Fire and Sleet and Candlelight
For this you've striven
Daring, to fail:
Your sky is riven
Like a tearing veil.
For this, you've wasted
Wings of your youth;
Divined, and tasted
Bitter springs of truth.
From sand unslakèd
Twisted strong cords,
And wandering naked
Among trysted swords.
There's a word unspoken,
A knot untied.
Whatever is broken
The earth may hide.
The road was jagged
Over sharp stones:
Your body's too ragged
To cover your bones.
The wind scatters
Tears upon dust;
Your soul's in tatters
Where the spears thrust.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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Related quotes
Nevermore
Unspoken words are the thirst in your voice sheen
And missing love is a place in your heart green
I scream when my tearing soul becomes dim
We're no more inside of our universe rim
You're no more my blessing along the life shore
And I heard the raven saying: 'Nevermore! '
Broken idols in midnight taper will weep
Love with rusty traces of tears will sleep
I'll keep all silence in the absence of words
Killing in time the dewy wings of hate swords
I eat my walking dreams and close my deep wound
As sky eats its clouds and earth closes grave ground
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Pages in the Book
in the midnite hour 'neath the street lamp shadows,
where lifetimes come and go, and salvation follows.
and the heart stripped bare has no need to lie...
the taste of your lips, the tears that i cant cry.
with beaten hands and swords into plows;
giving all that i am, more than i can do without.
i'd trade eternity for one moment by your side...
with your hand in mine and nothing left to hide.
making love in the dirt by the cementary stones,
the yip of the dogs while the wind howls and moans.
your fingers dig into my back, i dive into your soul...
where fire was discovered, spinning out of control.
you close the book, turn the page, walk out the door,
call it all a lie, say you dont love me anymore.
the scars of passion in the shadows 'neath your eyes...
hymns of hope and redemption where the sparrow flies.
pour me a drink, light a smoke, my hat and my heart,
looking for your image in the hunger of the dark.
truth and freedom and justice dissolve into dust...
struck blind and deaf, my soul turned to rust.
down the road past the house where nobody lives.
where love looks in a mirror, repents and forgives.
every moment wasted, every word unspoken turns...
the heart beats faster, but the fire slowly burns.
kiss my lips and bury me down by the willow tree.
take this weight from my heart, set my spirit free.
in the eyes of God and time you are my destiny...
i'm nothing but a river that flows into your sea.
say no prayers, now the time of praying is past.
what's last is now first, what's first is now last...
the song of the poet dies with a fatal look...
all that we are now... pages in the book.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sticks And Stones
Sticks and stones, might break my bones
And words, shall never harm me,
I was told that story, when I was a Boy
Along with the birds and bees, I believe
So I lived my life, through that advice
That was given to me in my youth,
That sticks and stones would break my bones
And words could do no harm was true.
So I stayed away from sticks and stones
And tried never calling anyone names
But the sticks still arrived, in my life
And also the words of hate and pain.
But then I had healed from broken bones
And bruises and all the nasty cuts,
It made me stronger, then I thought longer
About the words of hate and such.
Because the words of hate, I couldn't escape
As I noticed them around everyday
Destroying ones soul, until life they'd let go
Or asking GOD for vengeance as they'd pray.
Sticks and stones had broke my bones
And words of hate had really harmed me,
As I look around, I can still hear the sound
Of hate, and belittlement, and bigotry.
There are still broken bones and nasty cuts,
As I see as I enter every day with a walk,
But doctors heal then, as they are new again
But the words of hatred never balks.
In my life I have made many choices,
And I hope with one I don't stand alone
Never to ever use any word of hate
As I don't mind getting hit with sticks or stones.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Deposition
Dust storm, we thought, a brown swarm
plugging the lungs, or a locust-cloud,
but this was a collapse, a slow sinking
to deeper brown, and deeper still, like the sky
seen from inside a well as we are lowered down,
and the air twisting and tearing at itself.
But it was done. And the body hung there
like a butchered thing, naked and alone
in a sudden hush among the ravaged air.
The ankles first—slender, blood-caked,
pale in the sullen dark, legs broken
below the knees, blue bruises smoldering
to black. And the spikes. We tugged iron
from human flesh that dangled like limbs
not fully hacked from trees, nudged
the cross beam from side to side until
the sign that mocked him broke loose.
