Sounds (For Hune)
heard,
without definition,
without concepts,
by ears stripped of fear.
in sacred nakedness,
rhyming,
the rhythm of breath...
footsteps to stillness,
and a silence,
that has no identity,
that is not owned,
that cannot be captured,
or held...
that just 'is'!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler
Yes...
I love the foreplay.
And a touching we both get.
With the kissing done in tenderness,
When stripped to nakedness.
YES...
I LOVE THE FOREPLAY.
And a touching we both get.
With the kissing done in tenderness,
When stripped to nakedness.
YES...
I LOVE THE FOREPLAY.
AND A TOUCHING WE BOTH GET.
With the kissing done in tenderness,
When stripped to nakedness.
YES...
I LOVE THE FOREPLAY.
AND A TOUCHING WE BOTH GET.
WITH THE KISSING DONE IN TENDERNESS,
When stripped to nakedness.
YES...
I LOVE THE FOREPLAY.
AND A TOUCHING WE BOTH GET.
WITH THE KISSING DONE IN TENDERNESS,
WHEN STRIPPED TO NAKEDNESS.
Yes...
I do!
'And I gather you are a screamer too? '
Aux contrare, mon ami.
Tu et moi...
Moan!
Laissez les bon temps rouler.
C'est si bon!
N'est pas? Oui.
'I get the 'we' bit.
But I'm not so sure about the nest,
Pa!
Yours or mine? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Can't Top Me!
You can't top me!
Like you did when you did it.
And you did and you hit it,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
.
You can't top me,
Like you did when you did it.
And you did and you hit it,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
You can't top me,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
You can't top me,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
You can't top me,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
With a beggin' not to miss it if you could.
And when we move our hips...
In the nakedness,
Feeling all around and casting shadows.
And in the nakedness,
The rhythm over heats.
And in the nakedness,
We do it with passion
And in the nakedness,
We do it with passion...
In the nakedness.
The rhythm over heats.
You can't top me!
Like you did when you did it.
And you did and you hit it,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
.
You can't top me,
Like you did when you did it.
And you did and you hit it,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
That 'nakedness'...
You can't top me!
And in the nakedness,
The rhythm over heats.
And in the nakedness,
The rhythm over heats.
And in the nakedness,
The rhythm over heats.
And in the nakedness,
The rhythm over heats.
You can't top me,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
You can't top me,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
You can't top me,
With a beggin' not to miss it!
With a beggin' not to miss it if you could.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Losing Life to Fear
In fear of being heard,
In fear of being understood,
In fear of not being heard,
In fear of not being understood,
In fear of being misheard,
In fear of being misunderstood,
In fear of hearing too much,
In fear of understanding too much,
In fear of saying too much,
In fear of saying too little,
In fear of being too enlightened,
In fear of not being factually correct,
In fear of being too bright,
In fear of being too ignorant,
In fear of being praised,
In fear of being bullied,
In fear of not being like others,
In fear of loosing my individuality,
In fear of being ostracized,
In fear of being camouflaged,
In fear of being the attraction,
In fear of being ignored,
In fear of being too different,
In fear of being too common,
In fear of following others,
In fear of disobeying others,
In fear of being too gullible,
In fear of being too stubborn,
In fear of being used,
In fear of being misused,
In fear of rewards,
In fear of punishments,
In fear of responsibility,
In fear of expectations,
In fear of being trusted,
In fear of being mistrusted,
In fear of your lack of response,
In fear of your over-reaction,
In fear of eternal silence,
In fear of noisy communication,
In fear of your acceptance,
In fear of your rejection,
In fear of exciting you,
In fear of upsetting you,
In fear of loving you,
In fear of hating you,
In fear of your love,
In fear of your hatred,
In fear of being loved,
In fear of being hated,
In fear of thinking,
In fear of existing,
In fear of living,
In fear of dying,
In fear of being myself,
In fear of being another,
In fear of knowing myself,
In fear of neglecting myself,
I lost my voice;
I lost my identity;
I lost my self.
I lost this life;
I lost my life;
I lost life's life.
poem by Suraj Samtani
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Lonely Lovers Lane
The shadows hang over the archways,
still and silently fall to the ground,
no echo of footsteps are heard,
as nothing makes a sound.
There is no laughter of lovers,
no hush as they embrace;
nothing disturbs the silence,
of our lonely lover’s lane.
One-day lovers will walk there
know the happiness we knew.
One-day lovers will kiss there,
and know how I felt about you.
They will stop and admire the stillness,
that almost takes the breath away,
and feel the warmth of each other,
near the closing of the day.
poem by David Harris
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Stillness Of The Night
Midnight on the hill I heard the thunder fill
The stillness of the night
It hit me like a slap, youre never comin back
From the stillness of the night
It was never black or white, neither wrong or right
Like the shadow of a full moons light
I knew wed lost the track, when I heard the lightning crack
The stillness of the night
Chorus
In the stillness of the night
Thats when well make it right
We can stop the thunder till the light
In the stillness of the night
I know you think you hear, those voices in your ear
In the stillness of the night
But Ive tried to make it clear theres nothing left to fear
Just the stillness of the night
And if you listen hard you might find the reason for your fright
Just the wind is high tonight
And the danger we must face is the anger of this race
In the stillness of the night
Chorus
song performed by by Reo Speedwagon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If You Are a Poet
If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.
