White Apples
when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door
white apples and the taste of stone
if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes
poem by Donald Hall
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Related quotes
Three Mice Who Hoped
Six mice stared out their door.
The Cat was crouching there.
“Have hope! ” one cried.
“The Dog will come and scare it away! ”
But one mouse ran out, gave up.
In the jaws of Cat he died.
Five mice stared out their door.
Still the feline purred.
“Have hope! ” one cried.
”The Dog will be here soon! ”
But one mouse could wait no more.
In the jaws of Cat she died.
Four mice stared out their door.
The Cat was waiting for them, too.
“Have… hope…” one said.
But one mouse snapped and darted out.
And soon, in jaws of Cat, was dead.
Three mice stared out their door.
The Cat sat ready, claws extended.
“Have… h-hope…” one said.
But one mouse squealed and started –
The one who’d spoken held her down.
“Have hope! ”
For hours more the three mice sat.
The watched, trembling, the mighty Cat.
But still: “Have hope! ” they cried.
Then came the Dog.
The Cat scurried away to hide.
The mice were free at last.
poem by Sophia White
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Avalanche-the White Death
The land is white
The name of the land brings you
to the land of nothing
The name is white
The white is dead
Sun shines pale, the land shades full of pain
Avalea doesn't bloom and fall in this drain
I'm going back alive again
But no one's crying for the dead
The land is still white
Ice and snow are still the same as yesterday
But the wind is stronger in the sorrow
The land is white
The white is dead
They weep wherever they blow
Forever love, cursed land
Forever goodbye, my lovely land
No more tears falling in this land
Even the sand doesn't know
why he doesn't round to anywhere
The land has frozen like stone
The air is blowed dead
The land is white
The name is white
The land called white is dead
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Door and the Window
My love, you are timely come, let me lie by your heart.
For waking in the dark this morning, I woke to that mystery,
Which we can all wake to, at some dark time or another:
Waking to find the room not as I thought it was,
But the window further away, and the door in another direction.
This was not home, and you were far away
And I woke sick, and held by another passion,
In the icy grip of a dead, tormenting flame,
Consumed by the night, watched by the door and the window.
On a bed of stone, waiting for the day to bring you.
The door has opened: and can you, at last beside me,
Drive under the day that frozen and faithless darkness,
With its unseen torments flickering, which neither
The dearest look nor the longest kiss assuages?
poem by Henry Reed
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White Hat White Coat
To the late doug whalan.... from your daughter.....
White hat white coat and greying in hair
he would dance around the dance floor with plenty of flair
White hat white coat black pants to boot
the men would all say 'silly old coot'
Whitehat white coat and a big friendly smile
when he went to a dance he'd dress in style
White hat white coat and a beat in his feet
it's of to the dance and people to meet
White hat white coat and a scotch on the rocks he'd love to dance
and the men would all mock
White hat white coat asleep at the wheel
he's danced all night 'boy i know how he feels'
White hat white coat have been put to the test
it's time to go home for a well earned rest
White hat white coat clean shirt and socks too
he's all geard up and ready for round two
White hat white coat so tired and run down
close your eyes and dream of your nights on the town
White hat white coat you've seen better days
your torn around the edges and your starting to fray
White hat white coat the time's come for us to part
but always remember ' i love you with all my heart '
poem by Debbie Gregory
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Sonia and You and The Promise
Sonia closed
the door
behind her
and leaned
against it
you go out
with me?
she asked
her Polish/English
grated on your ears
look I can't
I have other
things to do
you said
running a hand
to smooth
Mr Dubbin's bed
she looked around
the room
and said
what if someone
come in
and see you
here with me?
what if they think
you been having me?
but it wouldn't
be true
you said
standing up
and moving away
from the bed
you know that
and I know it
but others
they do not
she said
her voice
crisp and cool
what if I undo
my uniform
and show my breasts
and say you did it?
you blushed
at the thought
look
just leave me be
you said
she stood firm
against the door
her hands
on the lapels
of her uniform
you could say yes
she said
you could take me
out to cinema
and then
it would be good
huh?
you watched
as she undid
one button
at a time
you watched
her fingers undo
each button
with deliberate
slowness
if I say yes
you'll stop this folly?
you asked
if you mean it
I will walk
from the door
and we can leave
and I do up
the buttons
before others see
she stared at you
her pale blue eyes
on you
her lips parted
just so
you could see
her small white teeth
where do you want to go?
you asked
cinema is good
she said
in the dark
we can kiss yes?
the buttons
were undone
to reveal
her compacted tits
ok ok
you said
the cinema
it is promise?
she said coolly
you make promise
and keep?
yes I make promise
and keep
you repeated
she began to do up
the buttons
her eyes
looking at you
and she smiled
and said
good boy
we have fun no?
you breathed out
the held in breath
sweat dampened
the back
of your shirt
and trouser legs
but if
you do not
show up
she said
brushing her uniform
I'll say you make love
to me on this
Mr Dubbin's bed
and I make bed
look all untidy
and they believe
me yes?
