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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
And So It Goes
A mansion on a hill is a lovely sight to see
But like any other house, its only temporary
Home is anywhere you choose to put your heart;
If theres no love inside, itll soon fall apart.
Ashes to ashes, dust into dust
Buildings will crumble, bridges will rust
Mountains will disappear, rivers will dry up
And so it goes with everything but love
And so it goes, with everything but love
You can drive around in a long limosine
If you dont know where youre going, it dont mean a thing
He whod walk a mile, just to hold an empty hand
Knows what it means, to be a wealthy man
Ashes to ashes, dust into dust
Buildings will crumble, bridges will rust
Mountains will disappear, rivers will dry up
And so it goes with everything but love
And so it goes, with everything but love
Worldly treasures will all pass away
Theres just one thing thats put here to stay
Ashes to ashes, dust into dust
Buildings will crumble, bridges will rust
Mountains will disappear, rivers will dry up
And so it goes with everything but love
And so it goes, with everything but love
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beginning Just Begun!
we walk barefoot the stony path,
in the company of crows.
our eyes wet with the dew,
dreams clinging to our tongues.
and the song of the ancient ones,
from some dark valley within.
we carry the cross of self denial,
on the path to find ourselves!
to the beat down house
that time forgot...
up the steps to an open door.
while spiders race across broken glass,
and rats race across the floor.
we sit across the table,
and light a single candle.
then one by one confess our thoughts,
and undress the pain of being.
then drained, and strangely empty,
warmed with release,
we touch fingers beneath the flame,
and whisper silent prayers.
and rising walk out together,
companions first, then lovers...
we find the world, both new and just born,
as if beginning just begun!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And So It Goes
This song was first released on the stonehaven sunrise album. it is the only album it has been released on.
A mansion on a hill is a lovely sight to see
But like any other house its only temporary
Home is anywhere you choose to put your heart
If theres no love inside, it will soon fall apart
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Buildings will crumble, bridges will rust
Mountains will disappear, rivers will dry up
And so it goes with everything but love
You can drive around in a long imousine
If you dont know where youre going, it dont mean a thing
He whod walk a mile just to hold an empty hand
Knows what it means to be a wealthy man
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Palaces will crumble, bridges will rust
Mountains will disappear, rivers will dry up
And so it goes with everything but love
Worldly treasures will all pass away
Theres just one thing that was put here to stay
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Kingdoms will crumble, bridges will rust
Mountains will disappear, rivers will dry up
And so it goes with everything but love
Words and music by paul overstreet and don schlitz
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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NEGRENSE HOUSE, Silay
it is retold that in this house
live the ghosts
whose bodies of women and
children
of a religious family
were huddled
sometime in the
1800 mercilessly killed
by cruel monsters
inside the basement
the white bearded man
who sits on one of those antique
chairs
says that cries can still be heard
from those
12 empty rooms
the place is
a historic landmark now
where this old house stands still
unwavering to the
passage of time
unlike those which were
buried a long time ago
by limbo
and cannot be remembered
you cannot feel dust here
as one looks at the world from this window
one can feel
eternity at the fingertip
the words pass by
as i stand still trying to listen to the faint
cry of the
wind from the sugar fields
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poverty Doesn’t Laugh
Fill the rivers,
With poverty’s tears,
Only then will they be filled with innocent water.
The brick that fills poverty’s throat
Should be filled with heaven’s food
Not hell’s slaughter.
Poverty’s hands should not be,
As empty as our hearts.
Their feet should not feel the piercing sand
While we rot in cars.
Poverty’s teeth are famished
Because they bite empty air,
Our teeth are stuffed with arrogance
Until our blessings with be stripped bare
In the night of hell
When guilt will crawl upon us
The worms and snakes of our sins
Will pierce venom through our selfishness
And there we will stand
Bare of all our blessings
The naked truth for the world to see
Will be paraded across poverty’s eyes
But they will not laugh.
poem by Mehreen Mujeeb
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They Call This America, Dont They?
the cum stained prayers
written on tenement walls,
where brown eyed girls, head held high...
wear poverty's drench,
backs strong and straight,
amid the pale cries of babies birthing.
roaches scatter, bare feet skim the floors,
empty cupboards whispering moan.
food stamp dreams, two days away,
they call this America, dont they?
the trailer wrecked, paper thin walls,
duct taped tile by molded tubs.
the broke down truck, the mailbox spills,
unemployed and out of time.
box fans on stolen power,
dirt faced children, starving dogs.
an American flag, a worn out Bible...
they call this America, dont they?
the old couple melting, tiny apartment,
before a black and white tv.
