En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Aliens'....Mostly...

My right hand, clawed on arm rest starts to cramp
I dare not loose this tether lest I leap
My left hand shields my eyes, a trembling clamp
A millimetre gap affords a peep.

And so I watch as Ripley finds the nest
(This scene's the best, you're free to disagree)

...to rescue Newt, her suicidal quest
.....in whom the viewers have their hearts invest
.......she flambes eggs with amazonic zest
.........then plucks the girl before she is digest
...........finesses Queen in battle breast to breast
.............and leaves us high on cinematic crest!

But wait, we're told, it seems Newt WAS infest
Bad luck, she's dead, they said, in 'Alien 3'.

poem by Diane Hine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Island Hawk

Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,
Dumb is the shrinking plain,
And the songs that enchanted the woods are still
As I shoot to the skies again!
Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,
Does the down still cling to my claw?
Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?
Life, I follow thy law!
For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

As I glide and glide with my peering head,
Or swerve at a puff of smoke,
Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,
Here – gone – with an instant stroke?
Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
As I buffet this great glad gale,
Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,
Loosen my wings and sail?
For I am the hawk, the island hawk,
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

My mate in the nest on the high bright tree
Blazing with dawn and dew,
She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee
As I drop like a bolt from the blue.
She knoweth the fire of the level flight
As I skim, close, close to the ground,
With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright
Dew-drops flashing around.
She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk
(Oh, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)
Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

She builded her nest on the high bright wold,
She was taught in a world afar
The lore that is only an April old
Yet old as the evening star.
Life of a far off ancient day
In an hour unhooded her eyes.
In the time of the budding of one green spray
She was wise as the stars are wise.
An eyas in eyry, a yellow-eyed hawk,
On the old elm's burgeoning breast,
She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

She hath ridden on white Arabian steeds
Thro' the ringing English dells,
For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,
To the music of golden bells.
A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood
And tossed her aloft in the blue,
A white hand eager for needless blood.
I hunt for the needs of two.
A haggard in yarak, a hawk, a hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes
That have stared in the eyes of kings?
With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:
She has clawed at their jewelled rings!
Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn
To pluck him a prey from the skies,
When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn
In the valleys of Paradise?
Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,
Bent beak and pitiless breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

Is there ever a song in all the world
Shall say how the quest began
With the beak and the wings that have made us kings
And cruel – almost – as man?
The wild wind whimpers across the heath
Where the sad little tufts of blue
And the red-stained grey little feathers of death
Flutter! Who fashioned us? Who?
Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk,
Bent beak and arrowy breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

poem by Alfred Noyes
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Upon My Heart

She was so fresh in that dress
A small voice said resist
But the devil was in my heart
And the future was on her lips
She's so fresh in my head
Her eyes haunt me still
Of course love's meant to hurt
That's why girls dress to kill
With my hand upon my heart
A promise starts, I'll rescue you
With my hand upon my heart
Just one slowdance I'll rescue you, rescue you
She was so fresh in that dres
Flirting's such a bore
Why can't she just walk up to me and say
You're the man I'm looking for
With my hand upon my heart
A promise starts, I'll rescue you
With my hand upon my heart
Just one slowdance I'll rescue you, rescue you
La la la etc.
She was so fresh in that dres
Flirting's such a bore
One chance to caress
Well worth angling for
With my hand upon my heart
A promise starts, I'll rescue you
With my hand upon my heart
Just one slowdance I'll rescue you, rescue you
La la la etc

song performed by by Right Said Fred
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sumter In Ruins

I.
Ye batter down the lion's den,
But yet the lordly beast g'oes free;
And ye shall hear his roar again,
From mountain height, from lowland glen,
From sandy shore and reedy fen--
Where'er a band of freeborn men
Rears sacred shrines to liberty.

II.

The serpent scales the eagle's nest,
And yet the royal bird, in air,
Triumphant wins the mountain's crest,
And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest,
And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast,
Till, like a storm-bolt from the west,
He strikes the invader in his lair.

III.

What's loss of den, or nest, or home,
If, like the lion, free to go;--
If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam,
We span the rock and breast the foam,
Still watchful for the hour of doom,
When, with the knell of thunder-boom,
We bound upon the serpent foe!

