Love Doesnt Whisper
two hundred gallons of fuel oil,
standing between november
and early march...
a couple a'loads of scrap wood,
blankets worn and frazzled....
coffee pot stained and ready,
potatoes covered with lime.
a few old books, and a rocking chair
that sits empty most of the time.
some old photographs,
and a box of clothes,
gathering dust by the bed.
a candle half burnt down....
a box of matches, and
an old twelve gauge.
love doesnt whisper,
.......it screams!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Simplest Of Things...
there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.
the grave solitary three days after the funeral.
the cat cradled on the step while it rains.
the laughter of a love long in journey.
the cup of coffee shared with the transient stranger.
the prayer of the child, and the room gone dark....
words spoken from the heart with hands and feet.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Books Are Burning
Books are burning
In the main square, and I saw there
The first eating the text
Books are burning
In the still air
And you know where they burn books
People are next
I believe the printed word should be forgiven
Doesnt matter what it said
Wisdom hotline from the dead back to the living
Key to the larder for your heart and head
Books are burning
In our own town, watch us turn round
And cast our glances elsewhere
Books are burning
In the playground
Smell of burnt book is not unlike human hair
I believe the printed word is more than sacred
Beyond the gauge of good or bad
The human right to let your soul fly free and naked
Above the violence of the fearful and sad
The church of matches
Anoints in ignorance with gasoline
The church of matches
Grows fat by breathing in the smoke of dreams
Its quite obscene
Books are burning
More each day now, and I pray now
You boys will tire of these games
Books are burning
I hope somehow, this will allow
A phoenix up from the flames
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Coffee Pot
coffee pot, , ,
old, worn, stained
by service...
faithful,
ready to give
warmth and needed...
sharpness, clarity.....
we are no more,
and often less....
on our best days,
in our best worn jeans,
boots laced and ready.....
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Going West
He sits in his rocking chair,
his dreams cemented in the past.
He wishes he had been a pioneer
packing up everything
and travelling west to start again afresh.
That is for the young men,
but he is an old man who thinks
things like that cannot be done now.
He is too old to start again.
He never tried it when he was young,
now time has passed
and all he can do is rock to and fro.
Wishing he had done it then.
Someone once told him
a long, long time ago
that nothing was impossible.
He smiled at the suggestion,
now he wonders of its validity.
Standing up he takes a deep breath
of the air around him
and coughs a little bit.
He smiles to himself, he is going to do it.
He is going west to the sunset,
the place where all his dream lay awaiting for him.
He will do it tomorrow,
then he sits back in his rocking chair
and thinks of all the beauty there he will find.
25 January 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Searching For America
give me an old Rambler Classic,
6 cyl., three-on-the-tree....
a double-bitted axe, and
a twelve gauge pump...
a coupla sleeping bags,
and a pretty good tent.
a half dozen books, a coffee pot,
and an old cook stove...
an old Gibson acoustic,
and an old Case knife.
my old dog, and a woman
with a little color in her soul...
and, by God, i'll find America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Old Rocking Chair
An old rocking chair
stands on the porch.
Many times I sit there
watching people go on their way.
Occasionally one or two
will stop and talk about the day.
We’ll sit and rock,
chatting about the weather
and about kids and home.
All the time
the old rocking chair
rocks back and forth
with me sitting there.
6 March 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Moment
..and then i discover
what a moment is
it is like a stair
each time when i take the step
when i hold the rail on its side
when i savor what
warmth and hardness is
when i gaze upon a step that i put
upon another
wood
and then on another
looking only whenever i take it
no longer beyond
or after
and without knowing
i have reached the door and into
my room
i enter where i am met by
this chair where i sit
for a while
where a bed covered with blankets
and laid with silk covered pillows meet me
and then
seduce me
to soundly sleep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Chair Don't make the Man
People see me in this chair and whisper look at that poor man over there. They believe my life is wasted all because I’m in this chair. Well I got some to say that I want you all to hear. Just like clothes don’t really make a man neither does a chair. The chair is just what I use to get me for here to there. Just like people who walk use their legs to get them everywhere. Because besides the chair I’m just like you; I laugh, I cry and yes I have sex too. Now that you all know the next time you see me don’t whisper look at that poor man over there. In fact don’t say anything just remember the chair don’t make the man.