It took all three of us. We shouldered the body
to the ground, yanked nails from wrists
more delicate, it seemed, than a young girl’s
but now swollen, gnarled, black as burnt twigs.
The body, so heavy for such a small man,
was a knot of muscle, a batch of cuts
and scratches from the scourging, and down
the right side a clotted line of blood,
the sour posca clogging his ragged beard,
the eyes exploded to a stare that shot
through all of us and still speaks in my dreams:
I know who you are.
So, we began to wash
the body, wrenching the arms, now stiff
and twisted, to his sides, unbending
the ruined legs and sponging off the dirt
of the city, sweat, urine, shit—all the body
gives—from the body, laying it out straight
on a sheet of linen rank with perfumes
so that we could cradle it, haul it
to the tomb. The wind shouted.
The foul air thickened. I reached over
to close the eyes. I know who you are.
poem by B.H. Fairchild
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You Are Unto Dust
You are made from the dust of the earth,
And the Wailing-Wall will be there for you;
For you are unto dust and you shall return unto dust,
And this is just the journey of the spirit.
To the realm of the unknown and to the things we do for love,
And until death put us apart on this side of the planet;
For the flesh goes back to where it belongs to!
Yes, back to the earth.
Death is part of us and we need to learn from others,
For we have to be prepared as well;
For he flesh goes back to where it belongs to;
And out of the dust we were made.
The dust became flesh and today we are human beings,
And from the knowledge of the things to come;
But naked we came and naked we shall return.
Shed no tears on this love,
For death comes for all of us on this earth;
And we need to learn from the facts around us as well,
For it is better to be very righteous than to be buried with evil deeds.
Life is a long road full of sand and,
All that is acquired on this earth is vanity!
Yes, vanity upon vanity! !
For you and i are unto dust and,
Unto dust we shall return at the end of of all things.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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For Ever
OUT of the body for ever,
Wearily sobbing, “Oh, whither?”
A Soul that hath wasted its chances
Floats on the limitless ether.
Lost in dim, horrible blankness;
Drifting like wind on a sea,
Untraversed and vacant and moaning,
Nor shallow nor shore on the lee!
Helpless, unfriended, forsaken;
Haunted and tracked by the Past,
With fragments of pitiless voices,
And desolate faces aghast!
One saith—“It is well that he goeth
Naked and fainting with cold,
Who worshipped his sweet-smelling garments,
Arrayed with the cunning of old!
“Hark! how he crieth, my brothers,
With pain for the glittering things
He saw on the shoulders of Rulers,
And the might in the mouths of the Kings!
“This Soul hath been one of the idlers
Who wait with still hands, when they lack
For Fortune, like Joseph, to throw them
The cup thrust in Benjamin’s sack.
“Now, had he been faithful in striving,
And warring with Wrong to the sword,
He must have passed over these spaces
Caught up in the arms of the Lord.”
A second: “Lo, Passion was wilful;
And, glad with voluptuous sighs,
He held it luxurious trouble
To ache for luxurious eyes!
“She bound him, the woman resplendent;
She withered his strength with her stare;
And Faith hath been twisted and strangled
With folds of her luminous hair!
“Was it well, O you wandering wailer,
Abandoned in terrible space,
To halt on the highway to Heaven
Because of a glittering face?”
And another: “Behold, he was careful:
He faltered to think of his Youth,
Dejected and weary and footsore,
Alone on the dim road to Truth.
“If the way had been shorter and greener
And brighter, he might have been brave;
But the goal was too far and he fainted,
Like Peter with Christ on the wave!”
Beyond the wild haunts of the mockers—
Far in the distance and gray,
Floateth that sorrowful spirit
Away, and away, and away.
Pale phantoms fly past it, like shadows:
Dim eyes that are blinded with tears;
Old faces all white with affliction—
The ghosts of the wasted dead years!
“Soul that hath ruined us, shiver
And moan when you know us,” they cry—
“Behold, I was part of thy substance!”—
“And I”—saith another—“and I!”
Drifting from starless abysses
Into the ether sublime,
Where is no upward nor downward,
Nor region nor record of Time!
