Unattended!
you speak of love with an absent voice,
stumbling numbly down the stairway
to the basement where desire rumored lurks.
the man on the screen trills of wars,
and crimes committed beneath white shirts.
and the sweet Jesus prayers of the unemployed,
cut crack rocks on bare tables.
even the dog mourns the heated silence,
while turnips boil in a touch-me-not pot.
death taunts the branch against your window,
the broom stands unattended!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Small Lamp
the small lamp
beside the bed in the empty room,
burns strong with silence,
and waits without reason.
the pawprint of the dog
beneath the window,
identifying emptiness.
and the broom in the corner,
stands ever on guard.
the book of passage unread,
urine stained sheets.
even god almighty
cant control the wind,
that blows through the window,
and fills the room.
while babies are born,
and wars are stopped.
yet the earth waits without breath,
for the coming of love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words!
it has been said
that God spoke worlds
into being...
and that Jesus
was the word of God.
that we are created
in the image of God...
that we are the dreams
of God made flesh...
yet we open our mouths,
and nothing happens!
bats hang from the rafters
of our souls.
we speak, windows rattle,
and wars begat wars.
we write with invisible ink!
no cosmos, no stars,
only hunger and despair.
our words close the door,
and choose to be strangers.
we shout, and graves are dug,
we whisper, and no one hears!
could it be that true word
is written in silence,
spoken in awareness,
breaks concepts, tears down walls.
and we who live in fear,
running from the image of our selves,
cannot touch the source,
and have forgotten the breast.
speak worlds into being,
or speak this one into destruction?
spirit becomes flesh,
and blooms or decays.
choice?
awareness, and silence,
crucifixion, and fire.
Buddha spoke, Jesus listened,
Jesus spoke, Buddha listened...
perhaps we could learn!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Broom In My Hands
we walk the edge of suicidal silence,
sweeping shadows beneath curtains
with brooms made of straw.
while somewhere soupbones
boil in the pot,
and the sound of coffee making
startles children's trains on tiny tracks..
the heroin news grates against the mind,
and dogs wait in silent anticipation.
Jesus dies again, a matinee,
the Bill Of Rights stutters
neath a thin layer of dirt.
travelling shoe salesmen grope lady's legs,
and old men on park benches
peer over bifocals.
the woman ironing, in her bra and panties,
quietly curses, with trembling hands!
bare chested men split wood in the sun,
while boys tinker on cars with oily hearts.
the soldier returned home to no home,
hangs himself from the rafters.
a picture of his baby boy,
falls from his pockets.
crows gather on a wooden fence rail,
the young woman lights a crack pipe,
staring at naked walls.
while dead bodies march in lines that rhyme,
with buildings left empty,
and mailboxes spilling over.
the soft silk of the thigh,
and the lip turned up...
names whispered and lost,
small rooms speak of distance.
be it love, be it madness,
the clock falls from the wall.
and nothing feels real....
except the broom in my hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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It is incontestable and deplorable that Negroes have committed crimes; but they are derivative crimes. They are born of the greater crimes of the white society.
quote by Martin Luther King, Jr.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Robe
Each naked branch, the yellow leaf or brown,
The rugged rock, and death-deformed plain
Lie white beneath the winter's feathery down,
Nor doth a spot unsightly now remain;
On sheltering roof, on man himself it falls;
But him no robe, not spotless snow makes clean;
Beneath, his corse-like spirit ever calls,
That on it too may fall the heavenly screen;
But all in vain, its guilt can never hide
From the quick spirit's heart-deep searching eye,
There barren plains, and caverns yawning wide
Ever lie naked to the passer by;
Nor can one thought deformed the presence shun,
But to the spirit's gaze stands bright as in the sun.
poem by Jones Very
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Stories from the Grave...
Stories fom th' grave, speak their tales....on winds of faith
Methodically, we lay our wreaths and sweet moon orchids
Standing o'er the steel-grey rock, with conscientious hope
Our whispered prayers somehow touch th' soul we beckon
Death's voice...cannot be qualified 'less you've been there
Yet, i've heard premonitions voice......choirs with credence
Of Sunday stories taught by men in black with white collars
An' faith, born of fear, as to when our winds of Death come
Stories from th' grave, shed no light upon th' deep unknown
Still, we follow olde traditions, in hopes to find new answers
We'll speak to steel-grey stone, upon......soft, unleveled soil
In hopes that all these stories olde......be blessed with truth
Perhaps, somewhere beyond th' winds....lay all th' answers
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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In the name of God
Atrocities committed when crusaders fought
Women, children murdered
Were Non believers of Antioch/Marat
Jerusalem sieged for a noble Cause
Saracens slaughtered, plundering by holy squad
History sometimes renders us distraught
All crimes committed in the name of God.
It's the Ideal everyone wants to reach
Closer to God is the sacred haught
The politics and economy is secretly sought
Are selling dreams, these fanatic bigots
Yet all crimes committed in the name of God
Shia against Sunnis or Deobandi, Barelvie
All worship same God, still at odd
Conspiring and scheming
Considers oneself a believer, but others NOT
Yet all crimes committed in the name of God
Slaughtering innocents, calling it Jihad
Ruthless are these savage lots
Salvation of afterlife seeking
Atonement for this one, never thought
Yet all crimes committed in the name of God.
poem by Samima Shah
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Jesus
In California
Forever summer and hot
Into the ocean
You're smiling a lot
On sandy beaches
And the blankets are hot
You're in my arms
And I kiss your heart
Jesus, don't touch my baby
Jesus, don't touch my baby
Jesus, don't touch my baby
She's all that I got
Reflections coming
In through the sheets
You love your baby
are sweet
Out on the highway
We ride tonight
Jesus don't know you
He was just saying "Hi"
Don't touch my baby
Jesus, don't touch my baby
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jesus (Don't Touch My Baby)
In California
Forever summer and hot
Into the ocean
You're smiling a lot
On sandy beaches
And the blankets are hot
You're in my arms
And I kiss your heart
Jesus, don't touch my baby
Jesus, don't touch my baby
Jesus, don't touch my baby
She's all that I got
Reflections coming
In through the sheets
You love your baby
are sweet
Out on the highway
We ride tonight
Jesus don't know you
He was just saying "Hi"
Don't touch my baby
Jesus, don't touch my baby
[Thanks to [email protected] for these lyrics]
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Touch Me
You touch me
and my world stands still.
