The Man In The Dead Machine
High on a slope in New Guinea
The Grumman Hellcat
lodges among bright vines
as thick as arms. In 1943,
the clenched hand of a pilot
glided it here
where no one has ever been.
In the cockpit, the helmeted
skeleton sits
upright, held
by dry sinews at neck
and shoulder, and webbing
that straps the pelvic cross
to the cracked
leather of the seat, and the breastbone
to the canvas cover
of the parachute.
Or say the shrapnel
missed him, he flew
back to the carrier, and every
morning takes the train, his pale
hands on the black case, and sits
upright, held
by the firm webbing.
poem by Donald Hall
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Related quotes
I flew through the sky
I flew through the sky I knew I could fly people asked me why they all got the same answer as I flew through the night I felt like a kite with a personality of my own I flew through the sky I hear someone yell like a cry I flew through the sky it was my mom she missed me much I flew through the sky as I heard crys I lowered down and held her hand we flew through the sky.
poem by Zaraya Berry
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The Touch Of Your Hand
On the day that you were born
I touched your hand so chubby and warm.
I touched your hand when you were one
and helped you walk my beautiful son.
I held your hand when you were two.
We ran, your favorite thing to do.
I held your hand when you were three
as you climbed on my lap and smiled at me.
I touched your hand when you were four
as the ocean touched our toes at the shore.
I touched your hand when you were five
walking you to school but when we'd arrive
I felt the tug of your hand from mine
and I knew that we had crossed a line.
I looked at you and released your hand
and said'it's okay I understand.'
As I walked back home I cried some tears
thinking of all our hand holding years.
Holding your hand became sporadic now,
when you were feverish or I felt your brow.
I held your hand a few times as a teen
but always alone so it wouldn't be seen.
I held your hand after you said, 'I do.'
We danced together just me and you.
After some years went by my son
you held the hand of your little one.
And so the times of your life turn around
and now that my hand is old I've found
you take my hand and help me walk
and as you do we intimately talk.
And it takes me back to that bright early morn
when I held your hand so chubby and warm.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Hold On
I was doomed riding on top a black horse.
Whatever prize there was I could only observe where the troubles starts.
Where does it end?
I cannot be cured...mmm...but if...
I know life would be different if I held on, held on.
I know I could be something if I held on.
Gave her life away. Put it in my pocket when it should've been framed.
Oh lost it's shine. Gotta' get this out of my head, out of my head.
How could it end...end like this?
I could've been...
I know life would be different had I held on, held on.
I know I could've been something had I held on, held on.
I know I could be something if I held on, held on.
I know life would be different if I held on, held on.
Held on, held on, if I held on, held on, if I held on, held on, if I held on.
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Skeleton, My Rival
Interesting that I have to live with my skeleton.
It stands, prepared to emerge, and I carry it
with me—this other thing I will become at death,
and yet it keeps me erect and limber in my walk,
my rival.
What will the living see of me
if they should open my grave but my bones
that will stare at them through hollow sockets
and bared teeth.
I write this to warn my friends
not to be shocked at my changed attitude
toward them, but to be aware
that I have it in me to be someone
other than I am, and I write to ask forgiveness
that death is not wholesome for friendships,
that bones do not talk, have no quarrel with me,
do not even know I exist.
A machine called skeleton will take my place
in the minds of others when I am dead
among the living, and that machine
will make it obvious that I have died
to be identified by bones
that have no speech, no thought, no mind
to speak of having let themselves be carried
once around in me, as at my service
at the podium or as I lay beside my love
or when I held my child at birth
or embraced a friend or shook a critic's hand
or held a pen to sign a check or book
or wrote a farewell letter to a love
or held my penis at the bowl
or lay my hand upon my face at the mirror
and approved of it.
There is Ignatow, it will be said,
looking down inside the open grave.
I'll be somewhere in my poems, I think,
to be mistaken for my bones, but There's Ignatow
will be said. I say to those who persist,
just read what I have written.
