Check, check...
Hunger.
Braiiiiiiiinnnss...
Raw flesh... blood...
Warm...
Eaaaatt...
Gorge-gorge- gorge-
BOO!
poem by Eon Ezkiel
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Related quotes
I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. I want you to be amazed by me, and to confess to yourself that you had never even dreamed of such transports.... When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them.
Gustave Flaubert in letter to his wife Louise Colet (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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God said, ""Eat and drink,"" but He didn't say, ""Gorge to the full.""
Sunset Gorge
Sunset in a gorge -
testament to clear mornings.
Lonely pines atop.
(March 14,2006)
poem by Marc G. Auber
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More Is Less
I touch you for a moment
It's a whole lifetime spent
I embrace you hard
It's make-believe and absurd.
I look at you just once
It puts me in a trance
I gorge you with my eyes
It never grows, it dies!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Juice
Mulberries drop; tart purple rots to wine.
Plump sparrows celebrate and gorge like swine.
Perhaps their revelry should be delayed
Since cats appreciate a marinade.
poem by A.M. Juster
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0016 Orpheus - or his lute?
It was his listening; he listened
to himself; he listened to himself
listening to his lute; his lute perforce
listened to itself; listened to itself
listening to him..listened to
the measures of all things, even
the measures of mankind..
space, air, listened to his listening;
listened as the eagle made a silent,
perfect circle around a centre in its mind
high above Delphi that clear morning;
listened to the silent cliffs across the gorge,
silently ominous in their listening;
the stream which trickles down past the carved theatre,
cool and clear enough to wash your face;
look up the mountain and hope it sacred, holy; it
plashes like curiosity pursued, down towards the river
which is a mere pencil line at the bottom of the gorge
in this so unexpected place;
the sea barely visible in the distance,
misty with its myths unspoken;
space listened and loved his music, allowed this scene;
a cool air, this morning elsewhere hot, descends gently
down the mountain to the gorge, curves past these rocks
where a dark shadow here or there
could be where the Sibyl listened too.
we thought, boarding the hot bus,
that we were tourists; then we looked,
became pilgrims; then something more,
more like worshippers of the unknown god
whose altar we left behind in Athens,
silent beyond questions,
listening to the space
as if the space itself
listened to some instrument well tuned,
a voice perhaps, silent, powerful.
the sun, the sunlight, moved from rock to rock
this cool, clear morning, waking
clumps of sparse bright flowers, woken
again by morning bees
who may be unaware – or born to know—
they forage at a world heritage site as do we visitors,
at Delphi, where still truth speaks in silence;
bees who listen to each other,
dance their satnav trails,
listen inwardly to flowers,
to honey, and what else
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Under Trees
Affluent under trees
Easing in evening breeze
Digesting afternoon gorge
Needy under trees
Feeding their empty guts
With hot, spicy and sumptuous gusts
poem by Sathya Narayana
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A Turtle Named George
There was a little turtle named George
On his food he would always gorge
He popped out of his shell
And said what the hell
And George was a turtle no more!
My feeble attempt at humor!
poem by Donna Nimmo
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Riding The Thermals
riding the thermals....
down between the mountains
through the gorge...
in and out of clouds,
shadow and light....
then up to the very
arms of infinity.
i lost myself, and
found my being!
letting go!
breathing out...
riding the thermals!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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London Types: The Artist Muses At His Ease
The Artist muses at his ease,
Contented that his work is done,
And smiling-smiling!-as he sees
His crowd collecting, one by one.
Alas! his travail's but begun!
None, none can keep the years in line,
And what to Ninety-Eight is fun
May raise the gorge of Ninety-Nine!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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She Spins Silk
Far up river in Szechuan,
waters rise as spring winds roar.
How can I dare to meet her now,
to brave the dangerous gorge?
The grass grows green in the valley below
where silk worms silently spin.
Her hands work threads that never end,
dawn to dusk when the cuckoo sings.
Li T'ai-po
tr. Hamil
Half-Views.