IV.

Oh! noble sons of lion heart!
Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing!
What though your batter'd bulwarks part,
Your nest be spoiled by reptile art--
Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start
For vengeance, and with lightning-dart,
Rend the foul serpent ere he sting!

V.

Your battered den, your shattered nest,
Was but the lion's crouching-place;--
It heard his roar, and bore his crest,
His, or the eagle's place of rest;--
But not the soul in either breast!
This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd,
To save and to avenge their race!

poem by William Gilmore Simms
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Left Hand

It was typical of you
To give it to me plain
The sign on your door
Said make your mind up or go away
It was difficult for me
To figure you out
Left hand
Always wants to know what the right is doing
Tell the way we miss out on something
We're free
But there is nothing when I present
It was typical of you
To feather your nest
Try to explain
Me and my big mouth were laid to rest
There's nowhere to go
But I'm not hanging around
Left hand
Pick me up and then you put me down
Left hand
Always wants to know what the right is doing
Tell the way we miss out on something
We're free
But there is one thing when I present
Left hand
Left hand
Left hand
Always wants to know what the right is doing

song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aaron

Holiness on the head,
Light and perfection on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To led them unto life and rest.
Thus are true Aarons dressed.

Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest.
Poor priest thus am I dressed.

Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
another music, making live not dead,
without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well dressed.

Christ is my only head,
My alone only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me even dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new dressed.

So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest)
Come people; Aaron's dressed.

poem by George Herbert
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Song from the Waters

Act I, scene iv, lines 259-72

The swallow leaves her nest,
The soul my weary breast;
But therefore let the rain
On my grave
Fall pure; for why complain
Since both will come again
O'er the wave.

The wind dead leaves and snow
Doth hurry to and fro;
And, once, a day shall break
O'er the wave,
When a storm of ghosts shall shake
The dead, until they wake
In the grave.

poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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I Love You, My Love

"A hundred hearts would be too few,
To carry all my love for you"
Oceans and seas are not enough.
To fill my love would be so tough!

My waves of love will never end,
I'll always follow the same trend,
Like teenagers, I'll carve your name
in every tree. My love for you I'll proclaim.

Each morning when I see your smile,
Is like the first day walking the aisle,
And when I look into your eyes,
I see the stars lighting the skies.

During the day, I hold your hand,
You are my Queen from a fairyland,
I walk with you, year after year,
And heaven starts for us right here.

In evenings when we're laughing free,
I'm happy that you're next to me,
And every hug and every kiss,
Is like a gift, eternal bliss.

Sometimes at night, I watch you sleep,
An innocent and lovely peep,
Grateful for you to God above,
I whisper... I love you... my wife, my love!

poem by Marius Alexandru (14 February 2019)
Submitted by Marius Alexandru
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Australia

LAST sea-thing dredged by sailor Time from Space,
Are you a drift Sargasso, where the West
In halcyon calm rebuilds her fatal nest?
Or Delos of a coming Sun-God’s race?
Are you for Light, and trimmed, with oil in place,
Or but a Will o’ Wisp on marshy quest?
A new demesne for Mammon to infest?
Or lurks millennial Eden ’neath your face?

The cenotaphs of species dead elsewhere
That in your limits leap and swim and fly,
Or trail uncanny harp-strings from your trees,
Mix omens with the auguries that dare
To plant the Cross upon your forehead sky,
A virgin helpmate Ocean at your knees.

poem by Bernard O'Dowd
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Best Always

Best always,
West always,
Crest always,
Rest always,
Nest always,
Pest always,
Guest always,
Arrest always;
But, it is set apart for a special use.

Lest always,
Jest always,
Test always,
Chest always,
Quest always,
Vest always,
Zest always;
But, you are set apart for a purpose.

Litter, glitter, bitter, critter, hitter, fitter, quitter, sitter;
And like a name well pronouced by its bearer! !
But, try to build up your life according to the plans of a positive character.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A New Song to an Old Tune - From Victor Hugo

If a pleasant lawn there grow
By the showers caressed,
Where in all the seasons blow
Flowers gaily dressed,
Where by handfuls one may win
Lilies, woodbine, jessamine,
I will make a path therein
For thy feet to rest.