Out of the Body for ever
No refuge—no succour nor stay—
Floated that sorrowful Spirit
Away, and away, and away.
poem by Henry Kendall
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The wasted fountains
"And their nobles have sent their little ones to the waters;
they came to the pits and found no water; they returned with
their vessels empty." -- Jeremiah XIV. 3.
When the fitful fever of the soul
Is awakened in thee first;
And thou goest like Judah's children forth,
To slake thy burning thirst; --
And when dry and wasted, like the springs
Sought by that little band,
Before thee, in their emptiness
Life's broken cisterns stand; --
When the ripened fruits that tempted,
Turn to ashes on the taste;
And thine early visions fade and pass,
Like the mirage of the waste; --
When faith darkens, and hopes languish,
In the shade of gathering years;
And the urn thou bear'st is empty,
Or o'erflowing with thy tears,
Because those transient springs have failed thee,
And those founts of youth are dried;
Wilt thou, among the mouldering stones,
In weariness abide?
Wilt thou sit among the ruins,
With all words of cheer unspoken,
Till the silver chord is loosened;
Till the golden bowl is broken?
Up, and onward! towards the east,
Green oases thou shalt find;
Streams that rise from higher sources,
Than the pools thou leav'st behind.
Life has import more inspiring
Than the fancies of thy youth;
It has hopes as high as heaven;
It has labor, -- it has truth.
It has wrongs that may be righted, --
Noble deeds that may be done; --
Its great battles are unfought,
Its great triumphs are unwon.
There is rising from its troubled deeps,
A low, unceasing moan;
There are arching, there are breaking
Other hearts besides thine own.
From strong limbs, that should be chainless,
There are fetters to unbind;
There are words to raise the fallen;
There is sight to give the blind.
There are crushed and broken spirits,
That electric thoughts may thrill;
Lofty dreams to be embodied,
By the might of one strong will.
There are God and Truth above thee, --
Wilt thou languish in despair?
Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet, --
Scale the walls of Heaven by prayer.
'Tis the key of the Apostle,
That opens Heaven from below;
'Tis the ladder of the patriarch,
Whereon angels come and go.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Rejected
Alas ! I have lost my God,
My beautiful God Apollo.
Wherever his footsteps trod
My feet were wont to follow.
But Oh ! it fell out one day
My soul was so heavy with weeping,
That I laid me down by the way ;
And he left me while I was sleeping.
And my soul awoke in the night,
And I bowed my ear for his fluting,
And I heard but the breath of the flight
Of wings and the night-birds hooting.
And night drank all her cup,
And I went to the shrine in the hollow,
And the voice of my cry went up :
' Apollo ! Apollo ! Apollo ! '
But he never came to the gate,
And the sun was hid in a mist,
And there came one walking late,
And I knew it was Christ,
He took my soul and bound it
With cords of iron wire,
Seven times round He wound it
With the cords of my desire.
The cords of my desire,
While my desire slept, ,
Were seven bands of wire
To bind my soul that wept.
And He hid my soul at last
In a place of stones and (ears,
Where the hours like days went past
And the days went by like years.
And after many days
That which had slept awoke,
And desire burnt in a blaze,
And my soul went up in the smoke.
And we crept away from the place
And would not look behind,
And the angel that hides his face
Was crouched on the neck of the wind.
And I went to the shrine in the hollow
Where the lutes and the flutes were playing,
And cried : ' I am come, Apollo,
Back to thy shrine, from my straying.'
But he would have none of my soul
That was stained with blood and with tears,
That had lain in the earth like a mole,
In the place of great stones and fears.
And now I am lost in the mist
Of the things that can never be,
For I will have none of Christ
And Apollo will none of me.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Move home move dust
Go - no shelter will ever deny
Go - no word will ever define
Those who have no home
Away – no hand will wave goodbye
Away – each land is good enough to die
Hide- no hide can bear a naked skin
Hide – the first day to the last is kin
Shield – no word will shield the screams on edge
Shield – no road will cover your silent pledge
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Departing In A Well Of Tears
tears do not reflect the years
a great love broken by death
is a flood that tears landscape
inflicting mortal wounds years
cannot erase to restore lost love
tears do not reflect the years
an abusive love is better lost
heart chokes on dessert dust
soul can not swallow coarse
sand grating on afflicted soul
tears do not reflect the years
yet a well of tears shed rapid
leaves body dehydrated husk
lifeless an empty broken well
yet well of tears drowns lives
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Lonely God!
