Nowhere Lane
we are...
the ink barely dried
on the page,
the cup chipped
on the windowsill.
wood stacked against
the porch,
the shadows on the
empty swing.
the kiss lost,
and the ring.
red dirt dried
on the shovel,
the old boots left
by the door.
the creaking of the
screen door opening,
the box tied and
packed away.
hunger sap dried
on novel sheets,
the half smoked cigarette
lying in the ashtray.
the sound of the empty room,
in that old house on nowhere lane!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Assets
O flowing river feed the well
Before you leave and say: “farewell”
You've gone away, the well is dry
I often ask and wonder why
It’s just a hole, an empty shell
O flowing river feed the well
You said that you would never end
And I believed you were a friend
I love that well, there is no doubt
It’s since dried up and left a drought
O flowing river feed the well
And keep me safe within your spell
The river’s gone, the well dried up
It left me with an empty cup
I'm lost in this financial hell
O flowing river feed the well
poem by Amera Andersen
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What Have I To Fear?
if death be but a step,
a flower fallen with silent shouts...
a kiss blown by wind but never lost,
a friend who tends the grave.
a hymn, a prayer, kind words spoken,
a drink at a corner table.
a book placed back on the shelf,
a child's drawing done in crayon.
a door closed, left unlocked,
cattle left in the pasture all night.
an empty bowel, a candle burned down,
a sparrow sitting outside the window.
a shovel of dirt, a broken glass,
boots left in the corner.
the dog's leg cocked,
the fire burned down....
the still darkness waiting on dawn.
the river overflowed,
the cage door opened...
then what have i to fear?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0089 The top floor
Up that top flight of stairs
whose old, unvarnished wood
scrubs up so well and welcoming,
where it's so quiet at the top of the house
that even the sunlight enjoys the silence,
there's a room kept ready, welcoming,
for every poet I respect:
and yes, for you...
Open each door
and there's such a subtle, same-yet-different,
fragrance in each room - eluding definition,
yet so loved, and so familiar:
a field of wildflowers in the sunlit morning dew,
or grateful after later April shower,
or is it freshly laundered sheets dried in the wind?
a hint of that precious, faintly perfumed scrap of silk
from Grandmother's wedding dress?
A dried rose in a drawer lined with cedarwood?
And just a hint of honey-soaked tobacco,
and once-a-year, and very fine, cigar?
a horse's sweat on crisp and frosty day?
the zinging air on pebbled beach in aftermath of storm?
or freshly-showered skin,
and all the wild and gentle
scents of love?
All that, in these so living rooms,
peaceful, welcoming,
and full of you
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Dead Poets
dead poets; old cars
junked in heaps
in front of
abandoned houses...
empty mailboxes
rusting to the
ground...
empty swings creaking
in the late evening breeze;
a bottle of wine,
half-empty,
moans in the shadows.
the fields have been picked,
nothing left, but sweat stained dirt....
even the embers have grown cold,
and the pot is empty.
the sounds and smells of living
linger by unmarked stones...
dead poets; old cars...
running on empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Can't Be All Wrong (original Demo)
It is fire it is lightning
It is real it is frightening
Who will come who will go
Who'll be the last to know
Who is there when you're fighting
And I am here, now
Oh and I don't know if the feeling is gone
I can't say this is all that I want
When the tears have all dried
I still hold you inside and I
Know that this can't be all wrong
Threw the pain through the window
To the place where the wind blows
All this love all this time
Always the last in line
Never far from the shadows
And I am here, now
Oh and I don't know if the feeling is gone
I can't say this is all that I want
When the tears have all dried
I still hold you inside and I
Know that this can't be all wrong
It is here it is in you
We are all that we've been through
All these nights all these days
Always a better way
So much more than we could do
And I am here, now
Oh and I don't know if the feeling is gone
I can't say this is all that I want
When the tears have all dried
I still hold you inside and I
Know that this can't be all wrong
Hey, and I don't know if the feeling is gone
I can't say this is all that I want
When the tears have all dried
I still hold you inside and I
Know that this can't be all wrong
song performed by by Vertical Horizon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We Dont Live Here No More
Make believe your on a boat with no water around.
Picture yourself at a circus, without any clowns.
Pretend that youre on a highway, without any end.
Then empty the ashtray,
Sweep up the floor,
Put a lock on your door.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
Draw me a picture of an island without any seas.
Show me a map of the whole world without boundaries.
Build me a home without windows or doors to go in.
Then empty the ashtray,
Sweep up the floor,
Put a lock on your door.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
-----
Dream of a time when the tides ebbing now rise again.
Then you will know that to die is not really to end.
Living and dieing are both your most intimate friends.
So empty the ashtray,
Sweep up the floor,
Put a lock on your door.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
If somebody calls in the morning,
Just say we dont live here no more.