To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poet’s duty.
Rhyming the words to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.
To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.
To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.
Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.
To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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In That Moment: A Meditation
one comes to the water, to the ocean, and one observes…without a companion, without chatter and with bodily stillness, and with no projection of one’s one expectations and conditioning, one observes…one sees what is before one…and in that moment, in that instant, there is no one there with an identity; no one coming from the past to say: this is what I am; this is what I did – and this was done to me; and such a person did this; and in that moment, in that observing, in that seeing of the ocean, of the water, in the seeing of what is before one, there is none that asserts its identity; there is none to speak of its name and its nationality and its pride and associations and its past, and there is none to reach out for a future: there is the moment; the stillness; the silence…
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self, in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which one's nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one's nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one's robes.
quote by James Baldwin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just Make It Stop
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger.
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger.
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Fist flying.
Object Throwing.
Door Slamming.
Here's my pause button.
Cranking up the music and start jamming.
For its my only way out.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger.
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
It forever sits upon a child's mind.
Was it something he did?
Is that why daddy smacks mommy around?
Is that why mommy brings a different man day after day.
Which is my real father.
A bastard by definition.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger.
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
With a needle in her arm and she does not wake.
What am I to do now.
Do I call 911 in the attempts to save her.
These questions constantly stir.
A life in a melting pot.
I wonder how I will turn out.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger.
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Now shes sitting in the bath tub.
Slashes across her wrist.
Blood soaked water.
Is their any way I could have prevented this?
She is ready to die.
And as a child I'm ready to cry.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Just make it stop.
The stillness in the air.
The shattered mirror just sitting their.
The hate.
The anger.
Just make it all stop.
I can't take it no more.
The constant ringing upon my ears.
The blood curdling screams I continuously hear.
Just make it stop.
Just make it stop.
Just make it stop.
~Being a good mother is the most important thing in the world.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh Yeah
(ferry)
Some expression in your eyes
Overtook me by surprise
Where was i how was i to know?
How can we drive to a movie show
When the music is here in my car
Theres a band playing on the radio
With a rhythm of rhyming guitars
They playing oh yeah on the radio
And so came to be our song
And so on through all summer long
Day and night drifting into love
Driving you home from a movie show
So in tune to the sounds in my car
Theres a band playing on the radio
With a rhythm of rhyming guitars
They playing oh yeah on the radio
Its some time since we said goodbye
And now we lead our separate lives
But where am i where can i go?
Driving alone to a movie show
So i turn to the sounds in my car
Theres a band playing on the radio
With a rhythm of rhyming guitars
Theres a band playing on the radio
And its drowning the sound of my tears
Theyre playing oh yeah on the radio
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In terms of an identity, an identity reflects an individuality, by definition. And, if there is a quality present, it is recognizable and it can be named. If you can't name it, it means you don't recognize it.
quote by Robert Fripp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0331 How to Wait Doggedly
I’ve never seen him just like this before.
Crouched at the entrance to the largest run,
the burrowed-out soil in front of it
ground to dust by many eager legs
hopping, skipping out of the dark warren -
he’s totally silent, totally still. It's awesome.
This isn’t the puppy who goes wild at rabbits
in a frenzy of excitement, wet nose intoxicated by
a thousand trails of scent, scattering
white tails into burrows, barking wildly
(are they friends or enemies, in this joy?)
at the sheer excitement of the chase,
puppy paradise; but now..
this is serious stuff.
at first sight, you could think he’s resting, he’s so still;
his back legs haunched down under him, looking
like the sphinx itself, immobile, waiting for the question
it’s waited for through thousands of wise years;
may only answer in this sacred silence;
his nose and head and throat almost flat upon the ground
(this is no time for his 'Tailwaggers' League' identity disc to rattle)
as if at the epicentre of
some invisible geometry of scent and earth-echoed sound,
his ears poised, half-lifted on instant muscles;
he’s the image of relaxation, at first sight:
but a stillness packed with potential energy
wound as ready on electric nerves as in a spring;
a silence so intense it’s thrilling,
full of alertness; a silence right inside his head
that teaches silence, stillness: he’s carrying
no sense of future: he’s living a continuous present,
waiting for the senses to tell him something.
There’s nothing else in the world to do, right now.
A fox terrier flat on the ground at the entrance
to a mere rabbit-hole; we’ve never found a foxhole,
we two; should I apologise to him? If we had,
he’d be in there like a flash; sheer life-or-death ferocity;
but here, nevertheless, it’s serious stuff;
this is what thousands of years of dog
have made him for; that, and what he and man
have learned together from each other; bred in him;
while this present man gazes awestruck at the species
in its perfection of action, action contained in stillness,
stillness and silence containing all the senses,
all contained in knowledge, awaiting, perfect, pure,
what the cosmos will reveal in its good time.
