En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Immoral Scars...

i am the broken watch,
on the underpaid desk.
the eyes grown dim,
the hair turned grey.
the endless chapters,
each named, then forgotten.
the wings of the bird,
killed by the cat.
the shoebox of letters,
the paint peeled wall.
the taste of old whiskey,
the fireplace full of ghosts.
swallows in the chimney,
snake skins on the ground.
the song of autumn,
waiting beyond the moment.
the sprinkle of rain,
the silence of the trees.
the brush of the hand,
so intimate it startles.
the moral heart with immoral scars.

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Death Papers... (Part Four)

i name the bullet, the noose,
the needle, and the disease.
the failing heart,
the body bent and broken,
the moment that breath is taken...
for you have not killed me!

i name the war, the planes,
the bombs, and the guns.
the lying flags,
and oil tainted chants.
the strike, the stab,
the tearing of flesh...
for you have not killed me!

i name the empty plate,
the orphaned bed
by the endless road.
the goon squads of indifference.
the prison cell, the alleys burning...
for you have not killed me!

i name the love that ends,
the heart that's broken.
the tidal wave of loss,
and darkness without feeling.
the empty hand and the empty heart...
for you have not killed me!

i watch the body burnt
on despair's self engraved altar...
wondering...
'could that be me? '
and with laughing wings
reach for the sky...
that has no end, or name!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Waiting In The Wings

(andy hill/pete sinfield)
I need you like freedom
I feel you like rain
I see you like silver rails across an endless plain
And I know there are moments
You feel as I do
Thats why Im waiting for you
This time around I wont push for an answer
Both of us need to be sure
To be strong
When the moment comes
Ill be your dancer
Ill be your singer
And your song
When your heart is weary
When you want a love with no strings
I will be here waiting
Waiting in the wings
Waiting in the wings
A natural dreamer
A maverick soul
How close can I be to you
And still not lose control?
And as close as the ocean
As near as the sky
As near as the tears I dont cry
Maybe a fool has been drowned in a vision
Hung up to dry in the teeth of the wind
Believing in the truth of your decisions
Thats all there is until the end
When your heart is weary
When you want a love with no strings
I will be here waiting. Ill be waiting
Waiting in the wings
Ill be waiting
Ill be waiting
When your heart is weary
When you want a love with no strings
I will be here waiting
Waiting in the wings
When your heart is weary
When you want a love with no strings
I will be here waiting
Waiting in the wings
When your heart is weary
When you want a love with no strings
I will be here waiting
Waiting in the wings

song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Broken Wings

Broken wings
Broken wings
Twirls in ballroom gowns
Echos of glory
And reminders of things lost

Broken wings
Broken wings
Only feet to help carry on now
A thousand voices
Singing the same song

Broken wings
Broken wings
Feathers litter the ground
Where the proud used to stand
Where only broken wings remain

poem by Autumn Winds
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Ballad of Another Ophelia

Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain!
Oh the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
Oh tears on the window pane!

Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,
Full of disappointment and of rain,
Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples
Of autumn tell the withered tale again.

All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,
Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,
Cluck, my marigold bird, and again
Cluck for your yellow darlings.

For the grey rat found the gold thirteen
Huddled away in the dark,
Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,
Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

Once I had a lover bright like running water,
Once his face was laughing like the sky;
Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter
On the buttercups, and the buttercups was I.

What, then, is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom?
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
’Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom;
What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men!

Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,
And her shift is lying white upon the floor,
That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm,
Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

Oh the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,
Oh the golden sparkles laid extinct!
And oh, behind the cloud-sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,
Did you see the wicked sun that winked!

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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I Remember You As You Were In The Winter

I remember you as you were in the winter,
with a warm cap worn like a kind of beret,
with the silences that were in your presence,
while your hair were autumn, your eyes

blazed with a kind of inner passionate fire
while the great wind swept rain and leaves
and your words, deeds and intimate sighs
in wonder went to the very depths of my soul.

While you embraced me like a morning glory
climbing against me constantly, always searching
for some deeper meaning, for more intimate bliss
while the timber of your voice was full of tranquilly.

I feel your eyes wandering and the sun is far gone,
with your brown cap, your autumn hair and blazing eyes,
while you are drawing me to you and now its summer
while your kisses glow with passionate burning fire.

