To Destiny!
i cannot decide,
whether i be...
the spider,
the web,
the fly just caught,
or the moment before...
all of these, or none!
when a poet becomes
a simple carpenter,
trudging through life
with a hammer,
a few nails,
and a rusted saw...
looking for broken branches
to build an ark from!
one huge dark cloud
in a sky grown icy still...
writing thoughts on a notebook
stolen from a dumpster.
curiously drawn
to the strange and real...
a fly on the way
to destiny!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
The Sugar-cubes!
An ant had found some sugar-cubes,
And ran across to feed;
It ate them all and became fat;
A spider glimpsed the ant!
The ant could not run very fast;
The spider caught it fast;
It threw a web and ate it up,
And it became too fat!
A lizard glanced the spider fat
And flicked its tongue for food;
In moment’s time, it gulped it whole
And went to take a nap!
A cat that came that way then caught
The lizard by its teeth;
And ate it piece-meal with relish;
A dog then chased the cat!
The barking dog caught cat by leg
And bit it till it died;
The master heard the mewing noise,
And struck the dog too dead!
Oh, what a tragedy sequence,
Some sugar-cubes had caused!
The master wept all day and night,
And starved himself to death!
(5-19-2000)
poem by John Celes
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The Poet Is....
the poet is a vase,
collecting tears like rainwater,
with a tiny hole in the bottom,
connecting to the ground.
the poet is a prism,
seperating colors from black and white,
then drawing black and white from colors,
dissolving and evolving.
the poet is an illusion,
that looks and smells like home,
redefining distance by closeness,
finding the familiar in a stranger.
the poet is an orphan,
a messenger, and a thief.
bringing you a lit candle,
and stealing your heart for a stand.
the poet is a carpenter,
building from scraps of wood.
using time rusted nails,
and an eye for dreams.
the poet is a healer,
and the moment you forgot,
on the way to remembering,
who you really are.
the poet is a bridge,
borrowed wings, and a cross.
a simple fire tended by no one,
and ears left behind by god.
the poet is a body,
grown tired in it's dying.
and the small winged creature without name,
waiting to follow the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Carpenter
Withdrawing myself
From all sides
I have got deeply
Attached to you
O my Carpenter
Without you
I have no existence
I can not live for a moment
I can not bear
I can not tolerate
Separation for a moment
From you
Slipping out of memory
Even for a moment
O my Carpenter
You are my creator
You are my only near and dear
You are my father mother
Guide friend and philosopher.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Spiderman
Spider man, spider man
Does whatever a spider can
Spins a web any size
Catches thieves just like flies
Look out!
There comes the spider man
Is he strong?
Listen, bud
Hes got radioactive blood
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead
Hey, there!
There goes the spider man
In the chill of the night
At the scene of a crime
Like a streak of light
He arrives just in time
Spider man, spider man
Friendly neighborhood spider man
Wealth and fame
Hes ignorant
Action is his reward
Look out!
Here comes the spider man
To him, lifes a big bang up
Whenever theres a hang up
Youll find the spider man.
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lonely Spider
The lonely spider reaches out
For what, you might ask?
If not to spin his web then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
The lonely spider calls out
For what, you might ask?
If not for his mate then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
The lonely spider waits
For what, you might ask?
If not for his food then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
'A spider doesn't have feelings! '
How should you know?
'A spider isn't that smart! '
That could be true.
'A spider can never have a real identity! '
And neither could you, or any of us
But we try to find one even if we're not looking
And thats our life... after which we die
What have we done with our life up until then?
Either we've thrown it away, gave it up, wrecked it, lived it up to the fullest, took it for granted, or got far in it.
We still had one.
It's up to us what we shall do with it
Just like the lonely spider
Who will probably just end up on the bottom of your shoe anyways
poem by Andreanna Atkins
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If I Were A Carpenter
If I were a carpenter and you were a lady
Would you marry me anyway?
Would you have my baby?
If I worked my hands in wood
I wonder would you still love me?
I say yes, I would, I'll put you above me
That's what I want you to say
And would you save my love from loneliness,
Would you save my love from sorrow, if you would
I give you my onlyness, girl and all of my tomorrows
If a tinker were my trade, would you still find me?
Carrying the pots and the pans that I made,
Walking along the highway
That long lonely highway
If I was a carpenter, and you were a lady
And I was just a carpenter,
Instead of a rock and roll star
Just a carpenter
A carpenter
A carpenter
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Spider's Web
The spider weaves a web so it can catch its prey
wherever it is convenient to take its hunger away.
An intricate net so finely built yet strong to withhold
all those creatures of nature that get caught in its fold.
The spider knows it will most likely do its job well
and so in the course of the day only time will tell.
It is only when something bigger comes along the way
that the web will break and from its foundations stray.
It’s made to withstand the elements of wind, rain or shine
though it appears in structure to be very delicate and fine.
It never ceases to amaze me with what precision it is made
the work of a skilled artist and product of non-human trade.
It’s made of the same basic material as the silk of the worm
which the spider spins out of its body but is sticky and firm.
The purpose behind the two though has a different motive
being to the both of them uniquely characteristic or native.
I wouldn’t like to be one of those creatures caught in the web
struggling desperately to get away and feeling its own life ebb.
The length and trouble some creatures go to in life to survive
is part of the drama that goes on in nature to keep them alive.