I'll be there, held together by another kind
of structure, of thought and imagery,
mind and matter, love and longing, tensions
opposite, such as the skeleton requires
to stand upright, to move with speed,
to sit with confidence, my friend the skeleton
and I its friend, shielding it from harm.
poem by David Ignatow
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Jesus Of Rio
Christ the redeemer towering high over rio
Rio de janeiro, rio
Where they held a summit to save the world
And to mark the time when development
As traditionally understood-had failed
And the affluent north raping the south
Investment from the north means
Economic bondage for the south
Under the burden of debt payments
I was with a whore in copenhagan
Drinking eight hundred dollars worth of
Champagne in kroner
She came from rio
We were trying to save the world
We did not get what we wanted
She wanted money--
She did not get what she wanted
I missed my wife--
I did not get what I wanted
Death sat on my lap
Death sits on all our laps
While christ the redeemer
Towers high over rio
Rio de janeiro. rio
Gordon gano: vocal, organo
Brian ritchie: upright bass
Guy hoffman: drums, pu-ili
Recorded and mixed by david vartanian at dvs perversion room, milwuakee, wi
gorno music reprinted with permission
song performed by by Violent Femmes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Through the thick African bush
Through the thick African bush
a troop of soldiers patrol
with black painted faces
and webbing with ammunition bags
strapped around their chests
and h-frames, water bottles
and weapons in their hands
and death
as a comrade leaves
its tracts with them.
They do not ask any questions
in a v-formation they move along
they move along
and death takes its toll
of the enemy
and eats like a cancer
on the soul of everyone
that carries its instruments.
Small like ants
they tread tracts
in to Africa
and their buddy gets wings
and grows as far as they go
and bloody and dark and grim
it spreads over the whole continent
and brakes out
everywhere across the earth.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Another Land
In another land where the breeze and the
Trees and flowers were blue
I stood and held your hand.
And the grass grew high and the feathers floated by
I stood and held your hand.
And nobody else's hand will ever do
Nobody else will do
Then I awoke
Was this some kind of joke
Much to my surprise
I opened my eyes.
We walked across the sand and the sea and
The sky and the castles were blue.
I stood and held your hand.
And the spray flew high and the feathers floated by
I stood and held your hand.
And nobody else's hand will ever do
Nobody else will do
Then I awoke
Was this some kind of joke
Much to my surprise
When I opened my eyes.
We heard the trumpets blow and the sky
Turned red when I accidently said
That I didn't know how I came to be here
Not fast asleep in bed.
I stood and held your hand.
And nobody else's hand will ever do
Nobody else's hand
Then I awoke
Was this some kind of joke
I opened my eyes.
Much to my surprise.
song performed by by Rolling Stones from Their Satanic Majesties Request
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Immortality
Immortality
Every morning an old man, with a jute
sack slung over his bent back,
leaves his cottage.
His mother’s ancient shadow sits by
the fire keeps ember alive. She is older
than the oldest olive tree in the grove.
She came here when the earth was new,
stars not yet born and the moon was
a pale outline on black canvas.
Her son is gathering roses’ dream
and bird songs in the outer field to sustain
her in a life of perpetuity.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Woman Dear
In my hand I held the rose
As I would a Woman dear,
Within my fingers I held it tight
As I wished it would not disappear.
From the beauty that I had knew
When the kiss of beauty, once did flew.
I held the rose as I would a love
As I had held in memory and thought,
Then the rose I could not let go
For the same as a lover, she became my soul.
The stem became a body and the petals became her skin.
Then I held her softly, within the wind.
The rose held me as I held her
The two of us had became one,
Then the act of GOD prevailed that day,
For he commanded the wind to take her away.
Then towards the heavens I saw her flew.
As though to join the love that I once had knew.
In my hand there laid a thorn,
Though to remind me of the sting of death,
So upon the Earth I then laid the thorn
So the love of life could again be reborn.
I buried the thorn as you would a dream.