It is the half-views are disastrous still;
But size a thing up fully, seize the whole,
And reason then has ground to go upon
For its acceptance or rejection; but
What is half-known, like undigested food,
Ferments, and sourly taints the mental gorge
Until it rises; ignorance so heaves
His good things with his bad into the ditch.
poem by Robert Crawford
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River Turned Puddle
river running wild; river running free.
salty. blue. clear. river.
surging over the hills and valleys of a face
untill SPLASH-like a waterfall
you hit the bottom of a gorge
joining your fallen comrades in a puddle on the ground.
Night Without Sleep
The world's as the world is; the nations rearm and prepare to
change; the age of tyrants returns;
The greatest civilization that has ever existed builds itself higher
towers on breaking foundations.
Recurrent episodes; they were determined when the ape's children
first ran in packs, chipped flint to an edge.
I lie and hear dark rain beat the roof, and the blind wind.
In the morning perhaps
I shall find strength again
To value the immense beauty of this time of the world, the flowers
of decay their pitiful loveliness, the fever-dream
Tapestries that back the drama and are called the future. This
ebb of vitality feels the ignoble and cruel
Incidents, not the vast abstract order.
I lie and hear dark rain beat
the roof, and the night-blind wind.
In the Ventana country darkness and rain and the roar of waters
fill the deep mountain-throats.
The creekside shelf of sand where we lay last August under a slip of stars,
And firelight played on the leaning gorge-walls, is drowned and
lost. The deer of the country huddle on a ridge
In a close herd under madrone-trees; they tremble when a rockslide
goes down, they open great darkness-
Drinking eyes and press closer.
Cataracts of rock
Rain down the mountain from cliff to cliff and torment the
stream-bed. The stream deals with them. The laurels are wounded,
Redwoods go down with their earth and lie thwart the gorge. I
hear the torrent boulders battering each other,
I feel the flesh of the mountain move on its bones in the wet
darkness.
Is this more beautiful
Than man's disasters? These wounds will heal in their time; so
will humanity's. This is more beautiful ... at night . . .
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Whether fuel cell system development in central Oregon, wind power generation along the Columbia Gorge, or geothermal energy in southern Oregon, investing in new energy sources makes America more energy independent while creating good paying, environmentally friendly jobs.
quote by Greg Walden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We fell in love with the land
We fell in love with the land
when it became ours
going to explore
the plains, the deserts and mountains
and shook
Holland and England from us,
like a dog does
when its fur gets wet from water
and our reality is here and now
and even though at times things are grey
as if the new government want to gorge us down,
we can regard no other place as our own
we have lost our hearts here
there’s no other land that charms us as much,
no other horizon that is so own to us
of which we hear the heartbeat in our own.
[Reference: The Gift Outright by Robert Frost.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Do Not Glower
Do not glower on the real face I construct,
Bloodstained images relax me further.
Gorge and frighten forwards, backwards,
Likelihood of slander relaxes me on this end.
A docile image has arrived forming a reality,
The gospel has been delivered, forms of you.
To govern is to believe, why have your beings come?
Signals of strength pervade our layers and skin,
But do the waves of light curtail or surmount?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Fell
Stars fell on the trenches last night.
Sardines in the mud
Waiting for the light.
Men and boys
Will never see wife or mother again.
Waiting for the whistle
Rum, prayers and rain.
Men fell on the battlefield this morn.
Some lay in the wire
Hanging on their crosses at dawn.
Wives and mothers
Will never see their men again.
Leaders gorge
And drink whiskey
In safety
In warmth
Insane.
poem by Kevin East
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Reveling
Sitting like a glacial fire
In a somber carousal,
Enthralled in the comport
Of the quagmire's sheets,
I tinkered swords with the sun
And played violin strings
With centipede legs crawling
In the tawny pastel walls
And sooty dozing eyes
And counted the halting susurrations
Of the clocks monotonous song
Waiting for the consummate abeyance
Where I will be one with oblivion
Under the Olympian curtains
And a vortex of uncertain
Seeping of blood to blood
And hauling of calamities
Inscribed in the ribs
Of colliding travesties
Let me resume my meander
Along the walls of marionettes
In the harlequin's bassinet
Let me drink the enzymes
And the technicolor bile
Of vim and demise
In the same impaling gorge
And make myself a vale
Of salted bodies
And gilded revelries.
poem by Norman Santos
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