a lonely God...
from dust made flesh,
and filled it with
the haunting spirit of wind.
eyes that open
both in and out,
a fire kindled of bones!
who are we
to run blindly
into the sun?
to hide from the rain
that weeps for us?
idols made of fear,
the soul chokes the spirit.
we stand on the porch,
afraid to open the door!
dust and flesh,
wind and fire...
bones that cry out,
tears lost in the rain.
a lonely God...
walks away!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Drying World
The world is dry
My world is getting dry
Dust flows ash flies
Tasted sweet and choked
like face powder
The grain sand's coarse
The stone and the sun
Road's burned by the heat
My tears vapour
Leaving a trace in my eyes
I was so close, I can't hide
Nobody knows
The dark in my heart's shrieking
Another reason to run
No other reason to smile
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Tall shadow
Tall shadow of grass, cover in sweet pollen of flower's springs.
Hide from a wall of green woods and streams.
It Is the flavour the skin, reddened by the sun.
Left bare, like chaste grapefruits.
The breeze penetrates through the cracks of the trees.
Immaculate of resin,
bowing at the sky
Our body languid, flirt of laziness
We belong to the earth and wind.
Which I offered the sacrifice
of shades and revive mind.
Twittering at the wind, under the bird wings
Columns of light tan,
shaded by thick tree's skin
Re-emerged from the mellow sea
Flowing walks....
poem by Luca Menin
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Decreed
Into all lives some rain must fall,
Into all eyes some tear-drops start,
Whether they fall as gentle shower,
Or fall like fire from an aching heart.
Into all hearts some sorrow must creep,
Into all souls some doubtings come,
Lashing the waves of life's great deep
From dimpling waters to seething foam.
Over all paths some clouds must lower,
Under all feet some sharp thorns spring,
Tearing the flesh to bitter wounds,
Or entering the heart with their bitter sting.
Upon all brows rough winds must blow,
Over all shoulders a cross be lain,
Bowing the form in its lofty height
Down to the dust in bitter pain.
Into all hands some duty's thrust;
Unto all arms some burden's given,
Crushing the heart with its weary weight,
Or lifting the soul from earth to heaven.
Into all hearts and homes and lives
God's dear sunlight comes streaming down,
Gilding the ruins of life's great plain--
Weaving for all a golden crown.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Yes you may take
Yes you may forsake
All the words are ready at hand
And you may spit
And say ‘that’s it-
I’ll pour my hours down the sand’
And you may kill
What’s at your will
And self eat the fire swords
But then do not ever try
To winglessly fly
On strings and broken cords
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Last Open Road
How fast can I run?
How far can I go?
These are the questions,
The young want to know
I met her in Brooklyn,
She was coming from a place
I said "where are you going to"?
She said "where have you been"?
'Cos I'm trapped in here,
Set me free
I know your world let me see
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
I know there is so much past
this place
I see it smile on your jagged,
ragged face
Something tells me,
something strong
There's a world I've heard of,
So before it's gone
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Me And The Sea
do not expect me to wear
a G-string when i decide to take my swim
i always go naked.
I like always to feel the sea
all over my body
i plunge myself
and feel the nakedness of the sea
too
it's water all over me
all around me
naked sea to my naked body
you know how it feels
it feels like the way we do it
you are the sea
and i am a body
you are a body
and i am the sea
so simple and yet
what a bliss
naked, deep, blue, watery
wet, slippery, salty,
sweat mixed with the salt of the sea
two naked bodies
feeling
salt, earth, sand, fire
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Turn Of The Road
WHERE confident, calm I strode,
I walk with hesitant feet;
For at yonder turn of the road
What shall I meet?
The youth of the day has gone,
And my shadow goes before;
I know that the road runs on —
I know no more.
I have travelled a goodly way,
As one at a glance may see,
Since the East and the break o' day
Called out to me.
Though the highway be hard to miss
With its signs and stones and such,
The worst of the road is this —
It turns too much.
For a part of its length it flows
(Too brief is that stretch, alas!)
'Twixt hedges of palm and rose,
O'er fern and grass.
The butterfly fancies flit
On their lit wings, gossamer-frail;
And a host of roysterers sit
At cakes and ale.
