How Did We Get Here?
full moon, low hung...
bare branches brush
darkness wet skies.
listening, listening,
to the tin roof
rusting with the dew,
to the bricks groaning
and chipping with time,
to the brown grasses weeping
for a new start...
old cars that wont crank,
window screens duct taped.
the lie on the stove
smells like long ago supper,
the mail on the table unopened.
and the light in the bedroom
flickers, almost done.
who are we?
and how did we get here?
somewhere far off a baby cries,
a dog barks, a screen door slams.
here there is nothing left,
but the smell of old shoes,
and cardboard boxes no one dares
to look into!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Blue Bedroom
(toby keith/chuck cannon)
Woke up this morning with day old coffee
Smoked what was left of your cigarette
Sit by the phone just in case you call me
It aint ringing yet
Youre probably half way to albuquerque
Youll hang a north up to santa fe
Youll never know just how much it hurt me
To watch you walk away
From my blue bedroom
Ive got a sad and lonely view
Of a melancholy moon
My pillow smells like your perfume
Missing you in my blue bedroom
You never told me why you were leaving
I guess you did what you had to do
If you find that love is what youre needing
Its waiting here for you
From my blue bedroom
Ive got a sad and lonely view
Of a melancholy moon
My pillow smells like your perfume
Missing you in my blue bedroom
You left a red dress, some purple shoes
That silver comb that you never used
A yellow ribbon from your hair
Baby youre still everywhere
In my blue bedroom
In my blue bedroom
Ive got a sad and lonely view
Of a melancholy moon
My pillow smells like your perfume
Missing you
Im needing you
Baby I want you
In my blue bedroom
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Girl, A Backwards Dream
he was just sitting there listening, you know...
sitting on the stoop, listening to the old black man
play guitar...
listening to the children playing across the way...
listening to the occasional car, and the way the sunset
clapped against the trees, keeping rhythm.
the old man started singing, low, almost a growl:
'old girl, old girl, where you been so long?
old girl, old girl, where you been so long?
done took the night out of my daytime,
and the darkness out of dawn.
old girl, old girl, why you be that way?
old girl, old girl, why you be that way?
you pack your clothes to travel on,
you dont unpack your clothes to stay...'
he grinned at the old man, 'yeah...'
the smell of streaked meat frying, and coffee
boiling over came from the house...
'how many eggs y'all want? '
the old man started singing again:
'old girl, old girl, why you wanna shake that thing?
old girl, old girl, why you wanna shake that thing?
you lock me out of your house,
why you wanna be so mean? '...
'y'all gonna see mean in a minute, if you dont
get your buts in here and eat..'
'we coming, baby', the old man grinned, slowly sliding
the guitar back in its case.
shaking his head and looking up, he saw an owl,
perched silently on the eaves. pulling down his hat,
he followed the old man in.... the sound of the screen
door slamming echoed in the dusk.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Falling Short Of Words
from this window
glass i see narra trees
the leaves had fallen
it is cold
i am alone looking carefully at the details
of leafless twigs
branches are dry
barks are cracked
the grasses below are brown
beside the fence two boys are playing hide and seek
cars blue and white and black are parked
in one area like gossiping women
i am alone thinking about some details
falling short of words.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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The First Thrush
Though leaves have fallen long since,
The wagtails flirt and flit,
Glad in the morning sun;
While, on the knotted quince,
The dewdrops, pearled on it,
Bead to a little run. . . .
Soft as a breathing air
There came a lovely sound
Out of the branches bare;
So rich it was, and round,
Sense stood, in listening bound,
Stilled to its sweetness there!
It was the thrush's note,
That seemed as though his heart
On some loved thing did dote;
As though he yearned apart,
Knowing some hidden smart,
Pain in the long sweet rote.
There, as the spider hung
Grey-breasted 'gainst the brown
Skin of the quince, he sung
A song that o'er the town,
Rose up as though to crown
The tree-tops whence it sprung.