Has my dog just shown me, taught me,
how a poet should await a poem?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A tribute to Ramana Maharshi
Movement, beautiful movement
comes out of stillness;
dancers know this;
sound, beautiful sound,
comes out of silence;
musicians, singers, know this;
what then, of stillness and silence?
Be still for a while;
be silent for a while;
and you will know
all you need to know
and the question, who am I?
is answered
in stillness, in silence,
in the riches of yourself;
in the treasure of yourself.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Silence Part III
Silence is the only thing I hear
Silence is what I fear
Silence tells me that nothing remains
Silence tells ne that its the end of your game
As silence fills the air
I begin to wish he was there
I wish I didn't let him walk out that door
And I hate that there's nothing I can do anymore
To make him mine again
I love him more than anything but I didn't know it then
And now silence is all that's left
Silence because of an unnecessary bereft
The silence rings in my ears
Because I let go of what I should have kept near
The tears pour out of my eyes
As I lay there in silence - but that's no surprise
A Poem Does Not Have to Rhyme
There are those who think in order for a poem to have rhythm it must rhyme, but a poem does not have to rhyme to have rhythm.
The rhythm comes for the poet’s soul not the rhyming of words.
The rhythm is in emotions that the poet’s poem evokes.
From a soulful cry to feeling of love and from the passion of hate to the awakening of understanding this is the beat, the rhythm of a poem. Now don’t get me wrong if a poem rhyme and has soul it is cool too, but I just wanted everyone to know that a poem does not have to rhyme.
Dawn Break
stillness ruled
oh, in this bleak
may day night
not even a single
crickets chirp
has reached my ears - -
stillness cavernously
deafening,
silence reverberates,
scorned the heart
with grief and sorrow,
why having to live
alone in this weak
and frail resting home
drowned you to mourn?
mourn, in the sorrows
of your own,
in vain i scream,
in plight, I complain
transient sorrow
only leaves the soul
with scars and stain,
then a voice from
within I heard,
whispering,
'sleep, sleep
that your sorrow
may break,
break together
with the dawn'
poem by Cyrus Diaz
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She Stole Me
She stole me, my identity
My personality
What I live for, What I breath for,
What I'd fight for, what I'd die for.
You told them it was your idea
You lied to them about your taste
The way you dressed
The way you wore your hair
The way you did your make-up
She stole my, my identity
My personality
What I live for, What I breath for
What I'd fight for, what I'd die for
I met a guy, who knew her from school
We dated for a while
He mentioned you a lot
It seemed he asked you first and you rejected him
he hurt me; he caused me pain; because of you
She stole my, my identity
My personality
What I live for, What I breath for
What I'd fight for, what I'd die for
All i know, is that i am me
You are you
You can never be me
I can never be consumed by you
It won't work, even though....
She stole my, my identity
My personality
What I live for, What I breath for
What I'd fight for, what I'd die for
poem by Donna Hendra
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Another nothing poem
Another nothing poem
~
These are just words
Rhyming, walking with rhythm
They do not hate or love
Laugh, cry or shout aloud
They know no malice or jealousy
They just piece together nicely
In a story or a poem
However they are written
Presented on a page
They remain just words
They talk of no living soul
But a fictional character
If one happens to be written
Or a place or feeling
Some may relate to it
You’re free to see what you like
Or dislike in these words
That’s all they are sitting here
Rhyming, walking with rhythm
Across the once blank page
Just another nothing poem
Waiting to be read
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Identity Of I
Identity is not what I promise others
Identity is what I do when I am alone
Identity is what I think of others
Knowing all the hatred they've shown
Identity is what every wound reminds me
Identity is what I learn and what I pass by
Identity is what I see in the mirror
After giving my best try
Identity is what I make out of my given chance
Identity is what I accept and what I deny
No one else has control over me
Life is about me, and what I identify
poem by Abhiraj Rajadhyaksha
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I Like The Rhymes
I like the rhymes of the old fashioned rhymers the men and women of ballad and song
One can sense the rhythm and music in their verses to the bardic tradition they belong
Though in the twenty first century seen by many as out of fashion reading the rhyming stuff I still enjoy
Easy to understand not esoteric I've loved them since I was a school going boy
I cannot claim to be a judge of poetry since I'm not one with literary degrees
I just like rhyming stuff with lots of rhythm perhaps I am an easy one to please
The stuff quite popular in the nineteen fifties now seen as doggerel since the death of rhyme
What's fashionable now in ten years may seem outdated suppose that everything does have it's time
I loved the rhyming poems of my schooldays though that was years ago and far away
Perhaps I'm behind the times in my thinking since I enjoy reading old rhymes today
But then 'tis our different ways that makes us more interesting if we all thought the same how boring we would be
For it surely would be the death of discussion if everyone on all things did agree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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