With the flight of their glory hour,
The Fancies flutter and die;
And the nectared heart of the flower
Grows sere and dry.
Though the cakes and ale are done,
And the roysterer's moment gone,
Yet under the slanting sun
The road winds on.
Good-bye to the flower and fern,
And the hedges at each grass-side! —
Maybe at the next road-turn
New pleasures hide.
New pleasures? 'Tis turned, and lo!
Hot miles and a driving dust
'Twixt trees that are grey as woe,
Gnarled limbs out-thrust!
Yet Hope is a bright allure,
A light in the hearts of men —
At the end of a league, for sure,
'Twill turn again.
Though the highway be hard to miss
With its signs and stones and such,
The best of the road is this —
It turns so much!
Towards the turn of the roadway you
I walk with hesitant feet;
When I come to the turn, anon —
What shall I meet?
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Cover Me
Let your arm’s cover me
And protect me
From the high part of the
Day
Your branches leafless in
In the winter''s sun
But, can I rest beneath
Your branches of skeleton
Frame.
Through the gusty wind
That blow so strong
Winter cold wind
Even thou the sunshine is
High
The color is gray
The moon is rising
With a icy smile
The hostile wind is
Blowing with vengeance
Looking for retribution
Will you
Cover me with your skeleton
Fingers
Hide me from that angry wind
Clashing with that frosty moon
Cold, freezing cold
I’ll make me a home within
The layer of your wood to keep
Me warm
Until spring blossom''s out and
All
Love bloom''s in may
To
Blossom in June and end in
July
Even the tree’s sprout’s out
Again to become anew
With bloom''s ablaze in the spring
A coming
Blossom with a beauty of a deep
Rich green hue
Cover me within your walls so my off
Springs may grow
Warm and cuddley my off spring''s
Grow for our new generation
Cover me from the icy angry wind
Blowing on me
On and around me
I don’t wanna freeze and snap, pop
And crack
I wanna to be cover and warm where
My wings will grow..
poem by Carolyn Sears
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Interlude: Songs out of Sorrow
I. Spirit's House
From naked stones of agony
I will build a house for me;
As a mason all alone
I will raise it, stone by stone,
And every stone where I have bled
Will show a sign of dusky red.
I have not gone the way in vain,
For I have good of all my pain;
My spirit's quiet house will be
Built of naked stones I trod
On roads where I lost sight of God.
II. Mastery
I would not have a god come in
To shield me suddenly from sin,
And set my house of life to rights;
Nor angels with bright burning wings
Ordering my earthly thoughts and things;
Rather my own frail guttering lights
Wind blown and nearly beaten out;
Rather the terror of the nights
And long, sick groping after doubt;
Rather be lost than let my soul
Slip vaguely from my own control --
Of my own spirit let me be
In sole though feeble mastery.
III. Lessons
Unless I learn to ask no help
From any other soul but mine,
To seek no strength in waving reeds
Nor shade beneath a straggling pine;
Unless I learn to look at Grief
Unshrinking from her tear-blind eyes,
And take from Pleasure fearlessly
Whatever gifts will make me wise --
Unless I learn these things on earth,
Why was I ever given birth?
IV. Wisdom
When I have ceased to break my wings
Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
When I can look Life in the eyes,
Grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth,
And taken in exchange -- my youth.
V. In a Burying Ground
This is the spot where I will lie
When life has had enough of me,
These are the grasses that will blow
Above me like a living sea.
These gay old lilies will not shrink
To draw their life from death of mine,
And I will give my body's fire
To make blue flowers on this vine.
"O Soul," I said, "have you no tears?
Was not the body dear to you?"
I heard my soul say carelessly,
"The myrtle flowers will grow more blue."
VI. Wood Song
I heard a wood thrush in the dusk
Twirl three notes and make a star --
My heart that walked with bitterness
Came back from very far.
Three shining notes were all he had,
And yet they made a starry call --
I caught life back against my breast
And kissed it, scars and all.
VII. Refuge
From my spirit's gray defeat,
From my pulse's flagging beat,
From my hopes that turned to sand
Sifting through my close-clenched hand,
From my own fault's slavery,
If I can sing, I still am free.
For with my singing I can make
A refuge for my spirit's sake,
A house of shining words, to be
My fragile immortality.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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