Knowing never again, will it be seen.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Choose
A blade held in one hand
A pen held in the other
Now I must decide
I must choose one or another
A gund sits in my left hand
A phone lies in the right
Should I try to ask for help
Or just give up the fight
One path cloaked in darkness
One is bright with life
Do I choose the easy one
Or continue through the strife
Some say we are nothing more
Than the choices that we make
That where we are going
Comes from the steps we take
Peolpe cry out for advise
Untill they lose their voice
They are all wasting their breath
It comes down to their choice
I have come across that point
I'm panting scarce of breath
Now I must make up my mind
Do I choose Life or Death?
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Death
i
The wake up call in the morning
Telling you
It is time to go
ii
The taxi driver taking you to the airport
Early morning
Without any conversation
To keep the trip alive
iii
The pilot that you cannot see
In the cockpit
Taking you to your destination
iv
Then another story shall be told
That is the surprise
And you cannot help it
So just take your seat
Relax and sleep.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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119
Death
i
The wake up call in the morning
Telling you
It is time to go
ii
The taxi driver taking you to the airport
Early morning
Without any conversation
To keep the trip alive
iii
The pilot that you cannot see
In the cockpit
Taking you to your destination
iv
Then another story shall be told
That is the surprise
And you cannot help it
So just take your seat
Relax and sleep.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bat
His awful skin
stretched out by some tradesman
is like my skin, here between my fingers,
a kind of webbing, a kind of frog.
Surely when first born my face was this tiny
and before I was born surely I could fly.
Not well, mind you, only a veil of skin
from my arms to my waist.
I flew at night, too. Not to be seen
for if I were I'd be taken down.
In August perhaps as the trees rose to the stars
I have flown from leaf to leaf in the thick dark.
If you had caught me with your flashlight
you would have seen a pink corpse with wings,
out, out, from her mother's belly, all furry
and hoarse skimming over the houses, the armies.
That's why the dogs of your house sniff me.
They know I'm something to be caught
somewhere in the cemetery hanging upside down
like a misshapen udder.
poem by Anne Sexton
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He's all grown up
Tiny hands lift
He cries out for mother
She picks him up and holds him close
And rocks in back to sleep
Small hands grab
The dirt feels good in his hands
He looks up at his sister
She picks some up too
Rough hands hold tight
The suit case rolls along the floor
He sits in his seat
And looks out the window
Pale hands pick up a controller
Button's press and c sticks move
His eyes fixed on a screen
He barely moves
Big hangs type
Bulletins, poems, and stories
He writes all night
He amazes his mother
Smaller hands move a mouse
His sister finds his poems
She wonders how he grew up so fast
She realizes he's all grown up
poem by Hannah Heins
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The Old Man
He sits quietly murmuring
Talking only to himself
His eyes sunken and dark
A look of tiredness across his face
His head is slightly bowed
Resting upon his hand
He sits alone in almost darkness
Except for a small table lamp
In the far corner of the room
There is little in the way of light
Old books gather dust
In piles around upon the floor
Those stories he once read
The worlds to which he escaped
Now stacked without order
Like memories becoming forgot
A glass of vintage wine
Held in his thin, bone like fingers
Softens his pallet, soothes his throat
While he sits alone each night
In quiet conversation with himself
Another old man growing grey
Wishing on yesterdays
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Geraldine's Bus Ride to Work
Geraldine rides the bus to work.
She sways side to side with the
motion of the bus, sitting in the
compact human zoo, faces, limbs,
bodies, eyes, mouths. The sky
outside is an early morning icy blue.
A man opposite stares, his eyes
moving over her, his hands in his
lap, fingers playing with each other.
His eyes settle on her legs, drink
them in. She feels as if he were
undressing her, taking each item of
clothing off one by one. His eyes
are dark, deep set. She stares back
at him, takes in his lips, parted, thick
and saliva sits there. Her thoughts
move to Holly and the night before,
the game they played, the role plays,
the pre-sex drama. The man shifts
in his seat, wrinkles his nose, moves
his eyes to her breasts. She looks away,
senses his eyes fondling her tits, his
imaginary fingers groping. Holly would
have said something to the creep opposite,
would have shown him up, but she
doesn't have that way with her, she sits
it out, pushing thoughts of him away,
focuses on Holly's tongue licking the
inside of her thighs, sensation electrifying.
