helped moves with hand to drive them away
You have always had fairly good
ways.Under the blanket,
covered entirely, only
underit, we started breakfast.
Our stifled giggles heightened a sound
of insects. And with evening, in the circle
of smoke candles lighted, the supper
on a purple, smelt of the night.
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Under A Blanket Of Blue
Under a blanket of blue
Just you and I beneath the stars.
Wrapped in the arms of sweet romance
The night is ours.
Under a blanket of blue
Let me be thrilled by all your charms
Darling, I know my heart will dance
Within your arms.
A summer nights magic, enthralling me so.
The night would be tragic, if you werent here to shareit my dear,
Covered with heaven above.
Lets dream a dream of love for two,
Wrapped in the arms of sweet romance,
Under a blanket of blue.
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How To Deal With A Very Beautiful Disciple
she comes like a princess from the
a castle high up there on those blue clouds
descending from the sun
down to the mountains
and the rivers
and to this
pond
i am the grass, and she wants to lie down with me
so i can teach her about what, i ask, about poetry she says,
no there is no poetry with me for
i am the grass, and you signal the wind so you may leave at once
and be back to the arms of the heavens
but i think a while and change my mind for i am the grass
and i am a teacher of all mankind, those who want to die and be
covered with my hands, and those who want to stay and be
with my greeness, my softness and i in humility whispers to her
my princess, stay with me for a while, lie with me, and sleep with me
under the moon, the darkness of the night shall be our blanket,
my thick leaves of grass, your pillow,
i am the grass, i may not teach you what poetry is,
what i have is to spread
love and togetherness, and intimacy that i have with the soil
my secrets with the worms, my eternity
with what death has concealed from the eyes of your world.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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