History (Became A Child)
the grandbaby in his arms
brings back the old house.
buckets of water carried
up the hill...
cutting wood to feed the stove.
an old mattress on the floor,
a coffee pot well stained.
spiders on the outhouse wall,
the garden, and the hoe.
the cooking pot and the rocking chair,
handmade quilts, green beans snapped.
simple beginnings that wrote history,
and history became a child!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Water Tender
The river
has not entered the house yet.
I pack framed photographs:
weddings, babies,
dead uncles, and grandparents,
set aside ceramic eggs,
balanced on wooden stands,
to reach the wedding cake couple,
equidistant between two photographs.
My mother,
in her borrowed wedding dress,
holding a bouquet of artificial flowers,
whiter than Aunt Rose Mary's silk skirt.
My father,
in his Navy uniform, bearing
the insignia of a Water Tender,
his cap worn tilted to the right.
Standing midpoint,
the wedding cake couple
represents their union.
Flesh colored paint overlaps
the neckline of the bride,
executed too quickly.
The groom's black top-hat
is worn, a wedding ring shape
encircles the edge of the crown.
My mother is dead,
my father has remarried. He's left
behind the photographs, the eggs,
the wedding cake couple.
The river enters an open door.
I salvage what I can.
poem by Mary Agnes Dalrymple
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Second Hand Life
second hand smoke,
Salvation Army shoes.
a crack in the mirror....
empty chamber in the gun.
flat tire on the car...
and the mailbox is empty....
wrong number again,
picking up socks off the floor.
molded crust on the bread,
a bag of coffee, and potatoes....
burnt out burner on the stove,
cobwebs on the ceiling.
too much, too little...
but never enough!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tiny Kingdoms Fall
tis the broken cup,
water boiling for the tea.
the curtain stained,
seven dollars in change.
the gas can empty,
the kerosene heater waits its call.
one last cigarette,
the hawk lost against the sky.
potatoes and ashes,
of such revolution.
things done out of season,
prayers spoken with shadows.
black and white photographs,
never eat or make love.
the world is shaken,
and tiny kingdoms fall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tempest Of Time
Love gets lost occasionally
within the tempest of time
and all that remains
are the images left behind
in albums gathering dust
waiting to awaken memories
of times long gone by
when the flower of youth
was budding ready to bloom,
such is the photographs
of a love long extinguished
within the tempest of time.
15 April 2011
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Potatoes' Dance
(A Poem Game.)
I
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane.
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
Who makes potatoes grow,
Our guest the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The airy Irish lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.
II
"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand.
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same.
They jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
In honor of the dame,
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.
III
"There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden brown and slim.
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing,
She danced all night with him,
She danced all night with him.
Alas, he wasn't Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin,
And there he is today,
Where they cannot hear his sighs
And his weeping for the lady,
The glorious Irish lady,
The beauteous Irish lady,
Who
Gives
Potatoes
Eyes."
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
January Jumps About
January jumps about
in the frying pan
trying to heat
his frozen feet
like a Canadian.
February scuttles under
any dish's lid
and she thinks she's dry because she's
thoroughly well hid
but it still rains all month long
and it always did.
March sits in the bath tub
with the taps turned on.
Hot and cold, cold or not,
Has the Winter gone?
In like a lion, out like a lamb
March on, march on, march on.
April slips about
sometimes indoors
and sometimes out
sometimes sheltering from a little
shower of bright rain
in an empty milk bottle
then dashing out again.
May, she hides nowhere,
nowhere at all,
Proud as a peacock
walking by a wall.
The Maytime O the Maytime,
full of leaf and flower.
The Maytime O the Maytime
is the loveliest of all.
June discards his shirt and
trousers by the stream
and takes the first dip of the year
into a jug of cream.
June is the gay time
of every girl and boy
who run about and sing and shout
in pardonable joy.
July by the sea
sits dabbling with sand
letting it run out of
her rather lazy hand,
and sometimes she sadly
thinks: "As I sit here
ah, more than half the year is gone,
the evanescent year."
August by an emperor
was given his great name.
It is gold and purple
like a Hall of Fame.
(I have known it rather cold
and wettish, all the same.)
September lies in shadows
of the fading summer
hearing, in the distance,
the silver horns of winter
and not very far off
the coming autumn drummer.