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written With Nails (For Terence)
metal jacketed truth bullets
spat from the empty tomb
on the third day, ...
grave clothes lying empty.
human stink garbage sweat grime,
hands reaching for hands...
candles made of flesh,
matches of dried bones.
truth lightning gentle weeping sorrow,
food bowls held by shaking hands.
eyes that see, hearts that feel,
simply living, by the fire!
spiritual writings written with nails,
compassion's hammers, caring's shovel...
lifetimes building shelters,
and planting gardens for the poor!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Prepared
dried beans, salt pork,
flour, lard, coffee,
and whiskey...
matches, sharp knife,
a coat, boots, dried dog food.
candles and books...
pull the blanket close,
hold those that you love.
storm clouds, hard lightning,
eyes squinted, lips tight!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Sadness of The Empty Home
The light flickers on
Illuminates the empty hallway
The thud, click of a door in closing
Brings a silence to the room
A heavy sigh escapes
A look to the mirror sees only
Tired eyes looking back
A bag lain upon the small table
The light turned back off
On route to yet another room
Light creeps through the window
Allowing enough to see
The sound of a running tap
Filling the kettle for a final drink
Keys thrown upon a side
The clatter of cups and spoons
Then further silence
Now the creaking of a staircase
Another door opened
Another light flicked on
The curtains drawn to the world
Drink set beside the bed
The silence of the empty home
Fills the heart with loneliness
A television switched into life
Nothing worth watching
Just a sound there to fill
The silence and the sadness
Of the empty home
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A blooming flower without Petal
all come to whisper the perfume of sweet
fume dried like dune in the wind of the sun,
where all the raindropp falls into the ground of
waited wasted land; pasteurized in the moist
of sweeten halos of welcome
dried in the wind and capture the dew of the
morning midst; a no where to run but shadow
of the solid ground of strength, the wall behind
the lovely Daffodils in the oasis of truth; and
as it find the flavor of hope
scent the soft melody of the past and ring all
the bells that welcome the day of your forever
with me, the leaves kiss no more in the garden
of yesterday a honey comb of my stay; beats all
that step in the knocking door of where i will
always be true to what you say, thank you
find my dear heart, the flowers begins to bloom,
and the petal, never be gone in your memory it
will be done, let me wait until, my last touch in
your dried hand, and i will be lost forever in your
wishing dream
hold me not in your dreamy heart, bloom the
golden petal in the meadow of everlasting heart in
your wonderful hand, the palm of where i always
remember your memory, oh! my dream, as i stay
with you dear
i leave no regret and find my trouble heart no
more, for my hand is to cool to hold your stay....
poem by Antonio Liao
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Empty Sky
I woke up this morning
I could barely breathe
Just an empty impression
In the bed there you used to be
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Blood on the streets
Blood flowin down
I hear the blood of my blood
Cryin from the ground
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
On the plains of jordan
I cut my bow from the wood
Of this tree of evil
Of this tree of good
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Southern Narrative
The tired old farm buildings
Were slumping into the ground
Like exhausted children,
Fighting to stay upright,
But too old, too tired
To try much longer.
Possibly, the only thing
Holding them vertically
Was the amount of vines
Sprouting out the tops
Of the tilting roofs.
Doors gaped wide,
Hinges hanging away,
Most of their screws missing,
Holding bits and pieces
Of the stout planks
Which used to make doors.
A heavy metal winch
Swung from the upper
Door of the barn,
Creaking and whining
With age.
Where once it had been
The lifter of heavy loads,
It now hangs limply
On a frayed rope,
Empty and useless.
The stalls stand bare as well,
Rotting, sour hay on floors
Which used to be cleaned daily.
Rusted milk cans tilt
Against walls that can barely
Hold them upright.
A saddle still hangs
By the vacant doorway.
Where it had once shone proudly
With bright polish and clean brass,
And smelled of horse,
It now drops bits of dried-out leather,
Like a moulting bird,
Onto the unused floor.
Cans of paint, bits of brass,
Rusty wire, old hoes and rakes
Lay in a jumble on shelves
Falling off the walls.
The homeplace, the house,
Shows the same state of neglect,
Doors ajar, windows sagging,
Tiles tilting and sliding off the roof.
The porch dips and sags,
Dragging the ground
Like the old preacher's wife,
Wearing her finest clothes,
With her slip hanging down,
Tattered and dirty,
And very worn at the edges.
The house beside the road,
Where people lived
And children played,
Is empty now,
And falling down.
The echos of happy feet
Are heard,
Tapping to the sound
Of Poppy's fiddle,
But the house beside the road
Is empty, and forlorn.
When a gentle voice
Is heard in the house,
It is only a singing breeze,
Sifting itself through
The cracks in the roof
Of the house I used to call
Home.