I'll be there
trust me
you said
just let me go
I need to get
the other beds
made before lunch
she moved aside
and opened the door
her perfume
filtering your nose
off you go
she said
and be good
you went off
to make the beds
and show up
that night
as she knew
you would.
poem by Terry Collett
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Nearly Ripe
Nearly ripe, these green apples
hang heavy
from our bursting tree,
the warm evening sun
glinting through swaying branches.
They will be ready
in about a week.
Then I’ll slice them into sweet crescents
And their taste will dance upon your tongue
with all the secrets our tree has been keeping,
its living leaves,
its smooth, grey bark,
its very roots
grasping deep
into our dark soil,
and these glowing, green apples
I will make bare and white and moist,
a love offering like perfect wine for you,
and your taste will delight
in the sweet, green love
of the earth.
poem by Steven Federle
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See Myself In You
IF I MET YOU, ON THE CORNER,
WOULD I KNOW YOU, AS YOU ARE
WOULD I TAKE YOU, FOR A STRANGER,
AND BRUSH PAST YOU IN THE DOOR
IF YOU CALLED ME, WOULD I HEAR YOU,
OR WOULD I WALK AWAY TOO SOON
IF I LINGERD FOR A MOMENT, WOULD I SEE MYSELF IN YOU
IF I FOUGHT YOU, LIKE A SOLDIER,
IF I HAD YOU, IN MY SIGHTS
WOULD YOU ASK ME, TO REMEMBER,
WHO IMAGINED, I WAS RIGHT
IF YOU WITNESSED, MY SURRENDER,
DO I KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO
IF YOU HELD ME, LIKE MY BROTHER,
WOULD I SEE MYSELF IN YOU
WELL I DREAMED MY END WAS NEAR,
I WAS ALMOST GONE
IF I DREAM THAT DREAM FROM HERE,
CAN I STILL COME HOME
IF YOU CALLED ME, WOULD I HEAR YOU,
WOULD I KNOW, WHAT I WOULD DO
IF YOU HELD ME, LIKE MY FATHER,
WOULD I SEE MYSELF IN YOU
IF YOU HELD ME, LIKE MY MOTHER,
WOULD I SEE MYSELF IN YOU
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Day I Died
Yes, it was just another day -
The sun rose once again
To send the night upon its way
And light the world of men.
The children woke to go to school,
While I slept on in bed.
Old men feel tired as a rule,
So I dreamt on instead.
At ten o'clock, I got up, too.
I got dressed as before.
I did the things I had to do,
Although they were a chore.
I opened letters, read them all
And put the TV on.
The cup I held began to fall...
My balance now was gone.
I hit the floor quite suddenly,
Confusion then set in.
The ceiling stared right back at me.
I knew I couldn't win.
So there I was, with nervous breath,
My hand upon my heart...
Aware, above all, facing death -
Expecting to depart.
I lay there, waiting on the Lord,
My Saviour and my King -
To whom I turned for each reward
And every blessed thing.
I heard no voice, no angel came,
No vision at that time
And yet, by faith, I spoke Christ's Name,
With hope that felt sublime.
My spirit left my body there
And left my world behind...
I rose to meet Christ in the air,
The Saviour of Mankind.
Eternal life had been bestowed
The second I believed.
My spirit felt no heavy load,
For I no longer grieved.
The day I died, no more to roam,
Was just a stepping stone...
The precious day Christ called me home...
To kneel before God's Throne...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Closed Door
sometimes we want to enter
a door
a closed door that does not open
no matter how hard we
knock
we try being courteous and gentle
and so patient
eating every waiting time
like we are the most foolish of all fools
knocking a closed door
seducing it more often with our
pleadings
begging and even compromising
for a dance
to convince the owner of the door to
open it
but no one hears, no one cares to listen
to our pleadings,
no one likes the dance of compromises
the door is still closed
and then the last crooked thing happens
we take the axe
and break the door which is closed
forcing it open
only to find that all the people there are dead
there is nothing inside
but mystery and
grief
an unsolved crime, no more
no less.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Saga Of The Speaking Digital Clock
I woke up during the night at 12: 03
And waited for I wanted 'Rob' to see
And then at 12: 04 to my surprise
'Roy' appeared there lit up before my eyes
'My Lord', I said, 'What are you saying? '
'Are You telling me to keep on praying? '
With that in mind I closed my eyes to pray
And when I next opened them it was day
Postscript
Rob died in the early hours of the morning on Wednesday 14th October 2009. About a week later I woke up at 5: 05 and looking up on the ceiling I saw SOS:
'It's too late Rob, I'm so sorry', I said
I cannot help you now that you are dead
And my only hope is that you had cried
For the Lord to save you before you died
Digital when displayed on the ceiling
1205 looks like ROB
1204 looks like ROY
505 looks like SOS
The Stone
"And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him--
A stone for him?" she said.
Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead--
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired--
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall . . .
And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.
I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father's door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came, she stood alone--
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.
Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall--
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.
The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
"And will you cut a stone for him?"
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
With still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.
And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover's name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watched with eyes aflame.
She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.
With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, overwearied hands,
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.
And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Passed slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.
Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.
poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
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The Things
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
poem by Donald Hall
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My Hero
The lion cub was mighty proud
As he stared up above
And heard his father roar so loud,
For he was truly tough!
Adorned with wondrous golden mane
That circled like a ring
With all his coat like golden grain
And every inch a king...
The lion cub looked at his jaw,
Like granite, chiselled stone,
Commanding solemn silent awe,
For he was fully grown...
Yet there he stayed, composed, serene,
As if the world was his.
The alpha male, the sovereign,
No greater dream than this...
The lion cub would grow in time...
His father knew it well.
Their destiny was so sublime,
It caused his heart to swell.
That's why he let the cub stay close,
To learn what must be done...
For who knows all the lion knows,
How best to love his son?
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2011.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'My Hero'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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First Week/last Week... Carefree
Can we run that again
Is that a womans voice I hear?
I said, lets wait and see. Ill see for myself
Thats a phrase I repeat
To myself
Made a reference to me and
Thats myself too
What progress I have made the first week
First week
First week
First week
Every sentence I use
Refer to women and their names
I heard the voice first last week
I heard it myself
Made a reference to me
Thats myself
This reports incomplete
I see for myself
Every appointment has been moved to last week
Last week
Last week
Last week
Oh...
Ah...
Oh...
I heard the voice first last week
I heard it myself
Made a reference to me
And thats myself
This reports incomplete
I see for myself
Every appointment has been been moved to last week
Last week
Last week
Last week
Oh...
Ah...
Oh...
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Silent Dead
There's a little boy who lives next door
With hair like you,
Pale, pale hair and a rose-white skin
And his eyes are blue.
When I get a chance I peep at him,
Who is so like you,
Terribly like, my dead, my fair,
For he's dumb, too.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Camp Within the West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’
And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?
Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.
Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’
And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?
Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.
And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.
Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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A Song Of The Sea.
Here within the half-light 'tween the night and day
Upon the sands I lie, with thoughts that idly stirr'd
Seem, as in a dream, with life and death to play,
As o'er the sea there flits a pale white bird.
In my heart I hear it, the murmur of the sea,
Ah! and memories of other lives are stirr'd,
As somewise there came a mystic voice to me
As o'er the sea there flits a pale white bird.
Who but knows that in me is a ghost that hears
A voice it heard of old in the primeval word —
A memory so dim, it like a dream appears
As o'er the sea there flits a pale white bird!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Think It Over
Waking, he stared raptly at her face
On his lips, her smell, her taste
Black hair framing her perfect face
With her wonderful mind and her incredible grace
And so, he woke, he woke her with a start
To offer her his heart
For once and for all, forever to keep
And the words, that she first heard him speak
Were really very sweet
He was asking her to marry him, and to
Think it over
Baby, think it over
Think it over
Baby, why dont you think it over
She said, somewhere, theres a faraway place
Where all is ordered and all is grace
No one there is ever disgraced
And everyone there is wise and everyone has taste
And then she sighed, well la-dee-dah-dee-dah
You and I have come quite far
And we really must watch what we say
Because when you ask for someones heart
You must know that youre smart
Smart enough to care for it, so Im gonna
Think it over
Baby, think it over
Think it over
Baby, Im gonna think it over
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Eyes Are Not The Same
Her son blossoming
into his dead father’s
face
shocking her
wearing his old man’s coat.
In the mirror
it’s as if
age like an evil spell
has befallen only her
& her dead husband
(dead a decade now)
hasn’t changed at all.
Their wedding photograph
smiles upon the wall.
She calls her son
by his father’s name
who, smiling, turns
& laughs:
“Who? ”
just the way
her husband would have had.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Why Did God Close That Door?
He closed the door
and touches you but
you do not understand
why.
You silently cry.
He hears it.
You still do not understand
why that door is closed.
Until you find smoke
in the sky
Until you hear about
the dead people
in the room
Now you know why He kept
on closing the door
And here is one that He
opens for you
He says Welcome
This is the home reserved for you
Beloved.
Inside it is a garden
Flowers bloom
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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