And now, it seems to me,
That long full breath he drew,
Like perfume shed on air,
Still dwells within the tree,
Though long ago he flew,
And left it naked there.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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The Mystery Written
it is the mystery written
in the bed of pine needles,
in the broken branch,
in the bad place in the road.
in the hours between 3 and 4 in the morning,
when the spirit grieves itself with prayer.
in the cool of the darkness,
in the window cracked.
in the homeless dog's eyes,
as he stands in the road.
in the box unopened for twenty years,
in the eviction notice,
and the lights cut off.
in the kerosene heater,
and potatoes strewn in the cellar.
in the tear in the sheet,
in worn out shoes.
in love lost in waiting,
adrift, searching for a light.
in the answer that smells like dawn,
and the smell of strong coffee!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Weeping Garden
It’s terrible! – all drip and listening.
Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness,
splashing a branch, like lace, on the window,
or whether perhaps there’s a witness.
Choked there beneath its swollen
burden – earth’s nostrils, and audibly,
like August, far off in the distance,
midnight, ripening slow with the fields.
No sound. No one’s in hiding.
Confirming its pure desolation,
it returns to its game – slipping
from roof, to gutter, slides on.
I’ll moisten my lips, listening:
whether, as ever, I’m loneliness,
and ready maybe for weeping,
or whether perhaps there’s a witness.
But, silence. No leaves trembling.
Nothing to see: sobs, and cries
being swallowed, slippers splashing,
between them, tears and sighs.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Set The Table!
i follow the path
of brown bare feet,
listening to the prayers
of the dust on the window.
the house empty of all that breathes,
and ghosts just dont eat much.
while missiles born of hate,
throb, seeking direction.
and religious poverty moans
in the gutters of man's denial.
hands balled in fists
cannot open doors.
and nuclear light
is just a damned lie!
rivers vomit, great trees are cut,
empty plates rattle pointing fingers.
and turtles weep in forgotten ditches
for the time before man became god.
women dressed in ashes in slow procession
mourn the loss of womb and nipple.
and the bruises on the begger's face
testify to degradation.
yet brown bare feet still beckon,
the dust reaches out in condolence...
the door on the house flung open,
and ghosts have set the table!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nobody's Listening
I have a heart full of pain,
I tried to give you everything,
But I noticed that nobody’s listening,
I tried to warn you,
I told you everything I know,
But nobody’s listening,
Thank you for ignoring me,
Giving me this heartache,
You caused me to see what was unknown from the start,
I want hear you say those words,
That you don’t love me no more,
Want to hear you say you hate me,
I knew this was never real,
I have so much pain that can not understand,
But nobody’s listening to me,
Ignore me, hate me, punch me,
Just let me know that you weren’t listening to me from the start.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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Shes Gone
A blackened wick is what remains
The flame was blown out just recently
Although the candle hadnt burned down to the stick
It wont be lit again, the day wont be so bright
We dont know what she may have been
All we know is what she left behind
An apartment cluttered with childrens toys,
Photos of good times
In the bedroom, theres sheets on the windows
Theres a four poster bed for a reason
Theres a box on the floor full of secrets
It wont be opened
Here older boys and girls would play
All inhibitions were left behind
As the door would close, her face began to shine
This was her finest hour, this was her finest time
Now, shes gone, and its not gonna be alright, not for me
Shes gone, but not forgotten, shes still here
In all those years she touched so many lives
Whos gonna watch the little girl she left behind?
Carol anne stands alone in the school yard
All the other children have gone
After waiting for hours,
She cant understand why her mother left her sad
In the darkness she sees definition
In the silence, she hears someone calling
After nightmares, she lies in bed screaming
But theres no reaction
Theres no one listening, theres no one
Now, shes gone, and its never gonna be alright, not for me,
Shes gone
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Book Of Dreams
Im standing in the backyard
Listening to the party inside
Tonight Im drinkin in the forgiveness
This life provides
The scars we carry remain but the pain slips away it seems
Oh wont you baby be in my book of dreams
Im watchin you through the window
With your girlfriends from back home
You re showin off your dress
Theres laughter and a toast
From your daddy to the prettiest bride hes ever seen
Oh wont you baby be in my book of dreams
In the darkness my fingers slip across your skin
I feel your sweet reply
The room fades away and suddenly Im way up high
Just holdin you to me
As through the window the moonlight streams
Oh wont you baby be in my book of dreams
Now the ritual begins
neath the wedding garland we meet as strangers
The dance floor is alive with beauty
Mystery and danger
We dance out neath the stars ancient light into the darkening trees
Oh wont you baby be in my book of dreams
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Full Of You
Cardboard boxes on the floor
They contain memories and so much more
Black and white photographs
Faded now but I remember how we laughed
Theres nothing left for me to do
Ive an empty house, full of you
Pour myself a glass of wine
Let it breathe but I dont give it too much time
Take another and set it down
I kid myself theres nobody else around
Theres nothing left for me to do
Ive an empty glass, full of you
But let me tell you baby
I cant fight the feeling
I never stopped believing
You were coming back to me
I hear footsteps by the door
Could it be theres nothing else that I want more
There you stand in front of me
I see your face my heart has wings you set me free
Theres nothing left for me to do
Now my empty heart, is full of you
But let me tell you baby
I cant fight the feeling
I never stopped believing
You were coming back to me
Let me tell you darling
Never did I doubt you
I cant live without you
Its so good youre back with me
song performed by by Rick Astley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bare Feet!