If there live in honour's sway
An all-loving breast
Whose devotion cannot stray,
Never gloom-oppressed -
If this noble breast still wake
For a worthy motive's sake,
There a pillow I will make
For thy head to rest.

If there be a dream of love,
Dream that God has blest,
Yielding daily treasure-trove
Of delightful zest,
With the scent of roses filled,
With the soul's communion thrilled,
There, oh! there a nest I'll build
For thy heart to rest.

poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Sea Holly

Begotten by the meeting of rock with rock,
The mating of rock and rock, rocks gnashing together;
Created so, and yet forgetful, walks
The seaward path, puts up her left hand, shades
Blue eyes, the eyes of rock, to see better
In slanting light the ancient sheep (which kneels
Biting the grass) the while her other hand,
Hooking the wicker handle, turns the basket
Of eggs. The sea is high to-day. The eggs
Are cheaper. The sea is blown from the southwest,
Confused, taking up sand and mud in waves,
The waves break, sluggish, in brown foam, the wind
Disperses (on the sheep and hawthorn) spray,—
And on her cheeks, the cheeks engendered of rock,
And eyes, the colour of rock. The left hand
Falls from the eyes, and undecided slides
Over the left breast on which muslin lightly
Rests, touching the nipple, and then down
The hollow side, virgin as rock, and bitterly
Caresses the blue hip.

It was for this,
This obtuse taking of the seaward path,
This stupid hearing of larks, this hooking
Of wicker, this absent observation of sheep
Kneeling in harsh sea-grass, the cool hand shading
The spray-stung eyes—it was for this the rock
Smote itself. The sea is higher to-day,
And eggs are cheaper. The eyes of rock take in
The seaward path that winds toward the sea,
The thistle-prodder, old woman under a bonnet,
Forking the thistles, her back against the sea,
Pausing, with hard hands on the handle, peering
With rock eyes from her bonnet.

It was for this,
This rock-lipped facing of brown waves, half sand
And half water, this tentative hand that slides
Over the breast of rock, and into the hollow
Soft side of muslin rock, and then fiercely
Almost as rock against the hip of rock—
It was for this in midnight the rocks met,
And dithered together, cracking and smoking.

It was for this
Barren beauty, barrenness of rock that aches
On the seaward path, seeing the fruitful sea,
Hearing the lark of rock that sings, smelling
The rock-flower of hawthorn, sweetness of rock—
It was for this, stone pain in the stony heart,
The rock loved and laboured; and all is lost.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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A Hunting Song

Hunters, where does Hope nest?
Not in the half-oped breast,
Nor the young rose,
Nor April sunrise—those
With a quick wing she brushes,
The wide world through,
Greets with the throat of thrushes,
Fades from as fast as dew.

But, would you spy her sleeping,
Cradled warm,
Look in the breast of weeping,
The tree stript by storm;
But, would you bind her fast,
Yours at last,
Bed-mate and lover,
Gain the last headland bare
That the cold tides cover,
There may you capture her, there,
Where the sea gives to the ground
Only the drift of the drowned.
Yet, if she slips you, once found,
Push to her uttermost lair
In the low house of despair.
There will she watch by your head,
Sing to you till you be dead,
Then, with your child in her breast,
In another heart build a new nest.

poem by Edith Wharton
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The Comforter

As I sat by my baby's bed
That's open to the sky,
There fluttered round and round my head
A radiant butterfly.

And as I wept -- of hearts that ache
The saddest in the land --
It left a lily for my sake,
And lighted on my hand.

I watched it, oh, so quietly,
And though it rose and flew,
As if it fain would comfort me
It came and came anew.

Now, where my darling lies at rest,
I do not dare to sigh,
For look! there gleams upon my breast
A snow-white butterfly.

poem by Robert William Service
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Sad & Suicidal

It pains me to see you this way
To see you so sad and suicidal
If i could only kiss you
and make your problems fade away

I would.
I would die a thousand times
Before i could ever forget about you
I love you and i won't find anyone like you!

So why search for someone
When i know they could never
Compare to you!
I'll only be happy if i'm with you!