October, October
apples on the tree,
the Partridge in the Wood and
the big winds at sea,
the mud beginning in the lane
the berries bright and red
and the big tree wildly
tossing its old head.
November, when the fires
love to burn, and leaves
flit about and fill the air
where the old tree grieves.
November, November
its name is like a star
glittering on many things that were
but few things that are.
Twelfth and last December.
a few weeks away
we hear the silver bells
of the stag and the sleigh
flying from the tundras
far far away
bringing to us all the gift
of our Christmas Day.
poem by George Barker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Love...
there is no empty plate
nothing is stained
there is no empty chair
everyone sits
there is no tree without
leaves
no twig without a fruit
there is no paper without
words of praise
there is no labyrinth without
a trace
there is no chaos
understanding always reigns
there is no attempt to change
what cannot be.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Knows
that old hawk soaring
in circles in the cloud
laden sky.... knows!
the leaves on the tree,
getting ready to turn,
and fall... know!
that old chair rocking
in the soft summer breeze,
a mind of its own... knows!
that marker in the cemetary,
half covered by brush,
forgotten... knows!
the baby born
without asking, left
in a dumpster... knows!
the young man dying
in a land foreign and wasted,
alone, alone... knows!
do you?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night
a very small candle by the bedside,
a stack of books that whisper and moan.
a radio i forget to turn on,
and an alarm clock that i hate...
dirty clothes sorted and stacked
like dreams that didnt go well.
a pack of Marlboro's, a couple old hats...
a window that leaks an icy breeze...
my old guitar and a rifle in the corner,
a few prayers that never got said.
your pillow haunted and cold...
i dont want to sleep alone.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Place
SO the last day’s come at last, the close of my fifteen year—
The end of the hope, an’ the struggles, an’ messes I’ve put in here.
All of the shearings over, the final mustering done,—
Eleven hundred an’ fifty for the incoming man, near on.
Over five thousand I drove ’em, mob by mob, down the coast;
Eleven-fifty in fifteen year…it isn’t much of a boast.
Oh, it’s a bad old place! Blown out o’ your bed half the nights,
And in the summer the grass burnt shiny an’ bare as your hand, on the heights:
The creek dried up by November, and in May a thundering roar
That carries down toll o’ your stock to salt ’em whole on the shore.
Clear’d I have, and I’ve clear’d an’ clear’d, yet everywhere, slap in your face,
Briar, tauhinu, 1 an’ ruin! God! it’s a brute of a place.
…An’ the house got burnt which I built, myself, with all that worry and pride;
Where the Missus was always homesick, and where she took fever, and died.
Yes, well! I’m leaving the place. Apples look red on that bough.
I set the slips with my own hand. Well—they’re the other man’s now.
The breezy bluff: an’ the clover that smells so over the land,
Drowning the reek o’ the rubbish, that plucks the profit out o’ your hand:
That bit o’ Bush paddock I fall’d myself, an’ watch’d, each year, come clean
(Don’t it look fresh in the tawny? A scrap of Old-Country green):
This air, all healthy with sun an’ salt, an’ bright with purity:
An’ the glossy karakas 2 there, twinkling to the big blue twinkling sea:
Aye, the broad blue sea beyond, an’ the gem-clear cove below,
Where the boat I’ll never handle again; sits rocking to and fro:
There’s the last look to it all! an’ now for the last upon
This room, where Hetty was born, an’ my Mary died, an’ John…
Well! I’m leaving the poor old place, and it cuts as keen as a knife;
The place that’s broken my heart—the place where I’ve lived my life.
poem by Blanche Edith Baughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Otherwise Bare!
a bicycle with a flat tire,
propped against a brick wall.
the old hose with a hole,
thrown to the side.
the old man in front of the tv,
from morning to night.
a dog collar by the ashtray,
a coffee pot grown cold.
a flashlight that doesnt work,
a pair of shoes that never fit.
books packed in a box,
at a three dollar yard sale.
the suit bought at goodwill,
waiting on the funeral.
the last pack of cigarettes,
an empty pack of matches.
love sleeping on couches,
a screwdriver with a broken bit.
a heart that smells of mothballs...
a block of cheese and a knife on a plate,
on a table otherwise bare!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!