Your memory constantly visits me, are always there
like fog rising in the early winter mornings
and to you I yearn, are like a migrating bird
always searching for the newest bright summer

and the memory remains of your presence
as you were in winter with a myriad
of small gestures, words, intimate sighs
with hair of autumn, green blazing bewitching eyes.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Song Remembers When

(hugh prestwood)
I was standing at the counter
I was waiting for the change
When I heard that old familiar music start
It was like a lighted match
Had been tossed into my soul
It was like a dam had broken in my heart
After taking every detour
Getting lost and losing track
So that even if I wanted
I could not find my way back
After driving out the memory
Of the way things might have been
After Id forgotten all about us
The song remembers when
We were rolling through the rockies
We were up above the clouds
When a station out of jackson played that song
And it seemed to fit the moment
And the moment seemed to freeze
When we turned the music up and sang along
And there was a God in heaven
And the world made perfect sense
We were young and were in love
And we were easy to convince
We were headed straight for eden
It was just around the bend
And though I have forgotten all about it
The song remembers when
I guess something must have happened
And we must have said goodbye
And my heart must have been broken
Though I cant recall just why
The song remembers when
Well, for all the miles between us
And for all the time thats passed
You would think I havent gotten very far
And I hope my hasty heart
Will forgive me just this once
If I stop to wonder how on earth you are
But thats just a lot of water
Underneath a bridge I burned
And theres no use in backtracking
Around corners I have turned
Still I guess some things we bury
Are just bound to rise again
For even if the whole world has forgotten
The song remembers when
Yeah, and even if the whole world has forgotten
The song remembers when

song performed by by Trisha Yearwood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grey, Grey Sky

Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.

And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.

And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.

My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.

And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.

But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.

poem by Grace Hutton
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Night workers..

Night is frozen and full of dust,
Nocturnal creatures are out on lust,
Trainee painters colored the earth,
Using the shades of grey at the brush,
A few take the paint in the bucket,
Splatter the darker grey on the forest,
They think to color the rivers of blue,
Adding the grey to the blue, make it dark,
How hard they paint the civilization black,
The lights of men make it bright,
Bored of painting on the roads,
back alleys are pained with what they have,
Forgotten the painting of the sea,
They throw their balance paint and brush into it,
Before they finish the job and get paid,
The cleaner of the earth arrives from the Vacuum,
Sucked in all the dust from the horizon,
The perfectly visible earth emerges,
After the thawing of its all nightly desires.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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These Words Turn Homeward

These words turn homeward
toward you, my dark wood,
because of all assignations of the night
you are West, you are dream and secret
you, deeper than jewels, sweeter
than the taste of stars
in the eyes of wounded black berries.
You, longing and lucidity,
singing in the last of the shadows
of the sacred trees for the unattainable
that summons me to you.
Endless, the farewell, endless
the dusk the nightbirds follow
after the swallows
have danced for the stars
in an aerial display of their own.
You, my star field, my wildflower,
whose skin is the skin of lunar waterlilies
and the tide at the tips of my fingers.
My new moon, my despair,
my solitude, my silence, my absence
which among these thousand lonely lakes
has looked upon you and seen
as I have seen in your incomprehensible eyes
how unfathomable they are to themselves
in your depths, your death,
the fullness of your abiding evanescence.
the quiet intimacies
that have just crept up on me
over these intervening years
that have done nothing
but linger in the moment
as if you would always be there
and could be found nowhere else
but now forever in this doorway
this broken window into my heart
to let go of
over and over and over again
like the rain, this stone, that leaf,
the wraith of your breath
hovering like a thin autumn mist
always at a distance over the harvested fields.
O diminished one, subtle one, free,
how is it you can inspire me still
though your ashes were given back to the stars
like a message for their eyes only
so many years ago that time itself
has upgraded all my starmaps
and made you alone, far one, bright one,
this lonely holy road that’s walking me home
as if my final destination, like yours, like you
were everywhere in whatever direction I turn
to ask the next star, where you’ve gone,
has it seen you, has it heard
was it too soon, was it too early
is it too late, too perilous, too absurd
for the morning to return you
like a singing bird to a green bough
to the dead branch that lost the moon
like its only blossom
on the rootless tree
that it took you from
when it took you from me?

poem by Patrick White
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Forests of autumn

I see her, by the lamplight; waiting,
I watch her from the shadows, so dark,
Her hair; ruffled by the soft autumn breeze,
Shining; as gold in the forests of autumn,
Eyes sparkling, so dark, so brown,
As the brown, in the forests of autumn.
Her hand traces slowly; a pattern,
through the mist, falling gently, softly,
onto the mirror she holds, reflecting starlight,
Into her eyes.

She is waiting; like a girl for her first love,
Waiting nervously; .... waiting for me,
So pretty, so wonderful, so shy, so..! ,
The lamplight still shines; but she has gone,
Into the shadows of time.
No pattern traced her mirror, no mirror did I see,
No; .... No one.
The wind blows colder, from the forests of autumn,
I walk; alone, in the silence,
Thinking, ..Remembering,
She died two years ago.