Linda Scarlett Treat
January 6,2010
poem by Scarlett Treat
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Allegory Of The Cycle Of Doors
and so there is this door that appears before you
and you open it
and then when you enter the room
another door appears
this is the cycle of doors that keep on appearing and you
keep on opening
but the room still appears from a distance
always distant
from your eager feet to enter
you say to enter the room i must please the door
but the room moves away just the same
and the door tells you
to keep the room
you have to burn it and when the room is burned
the door finally disappears
and then both the door and the room shall tell you
now be happy
for you now have a house of your own
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dead Dont Cry
the dead dont cry,
they weep...
for the undone deeds
of the living...
for the work not finished,
the cup left half-empty,
the song that no one heard.
for the deaf ears,
and the blinded eyes.
for the callous heart,
the spirit left in chains.
for the house half finished,
and the home abandoned.
for the love left holding
the purse, and the scar!
for the holy child
born out of wedlock...
for the table left empty,
the chairs that long and pine.
for the touch that failed,
the quivering lip unseen.
for the pot left empty,
and the fire untended.
for the bodies walking
who have no face...
for the latched door,
and the candle unlit...
the dead dont cry,
they weep...
and the sound of their weeping
shakes the earth!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lost In Eternity!
long shadows cast,
the corner now empty.
the bare branch scrapes
against the window
of the house left vacant.
the desk left cluttered,
as if in waiting.
the candle half burned,
naked without fire.
the woodstove cold as ice.
the gravel drive now virgin,
the mailbox rusted shut.
the yard oozes like an open wound,
in the womb of stillness.
nothing moves, nothing at all!
another world?
maybe it never was!
the rope tied in a noose,
the noose around empty.
the hoot of an owl...
lost in eternity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Urn....
He finally pulled in the drive.
Another endless night at work.
Exhausted, he turned off the car,
and stumbled for the back door.
The neighborhood cat rubbed
against his legs as he fumbled
for the key.
As he opened the door, he noticed
that the light over the sink was on.
Shaking his head, he shrugged, and set
down his lunchbox.
He reached in the cupboard for the
bottle and a glass. He poured a small
shot, and hesitated for a moment.
He could hear the night just outside
the window. Something inside of
him let down. He kicked back the shot,
and headed for the bathroom.
A quick shower, and he found his way
to the bedroom. Lying naked on the
bed, he lit a smoke, trying not to think.
He could hear the ticking of the clock in
the hallway. He put out the cigarette, and
dozed.
He awakened to the scent of her perfume.
He heard her voice, whispering, 'be still'.
He felt the presence of her body in the bed.
Her long hair draped across his face. He
felt her on top of him, her heat and her desire.
He raised his face to kiss her....
And then she was gone! Startled, he groped
at the bed, clutching air. He sat up and flipped
on the lamp.
The room was empty. A few crumpled dirty
clothes in the floor. The book he'd been reading
on the nightstand. But no sign of her!
His hands shaking, he lit a smoke, and blinked.
He looked around the room again.
Every nook, every cranny, every crack in the paint.
Finally, his eyes fixed on her dresser.
A picture of her on their wedding day. A half empty
bottle of her favorite perfume. And the urn.... the
urn, with her wedding ring lying on the base.
He flipped off the lamp, and wept.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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No More Tears
I've dried up
All my tears
There's no more left
Inside me
Now i only cry from happiness
Cos of you
I've dried up
All my tears
I'm free
Of all the rain
Now i only cry from happiness
Cos of you
It's such a waste
Of energy
Crying over milk
Now i don't need to thanks to you
Now i only cry from happiness
Cos of you
poem by Lucy Vernezze
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I Am.... (Your Lover)
i am the broken branch,
blown by the wind.
the key left in the door,
of the empty house.
i am the creek spilled over,
the frog on the bank.
the pot stained by time,
half filled with water.
the young woman giving birth,
and the nurse by her side.
the box of canned goods,
left on the porch.
i am the body naked,
sleeping on the silent bed.
the son killed in the war,
the picture on the wall.
i am the softness of the moth,
long left the body.
i am the kiss of lovers,
at the risk of loss.
i am the body of words,
sent without hope or destination.
i am the hand you thought wind,
blowing the hair from your face.
i am try inspite of,
i am hunger expressed.
the tongue round your heart,
the tear that comes unannounced!
i am the face of the lonely,
and the feet of the pilgrim.
i am your lover,
clothed in rain and mud!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Loud Is The Cry Of War
Loud is the cry of war
Many people shall it smite
Opening up death's dark door
Our people shaken to the core
As we feel our enemies bite
Loud is the cry of war
Many soldiers now implore
If this battle was worth the fight
Opening up death's dark door
Many hearts lie broken and torn
An Endless number of sleepless nights
Loud is the cry of war
Crowded will be heaven's shore
As the dead now take their heavenly flight
Opening up death's dark door
Although we won, we lost much more
As empty cries echo through the night
Opening up death's dark door
Loud is the cry of was
poem by Cat Winder
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