The spider’s web hangs securely moving gently with the breeze
and is fastened onto stationary objects that support it with ease.
Its creator waits patiently at the centre for the right time to come
when the web gives signs that food has arrived again hmm…yum.
If you then happen to see a spider’s web that’s along your way
don’t go and deliberately pull it down as it is a crime I must say.
Unless abandoned or an interference let it catch the spider’s main feed
which is based on its natural instinct of survival and not that of greed.
poem by George Krokos
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Spiders
Like a spider
You weave and intricate web
Hoping to catch an unsuspecting insect
It's absolutely perfect
You wouldn't know you were caught in one
Until the spider injects it's poison
You were painstakingly careful
And I flew right in
I won't ever make the same mistake again
poem by Autumn Winds
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Night Worker
A spider spun his web all night
and waited patiently.
A fly had circled all the morn
and buzzed there cautiously.
The spider watched and stayed so still.
No movement did he make.
And by and by the fly descended
and landed wide-awake.
He spotted the spider and tried his best
to escape the sticky trap.
The spider watched and slowly moved
and the fly with his handicap
became the bait inside the web
that the spider made at night.
The spider had his breakfast early
in the morning light.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Spider web
There’s a spider web
of which parts got on your hair
and you are alarmed by it
and I take fine silk from your hair
while you look big eyed at me
and your lips are open
as if you are gasping for breath.
The wind blows a branch
whipping up and down,
but it’s unnoticed
by us both.
Your eyes are caught by the spider web
on which two spiders
are rocking in the wind
and I am caught,
with the look in your golden eyes
and your open lips that are inviting
and a small leave hanging on your cheek.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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and why did He choose the manger, and Mary and Joseph?
and why did God chose
the manger for the seat
of his birth and Mary his
physical mother and
Joseph the carpenter?
he chose the place of the
poor, the innocent face of
the unsophisticated woman,
the callous hands of the
simple carpenter in the
small town of nowhere,
he chose simplicity and
poverty, he never chose
us, our place, our time,
because he may not have
liked it at all. Too rich,
too arrogant, too shiny,
and so dirty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The life of a Poet
The poet listens
the poet hears
he writes down
all his fears.
He observes things
that others don't
going to places
that others won't.
Inspired by simple things
like a sound or smell
the poet has lots
of stories to tell.
Even when asleep
his mind isn't at rest
in fact this is the time
it's at it's creative best.
The poet can be a restless soul
his life reflected on the page
some verse can be sweet and mild
then full of anger and rage.
The poet can be mysterious
and write in a strange way
he will say Black is White
and that night is day.
The poet is an artist
but instead of paint it's the word
painters want their work to be seen
but poets just need to be heard.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Poet
Darkness,
behind the cloak.
Random words spewed
Subconscience thought,
so obscure their meaning
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
Eerie blackness
within a wretched,
reckless soul
reveals the heart of men
but you,
eyes open, don't blink
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
The day of light
when darkness passes
Brilliant stars
hide beyond the heavens.
But all you know is hell
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
Be anything...,
a janitor,
a carpenter,
an accountant,
a fry cook.
Never become a poet.
Stay numb. It's easier.
Unless you want to feel.
Than be prepared for
internal turmoil.
Turmoil, most common
men could never bare.
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
God knows, I'm not one.
They're all fuckin' sissy's.
Everyone knows that.
T. Labbe`
Moment
Maybe only once in life
somebody comes
that halts your world
at the moment that you meet,
where how she looks, the way
that she looks at you,
the sound of her voice,
the words that she does say
makes that moment perfect
and through the commonplace
a magic moment unfolds
that a person will maybe
remember for the rest of life.
[Reference: "Moment" by die Dutch poet Jean Pierre Rawie.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Woke Up With A Spider
bad sleep
last night
a first
though woe
woke up
with a spider
crawling
on over
my face
cheeky
had trouble
sleeping
after that
but the spider
was shortly
dead thereafter
escape
caught
deceased
thanks
to a good
repeated
spray
with Raid
great
white hunter
was slightly
more satisfied
poem by Terence George Craddock
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To decide to become a philosopher seemed as foolish to me as to decide to become a poet.
quote by Karl Jaspers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kwela (the S.A. Penny Whistle Sound)
A moment in time captured in a simple wind
Of a simple pipe
By a simple folk
I see black boys standing in a corner somewhere
In the middle of Johannesburg
Long before the ’76 Uprising
I see them blowing and swinging
Blowing and swinging
The crowd gathering, listening, moved!
Throwing coins in a hat
And then a yellow police vehicle
Would always come too quickly
KWELA, KWELA, KWELA!
Was all that THEY could say
In the city
In the township,
Purple notes
Purple tunes
A purple moment in time
I see happiness and sorrow entwined
Like strands in the loom
I see a people going on because life goes on
KWELA, a moment in song
Your dream has come to life!
poem by LLM Mbatha
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-75
Spider lily(Beach spider lily
Hymenocallis littoralis)
Calm and lovely, she's Spider Lily
White and peace she's Spider Lily
Pristine and pure she's Spider Lily
Silent and certain she's Spider Lily
There, up above the fanning leaves
Asunder below staminal cup she's
Overflowing her nectarian streams
Mind-blowing her aura measureless
Sacred tepals lofty with beauty
Stamens atop splurging as deputy
There goes heaven's sweet ditty
Miss not a white goddess pretty
poem by Indira Renganathan
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