Moonlight steals slowly,
across the sands where I sit,
The sea, speaks with murmurs on the rocks,
On the shore; ..deserted,
The wind of autumn whispers, across the sailors graves,
Free of lifes worries, ... free of lifes joys,
I listen to the murmurings; Alone,
In this eerie solitude.
I turn and feel, sea spray upon the wind,
in my hair; ..against my cheek,
My eyes taste the salt; .. though closed;
Of my tears

Quietness descends; .. like an angels cloak,
Can that angel; ..be her of my pain, my tears,
For she has died,
My tears are touched......and dried,
By the wind; from the forests of autumn.

poem by Laurie hill
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You Are (My Path)

you are my path,
my journey, my song.
the sunlit table,
the book, and the cup.
the baby's soft whimper,
the angry stare at the news.
the pot that simmers,
the meat, and the bone.

you are the fire,
built 'neath the trees.
the hug of the limbs,
the forever of the roots.
the sound of the lone bird's wings,
in a sky no one touches.
the smoke from the chimney,
the cork in the bottle.

the spider's web,
the quilt turned down.
the hands on the broom,
and the empty corner.
the reason for God,
the ghosts of the night.
you are my path,
i am feet, and desire!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Autumn Born

Autumn born and autumn led
Autumn named, maybe autumn wed
For who knows what the wind will blow around your knees
Or what will fall
From the bigger trees.

I feel it stirring, I feel it rise
The rumbling of the thunder, the bruising of the skies
And here we go
again.

Lightning shows up the hairline cracks
In the heavens high beyond the chimney stacks
And gods might fall
To your feet.

All’s in ravage, all is wild
But in the midst of this tempest stand you my child
Your chin is up
Your arms are out and your mouth a cup
To the falling rain.

Your mean is golden, your mien is mild
Being Autumn born, you calmly go unriled
By leafcull storms
by the leafcull storms
Of fall.

I watch over a Hazel tree
But one day she will tower over me
Just you wait and see
And when she reaches a splendid height
Children will come running from their longest night
Hmm, see if I’m right
And they will play
Beneath her canopy
Sheltered from the stalker that the world can be
By my little Hazel tree.

(Lyrics to the song 'Autumn Born')

poem by Grahame Lockey
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Tis Breath, Then.... (Part Two)

tis breath, then...

(and still spirits dormant in the night,
leaf, stone, branch, river...
forgotten ants, snails, and crickets,
spiders with infinite webs.
the wolf's howl in waiting,
the owl perfectly still.
worms working silence,
the wings of small birds...
waiting, waiting, waiting...)

tis breath, then...
carrying the plague of war,
deep into the ignorance.
walls built of fear,
and the hunger that devours.
draining color, caged, and panting...
breath crying out for breath,
sorrow unto sorrow...

but tis breath, then...
that forming tongues of soul and spirit,
that falling like passion scented rain,
binds darkness unto darkness,
holding sound in echo's palm.
that rises to the fall,
and falls to the rising.
swallows distance with intimate longing...
calling forth stars and moonlight!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Flightless Bird

My world is caged in,
I can not fly away,
I can not soar in the clouds,
With the wind and the angels.
I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.

I sit here day in and day out,
I watch so many people coming in and going out,
They stay here so happy so proud,
And they leave again without any care in the world.
I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.

I remember each face,
I remember them all saying hi waiting for a reply of hello,
They don’t understand how it feels,
They don’t understand what it’s like.
To be a flightless bird with clipped wings.

Wings tucked and head held high I sit here,
I wear a smile on my face and I keep myself beautiful and happy,
But inside all I can see are the bars that surround me,
I can’t get past them I can only sit.
I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.

My world is a room full of people myself the center of attention,
Although I should not complain for this is my life,
And I make them smile I make the children laugh and look in my eyes,
And sometimes they look into my eyes and see my world through my eyes.
They know I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.

They’ll stand and watch me as I walk around in my cage,
They’ll be there with me and try to understand.
Then they’ll have to leave and they’ll look over their shoulders.,
And they look into my eyes one last time,
Before they fly away into the world to bring back stories for the flightless bird with clipped wings,

They are my connection to the world,
They show me what they see through their eyes,
They show me wonders and beauties of a world I’ve never seen,
They are my window to the outside,
In their mind I can be a flightless bird in a world of wonder and of flight.

I am only a small bird in a cage that sits in a hotel,
Sits and watches as the world around me fly’s by,
I wait for the occasional stranger who looks into my eyes with knowing,
Maybe a person who is like me like a flightless bird in a cage,
They are my wings, the wings of a flightless bird who’s wings are clipped.

I sit in my own world and watch as it all moves by,
Day after day I watch and I say what is expected of me,
I sit in my world and I go on my own steady journey,
A journey in which I am a silent observer,
A flightless bird with clipped wings in a world of ever changing skies.

By: Bethany Maxwell

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Work

Work never killed anyone,
Smithers said, a fair day’s
work for a fair day’s pay.

You continued to paint
the wall, your hand rising
and falling with the brush.

Tell that to those who died
in Auschwitz and other camps
or the archipelago of gulags
in Russia, you moodily replied.