The man looks away, no doubt to masturbate
in his dark mind with his imaginary fingers.
Geraldine lets the thoughts of Holly and
her deeds linger, sucks in the hotness,
the scents, the sighs, the smells. She stares
at the man. He looks at his hands, his fingernails.
There is dirt beneath the nails, black as soot
as if he'd rooted in dark soil. She looks away;
Holly has set her (with her deeds) to sexual boil.
poem by Terry Collett
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Kite Song
I flew a kite, I held on tight to its string.
Each time I go anywhere, I held on tight.
In the middle of the night I woke up in fright,
Thinking maybe in my dream I let go of my kite.
When I was in a restaurant, talking to my friends,
Watching their mouths move faster and faster.
I thought of the kite that was flying in the sky
And made sure that my hand was holding the string.
That was a long time ago,
Many skies went by since then.
Now my hands stopped holding anything
And Ive learnt to take a walk instead.
Then one day in the evening light,
I saw something strange shining bright.
The sky was dark, with swarms of larks,
And in the midst of it all, yes, it was my kite.
How did the kite get there, Ill never know,
Floating away among the clouds to where nobody knows.
I held my gun with both my hands,
Slowly aiming at the shining dot.
The shot went off, the dot blew off,
Since then Ive never seen the kite again.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Youth’s End
I HAVE held my life too high,
Spring and harvest, love and laughter, smile and sigh.
I should have held it lightly, like a young leaf rent in haste
From the willow in the waste.
A moment in my fingers; then it fluttered, then it fled,
A little flame of red,
To the God-beholding desert where the soundless years go by,–
I have held my life too high.
I have held my death too dear,
Shame or honour, peace or peril, pride or fear.
I should have held it softly, as the little cloud that flies
When the heron takes the skies.
I should have held it kindly as a passing whisper,–'Friend,
Here's the end,
Here the silver cord is loosened and the bowl is broken here,'–
But I held my death too dear.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Abilities
I sat next to a blind young man
His hands upon a coffee cup and cane
The train lurched through the morning air
Sunlight danced across his face
No newspaper at his side
No handheld device, well-dressed
Like the businessmen. What thoughts,
Assumptions floated in his mind?
To what was he resigned?
Sitting arm-to-arm, I visualised
How the world is built around
Designs made by the powerful
With all their senses in command
Their corridors, well-sized machines
To ease and entertain.
I wondered how a one-handed man
Or a woman with a broken arm
Could boot up the computer
With the three requisite keys
Of Alt, Control, Delete, must she
Synchronise her good hand with her feet?
I should give thanks, obviously
And take a deep, refreshing drink
Of my younger brother's perspective:
A semi-abled architect
Ejected from a cinema
For lying in the centre aisle
Unable to sit upright in his seat.
The upright world, visual empire
Media authorities
Drown out the silence, rituals
That patronise the veterans
Of Wars of Disability.
He yawns and drains the coffee cup
I'm certain he can read
Every word I'm writing through
His super-sensory evolved
Powers of receptivity.
Now I am yawning too. Does he disapprove?
I dare not eat my bagel, sure
He knows my every move.
poem by Frank Bana
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Black and White (Stream XV)
I have black thoughts,
It is a black day,
A day when the black dog
Coal black, hovers at my shoulder.
I shoulder the burden.
Deep in the black hole.
Black as a black hearted night.
Negative.
Stark.
Black and white.
I do not call my good days white days.
Why?
Or have white thoughts
On a white day,
When the white dog
Pure white sits upon my shoulder.
Which is unburdened.
Out of the pit,
Luxuriating in the bright white light;
White as the purest snow.
Positive.
For we live in a too white world
Maybe we should have grey days,
And light days.
Why should Black be negative and White poitive?
For me then, today is a grey day.
Maybe tomorrow will be a light day.
Copyright P H Brookes 2012
poem by Paul Brookes
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