half filled pills, empty Alpo cans,
yellow tinged pictures on the table.
a phone that didnt ring,
before it couldnt ring...
the sound of bones grinding to dust!
dont make much noise,
who gives a damn?
they call this America, dont they?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life Goes On!
behind the well lit window,
the coffee pot churns.
doors open and close,
and hair is combed.
in silent hurry,
the day laid out,
life goes on, life goes on.
things left unsaid,
perhaps a note.
the brush in passing
through the tangled hallway.
the tv news, grey anvil tongue.
eyes squinted, life goes on.
while on a vacant corner,
in an empty house
neath a burned out bulb,
nothing gathers in shadows...
prayers fall on deaf ears.
an empty bed, and the shelves are bare,
nothing rhymes nothing,
life goes on!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walk The Path In Stillness
walking barefoot...
down alleys dark,
while children play
with garbage and broken glass.
past unlocked doors,
through buildings spent,
left for ghosts and tribal memories.
past walls charred by sweat and time,
left to smolder with empty ache....
to the time before the time before,
when living had a name.
under war torn skies,
over bodies strewn,
and left for birds of prey.
down dusty roads,
holding a child's dark hands,
in shadows anguished pain.
the skies aflame,
as if stars died, and every veil is rent.
to the sound of freedom's hungered drums,
and shadowed wings beating fury.
to the barren room,
the mattress on the floor,
frost upon the pane.
where lovers turned upon the spit,
with bodies made of water.
eyes wide open, living thrust,
tongues tracing maps to destiny.
the hardened cock,
buried in soul's wet lips,
while angels silently prayed.
and the candle burned
till the break of dawn,
and moonlight's final kiss...
the barren room of the empty house,
where eternity revealed!
the field once plowed
has now turned brown...
sparrows pick at the dust.
and scriptures written
in hickory rust,
whispers lost to sound!
battles fought, and flags laid down,
cover caskets that wait for dirt.
the little girl's shoe, the old washtub,
the broken pot beneath the window.
while dogs bark, and ants converse,
and hearts are covered with snow.
the faces of god fade into wood,
stacked and thrown into the fire.
be it dream, be it madness,
or the simple turning of the wheel...
the wind turns with a final kiss,
bare feet walk the path in stillness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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House for Sale
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
It was silent, empty, and bare,
gone was the laughter the tears and the life,
and the family that once lived there.
I stood there observing, to try to revive
the memories this house had to share,
the secrets, excitement, unhappiness too,
these feelings so willing to bear.
I heard children playing and lapping up life,
I heard adults talking and scolding,
This house bore it all with its solid repose,
and accepted with wisdom beholding.
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
with a feeling of sadness around,
abandoned and empty, a lonely shell,
for the place never uttered a sound,
it was silent and bare, where the rooms had been stripped
and the furniture taken away,
the paint had been scratched and the floor left unwashed
when the house was abandoned that day.
The ghosts from its past walk through each lonely room,
and I sigh as I button my coat,
I slam the front door with an echoing bang
and a lump seems to lodge in my throat-
for there on the green lawn for all eyes to see
with dark letters outstanding on pale
is a board standing taut in the cold winter sun
with the large, lonely wording- "For Sale"
poem by Margaret Hanning
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Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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No One Is There (revised)
i go home
and i open the door of this house
there is silence that greets the face of emptiness
the grass is but a green canvass
sprinkled with dead leaves
shades of brown and shattered sheen of lights
from the setting sun
a burst of orange, a slap of red,
gray colors hover,
black invades and triumphs
tonight, another round of applause
from lonely hands
my feet stamp the dusts
off my skin
the dog wags its tail
i close the door and shut the windows
i turn on the light
dimmer
i begin listening again to
the departing winds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Feet Dont Fail Me Now
Cant you see, she dont want you around no more
Cant you see, that her hands pointing at the door
Feet dont fail me now
How could anyone stay
Anyone could see its time to go away
Time to take a powder
Open up your eyes
But it feels like my legs have been paralyzed
Feet dont fail me now
Begging please dont make a fool of me
Feet dont fail me now
Please dont keep me where I should not be
Feet dont fail me now
Stop pretending that youve gone to sleep
Feet dont fail me now
Begging please dont make a fool of me
See your things piled in the hall
Turn around, theres a new picture on the wall
Feet dont fail me now
Were the last ones to know
Anyone could see its time for us to go
Time to hit the highway
Nothing left to do
But it feels like my shoes have been crazy glued
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ashes To Ashes
I am running on empty:
I do not hide from you, my dear- My canine friend-
The one who holds your leash is not a threat-
Listen to the wind blow
Rustling the budding leaves
Upon the maple trees as I start walking-
The sun reaches downward and I am happy-
Shock ran rampant through my brain only two days ago-
A daffodil in full bloom-
Golden as the sun on the horizon-
I threw away my tears- To mix with the snow
That didn't happen last night-
Somebody lied and I am running free- Everyone has died
Those whose blood I shared
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Locked in a crematorium and
Scattered at sea-left me alone and
I have fallen in love with myself-
Fallen trees, my reflection staring at me from a crystalline puddle-
Alone along a wooded trail
I am the queen- no followers, except for you, my canine friend-
I dance alone amidst insanity-
Enjoying every moment and as the wind blows,
I ruminate- ashes to ashes, dust to dust-
The sun is rising for me alone-
Oh, solitude- so safe, so magnificent and
Three billion people- I cannot fathom-
I tuck a blossoming crocus behind my ear-
I have come to the end of the path and
I listen- the voices inside of my mind echo throughout the sky-
I could capture the sun within both of my hands if I could-
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust- my mother?