Those were foreigners in
different times and different
places, he said, your average
person never died from the
labours of over work.

The paint was an awful green,
the wall was bland, above,
a window allowing dim light.

Some stilled died from labours
pushed to the limits, you sighed.

Smithers scratched his ass
and said, there’s always those
who’ve shirked and died.

You stood back watching
the paint dry, on a freshly
painted white glossed door,
was caught a fly, wriggling in
the stickiness, waiting to die.

poem by Terry Collett
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I Do Not Love You

I do not love you

Except that you are loved by somebody else

I do not love you

Nor do I love myself

Or love, love

And so I do not love you

Or me

Or somebody else

Therefore I go 'unloved'

Into a limping world

Full of all possibilites of

Pain

There in that gallery of tortured faces

Strangers on a train

Shoulders scraping past

Like a field full of unloved sheep

I go unloved into the menagerie of loveless birds

Without a song

Nameless in unbelonging

Forgotten traces of a life

I trudge amidst the wreck and ruin

Of a vacant heart

Not because you do not love me

Nor because of somebody else

Who may or may not, hide a sweet affection for me

Somewhere, (hidden)

Secretly named love

Nor in a hot clime

or under a cool sky

Winter displeases me, not!

Nor summer neither

Love is not on th cards

Not up for debate

Not waiting in the wings

Nor prompting with a cue card

I love you not for any reason

Other than I forgot

The beginning of the line

But if you should forget me,

I would have forgotten first

That bud that never sprung

That bird dried out of song

And stuffed sitting on my sofa

Like my mother in law

(Joke)

So you loved me not

I know not who or why

you loved somebody else

And where I came into the equation

So let's leave it at that eh?

poem by Yvette Smith
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Sunday afternoon rest

The Kenwood plays
soft soothing instrumental music
and three dogs,
lies stretched out in front of the fireplace.

Tongs of fire lick hungry orange
on pieces of yellow and brown firewood,
while at the bottom
the coals are glowing red.

You paint a white Greek marble statue
of Aphrodite
and I see your painter’s pencil,
giving brush stroke upon brush stroke
of magic.

The afternoon drags on nicely
and red Barberton daisies,
on long green stems
hang out of a glass vase above the fireplace.

The dark painting
of the holy girl with the red garment
against the wall,
watch me amused
and the golden spaniel
sleeps with her head
on my lap.

I will forever
be able to enjoy
the pleasure,
of being with you.

a Hot cup of tea
steals me a kiss or two
and a DVD with the antics of Monk,
makes us laugh at dusk.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Through the Shutter

The dull transfiguration's of this hapless old room.
The rusted edges,
orange-brown autumn leaves
on Yosemite's endless trees.
And I'm sure,
you can feel my sigh
With my head tilted upwards,
As I watch, the green paint peeling
and small flakes falling,
it's color becomes less overwhelming.
The rooms passage,
less open than before
still open,
none the less
leads to nowhere
for ages hence
and I sit here waiting,
patiently staying
watching the beautiful scene outside of the window before me.
and my eyes do seem
to be wondering what lies beyond this stale green.
but they know,
they have to surpass,
the endless darkness beside this room
for nothing here has changed,
and they know nothing would.

poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
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Grey Train

This Sunday she'll come
To see me again.
And we will kiss
Then talk about
That and this.
And laugh into each others eyes.
Embrace in lovers sighs.
I'll make her lunch.
I have a hunch
She will be the one.
As I hold her hand in the sun.
And on Monday
She takes the grey train.
And cries as she leaves me again.

Next Sunday she'll come to see me once more.
I'll carry her bags to my door.
And dance her across my floor.
But
My heart now trembles
In cold light of day.
The past now resembles
A romantic play.
It's been a while
Since a smile
When she came to stay.
I'm talking to an empty chair.
She'll grace my rhyme.
And toss her sunshine hair.
But
On Monday
I will watch the grey train.
And cry as she leaves me again.
I kiss her eyes
As I stand in the rain.
So searing
The endless pain.
Disappearing
My love
On grey train.

poem by Kevin East
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The moment that the sun disappeared into the sea

The moment that the sun disappeared into the sea
church bells were ringing in the distance,
while I found you alone on the beach
with a seagull with a broken wing.
With streaming tears you could hardly breathe,
to me you were really beautiful
when the wind whirled, were blowing through your hair
and with the poor bird you glance was rigid

while we walked along the white beach
the waterline was glistening
with the orange-red of the last sun
the bird in your hands were suddenly lifeless
and immediately the night was dark,
for the bird we did what we could.

When my eyes caught yours at Hartenbos
the see foamed blue, alive behind us,
I felt my heart bounding suddenly somewhat anxious,
there was something intimate and magical present,
while I saw stars in your eyes
without deserving them.

poem by Gert Strydom
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