I can't stand
To see you so sad and suicidal
It rips me apart at the seems
and i unravel in front of the whole world

They stared an walked on!
Cause no one cares but you and i!
and it's only for us to handle!

I cried when i'd seen her sitting there
What a razor in her hand
and tears streaming down her face
She's so sad and suicidal

I sat up all night holding her in my arms
Singing 'you are my sunshine'
She has a lot to live for, but she doesn't care
She's so sad and suicidal

When she told me i deserve someone better
I told her you are my only love
and that will never change
She's so sad and suicidal

(6-27-05)

poem by Brandi Young
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To The Hummingbird

I cannot heal thy green gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest,
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
And seek thy mate,
Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.

No more with him in summer hours
Thou'lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
To feed thy young;
Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.

No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honied spoils at eve to share,
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare
With upward spring,
Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new fledged wing.

For thy return in vain shall wait
Thy tender young, thy fond fond mate,
Till night's last stars beam forth full late
On their sad eyes;
Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,
Unheard thy cries!

poem by Jones Very
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A Christ-child Day in Australia

A COPPER concave of a sky
Hangs high above my head.
Vague thunder sullenly goes by
With dragging, muffled tread.

The hot air faints upon the grass,
And at its bitter breath,
Ten thousand trembling flower-souls pass,
With fragrant sighs, to death.

There comes no breeze. No breeze has sprung
And sweetly blown for days.
Dead air in silent sheets has hung,
Smooth wavering sheets of haze.

The very birds that erstwhile soared
Hide hushed in haunts of trees.
Nature no longer walks abroad,
But crouches on her knees.

Crouches and hides her withered face,
Above her barren breast,
And I forget her yester grace
And the clustering mouths she blessed.

’Tis in no alien land I sit,
Almost it is mine own.
Its fibres to my fibres knit,
Its bone into my bone.

These are no alien skies I know,
Yet something in my blood
Calls sharp for breath of ice and snow
Across the wide, salt flood.

Calls loud and will not be denied,
Cries, with imperious tears,
And mem’ries that have never died
Leap wildly o’er the years:

The thrill of England’s winter days,
Of England’s frost-sharp air,
The ice along her waterways,
Her snowfields stretching fair,

Her snowfields gleaming through the dark,
Her bird with breast aglow,
On the white land a crimson mark,
—Ah England, England’s snow!

Fair as a queen, this far south land,
A wayward bride, half won,
Her dowry careless flung like sand,
Her royal flax unspun.

And if beneath her ardent glance
Her subjects faint and reel,
Does she but melt, stoop to entrance,
They kiss her hem and kneel.

And I—I kneel. For oft her hand
Has gently touched my hair.
Then with a throb I rise and stand,
—A Queen!—why should she spare!

Yet when the Christ-Child mem’ries steal,
Some ebb-tide swells to flood.
Ah, England—just once more to feel
Thy winter in my blood

poem by Ethel Turner
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Someone I Won't Miss

There’s fire in your eyes
No, wait that’s just your lies
Sorry did I make you sad
Well I really don’t feel bad

You hurt me, left me scared and clawed
I never knew you were so flawed

Don’t worry I give it all back
Because I realised I never did lack
All those things you said I missed
Once I got out the poison of your kiss

You hurt me, left me scared and clawed
I never knew you were so flawed

Once I thought I was so alive
No more struggling to survive
But you showed me I was wrong
Showed me everyone betrays you before long

You hurt me, left me scared and clawed
I never knew you were so flawed

But now I’m so happy and free
Coz without you I can be me
So let me just say this
You are someone I will I never miss

poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Anxiety

The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun,
The crisping steam of a train
Melts in the air, while two black birds
Sweep past the window again.

Along the vacant road, a red
Bicycle approaches; I wait
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
To leap down at our gate.

He has passed us by; but is it
Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still
She has no rest.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Moon

Queen of the silver bow, by thy pale beam
Alone and pensive I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest;
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere;
And the sad children of despair and woe,
Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh, that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene.

poem by Charlotte Smith
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Sonnet IV. To The Moon

QUEEN of the silver bow!--by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think--fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest:
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death--to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and woe
Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim--in this toiling scene!

poem by Charlotte Smith
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