Gone, and in so many words, so am I and
I stand behind a phantasmal wall:
I am not to be found- running free, and running scared-
But my tears are behind me now and
I am the queen, alone and this world?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust- it is my dream- except for myself,
Complete solitude, on top of the world, spinning rapidly
Upon a merry-go-round- everyone is dead and
I - don't- care…- ashes to ashes, dust to dust...
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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 Table
This table is reserved an invitation for two,
only one sits alone and the other chair is bare.
He waits and waits as the hours creep through.
Stares at the empty space and wonders where are you.
He looks at his watch as another hour ticks by,
looks at the door to see who is coming through.
He feels eyes staring, probably wondering whom
he is waiting for as the minutes turn to hours.
The empty chair remains bare
as outside the sun sets as night begins to call.
This table is reserved for two, but where are you?
He thinks of all the reasons why you could be late
for this most important date.
He has rehearsed his lines of what he purposed to say.
The box with the ring within his pocket stays.
Where are you he wonders, do you love him anymore?
The negative thoughts invaded his mind
as he waits looking at the door, just waiting for you.
Finally the waiter comes along and tells him they are about to close.
He gives one last look at the door, then gets up and goes.
The reserved table for two stands empty and bare.
Those who should have sat there are gone never to return,
and as the light go out the table stands alone and forlorn.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Old Man, Empty House
old man, empty house...
it struck me when he
left the hospital
that he didnt want
to go home to
an empty house
full of ghosts and
memories...
to die alone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Real Game
Uninvited frequent gluttonous guest,
Visited and picked up one by one,
The elder and younger of the family,
Making each time the house desolate.
When I was hardly three years old,
And nothing about painful death was told,
Played carefree with half dressed friends,
And ran around the big tree of acacia,
Staining with dust, mud and water dirty,
Made filthy my legs and arms, feet and face,
My grandmother would then give me a bath,
And I did weep, cryingly protested against,
The act of washing, making me neat.
She then mopped my body, wiped my eyes,
Doting upon me, she caressed my cheeks,
Embracing me she would often warm,
Titillate with the fingers frail and old,
Made me laugh to forget the cold,
She hid behind the door, under the cots,
Played hide and seek to make me please.
Ah! One morning she lay stiff, could not rise,
Then was dressed with the suit of cotton white,
As she would go on the journey long,
Gathered men, women, young and old,
Some wailed, some sniffed, some silent sat.
But played I with the friends of my age,
And ate yellow rice with the belly fill.
In the evening they shouldered the cot,
The procession advanced leaving me depressed,
Turned the corner, with the sacred chorus.
I stood stunned in the middle of the yard,
Staring to the street, questioning the walls,
“Why had they not taken me along? ”
At night I cried aloud when I found,
An empty bed laid in the deserted corner,
I sought under the cots, behind the doors,
Where she did hide, but could not find.
A pair of shoes, the clothes on cord,
Consoled me well, told me the truth,
Ah! The real game at last she had played.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Hands Of Time!
the hands of a small child,
shaping sand on the beach.
the flutter of wings,
a sparrow's first flight.
seeds planted by hand
in the fresh plowed ground.
the light teasing shadows,
late afternoon to night.
the war hero's silence,
his eyes grown hard.
the family burying the child,
the mother cannot weep.
the hungry stare
of poverty's stink.
the addict's hard edge,
bare rooms, bare walls.
the hanging tree,
and the lovers oak.
the bullet in the chamber,
and the open mission.
the church locked empty,
boxes to beds in the alley.
the old man who cant forgive
what the young boy did.
the hands of a small child...
the hands of time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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