your religion smells like
shoes left in a corner, never worn!
i want to know what
your bare feet smell like!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Their Aim Is to Blame
They decided to induce
A form of ignorance
That kept them seduced
To comforts now rusting
And minds long detached.
Their aim is to blame
The doers of misdeeds.
But they can not remove them,
From their homes to do it!
Or claim those they deemed ignorant...
For leaving unpaid bills,
To stack against their paint chipping doors!
And the government is not listening either.
Since its debts are foreign financed!
To keep thoughts of greatness enhanced.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Christmas Eve
dawn creeping
o'er the mountains,
and through bare limbed trees....
Christmas Eve...
amid the hustle and bustle,
colored lights and wrapping paper....
families and friends....
the streets still alive with those
who have nowhere else to be....
empty houses, empty trailers,
stray dogs and abandoned cars....
somewhere church bells are ringing.
a baby born in a bare apartment,
the rats scurry to meet him,
the pot on the stove empty.
no curtains on the windows,
bare bulbs, no shades.
no angels, no wise men,
an eviction notice on the door...
yet another baby Jesus,
will he make it, will he die?
will he bring light and salvation?
or will they find his small body
in a dumpster with the trash?
fate, or understanding,
holiness knocks on the door,
again, and again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shore Leave Ornithology
Slacks, coffee trend
I could have been in the us navy
Flapping grey, coffee smoke
I could have been in another nineteen-fifty
Where the hell were you?
Rough stencil, print music
Cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, cardboard coffee
Saxophone mention barbers, n.y.
The cigarette was burning, the flat shoes
Stool
Bongo, coffee, don't mention that black man
The leather-coat was his
Where was she?
Could have been in the us navy
Flow beating air, table-top, shoulder slung
Shore leave, no sailors here
Cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, cardboard
Liquor slacks twisting
The cigarette was burning
The flat shoes, the flat shoes, the flat shoes
Bird, bird, bird, bird
I could have been in another nineteen-fifty
Bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird
Bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird
I could have been in another nineteen-fifty
Bird, bird, bird
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Except
I too, will be with thieves, and slanderers
And robbers, embezzlers, child molesters,
Rapists, prostitutes, and murderers
Today,
Listening
Patiently listening, like a father to sons & daughters on a big family,
I will be with them, hearing their woes, and
Worries, and cries, and
Lies,
I was born to listen to all of them,
Except for the tax collectors,
For whom, Christ with Zaccheus, once ate
Long time ago.
Today, all of them have been absolved of their sins,
Now they ride in flashy cars,
Live in their own mansions
These tax collectors,
Except
All those above enumerated, all the people
Still pay them their taxes, feeding them, sheltering them,
As I today, shall hear all their woes & cries
But mostly, lies and more lies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Yes, the moon!
The moon.
Yes!
Yes, the moon!
I like to wander
with the moon.
It's easy with the moon.
Not awkward, you'd
expect it might be awkward.
It's not.
Not with the moon.
The moon is always
gleaming,
and glowing.
Never upset.
The moon, doesn't get hurt,
or sore with me.
It is just there.
Listening.
The moon is a gooood listener.
It sits through all my
moaning, and groaning.
So I don't have to go
moan, and groan,
alone.
The moon is just what I need.
It's what I've got.
The moon,
oh, the moon.
I'd like to think
the moon is just a different part
of me.
poem by Victor Matthews
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