You touch me
and I still feel the thrill.
The world becomes silent
and I know it always will
if you touch me.
So please just touch me.
'Cause everytime you touch me
there's a silence in my heart.
I break in little pieces and slowly come apart.
I remember all those touches.
They're with me every day.
I think all about them and all I want to say
is touch me.
Please touch me.
Touch me in every little way.
You touch me
and my world is bright.
You touch me
and the stars at night
start to burn like a fire
and I feel your desire
to touch me. So please just touch me.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The touch of Jesus - Part 5
The touch of Jesus makes me feel so whole
The touch of Jesus purifies my soul
The touch of Jesus cleanses me from sin
The touch of Jesus gives me peace within
High on the mountain top God's voice I heard
And fell to the ground on hearing His word
Terrified by what I had just been through
But You touched me and I saw only You
Desire
I desire everything you are,
the sun, the moon, you're my shining star.
I smell the perfume of your hair
and my desire is beyond compare.
I feel your lips when they touch mine.
To me they are like sippimg wine.
I drink you in. I feel your breath.
I'll desire you until my death.
I desire everything you are.
My time with you has healed a scar
upon my heart that came to me
before I knew what love could be.
I touch the smoothness of your skin
and my desire creates this mood I'm in.
My passion becomes a burning flame
and overtakes all sense of shame.
For me there is no shame, my love.
There's only sweet desire.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Oh How I Love Jesus
(traditional)
Ohh oh oh oh
When I am disgraced
And I feel the gloom
God sends his angel
To see him my broom
Joy bells are ringing
Im satisfied
I know, I know that jesus is mine
Oh, how I love jesus
Oh, how I love jesus
Oh, how I love jesus
To know that jesus is mine
Oh, how I love jesus
Oh, how I love jesus
Oh, how I love jesus
To know that jesus is mine
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If You Only Know I Can Also Make A Love Poem For You
you need not open your door
i know someone lives there
and there is no seat for me
but you may open your window
for tonight i can be the moon
and if he sees me and closes the
window i may look for a crack
a little crack made by this termite
and i can be a hush of the wind
getting in trying to touch your skin
if he seals the crack i may be
part of the rain and i may enter
on some slits of your roof
and still drip on your lock of hair
for with you my love even if
there is no possibility
that i can be with you yet this love
though late can still last a lifetime
finding the ways till it finds you
finally loving and kissing me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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North Star
North star
We stare
How far
How clear
Now touch
Touch here
Now warm
Now near
Now near
Within
With you
With love
With love
How sweet
How filled
Now time
Now time
Now touch
How sweet
How near
How filled
Now time
Times still
Im still
Tonight
North star
We stare
How far
How clear
How far
How clear
How far
How clear
Now touch
Touch here
Now warm
Now near
Within you
With you
With love
With love
With love
I stand in the hallway
She stands in the hall
I stand at the doorway
She stands at the door
I lean in the window
She leans on the wind
I wait for beginnings
She waits for the end
North star
North star
How far
How clear
Now touch
Touch here
Now warm
Now near
Now near
How far
How clear
Now touch
Touch here
Now warm
Now near
Now near
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Upon Your Shoulder
whose voice? whose image?
whose hand on the plow?
whose silent pillow we share?
whose rain? whose desire?
whose moon holding tides?
whose dark lips against our breast?
whose hammer? whose apron?
whose tick of the clock?
whose hand wiping away tears?
whose black? whose white?
whose cough in the night?
whose branch against the window?
whose pockets? whose empty?
whose wetness that clings?
whose moth upon your shoulder?
whose death? whose life?
whose kiss to your hunger?
whose wind do you follow?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love’s Serenade
I’ve just got to know her better
and there’s one thing I can do.
I’ll sing beneath her window
of my love, so real and true.
She may not know me well,
but I’ll soon put that to right
when I’m beneath her window
with the moon shining bright.
With my guitar, heart and voice,
and a fresh rose of red,
I’ll be beneath her window
to serenade her from her bed.
When she hears me singing
she’ll beam down a smile
and blow me a kiss to prove
its been worthwhile.
poem by Orlando Belo
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We don't want crimes committed in New Mexico falling through the cracks. This legislation ensures that there is no area of our state where crimes can be committed without consequence.
quote by Pete Domenici
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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and Jesus committed suicide
and Jesus committed suicide
Because he could do nothing else
Jesus was gay with a homosexual apostle
But which one?
Jesus committed suicide
And he spoke pretty words, that Jews had said for 2000 years.
Thousands of Jews were crucified by the Romans.
When will this be painted.
His genealogy is fake.
And his death was suicide.
He wants to die as atonement
But he’s an overrated Ken doll
The Red Rose
The little red rose tapped at my window—
Tapped at my window long years ago;
Glad would I run then, trip to the shadow,
Who was in hiding well did I know.
Last night I, nodding, heard at the casement
Soft knock-a-knocking come on the pane.
'Hush! 'Tis the lost rose taps at my window—
Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
Listless I moved then, laughed at my fancies—
Wept at my fancies of years ago.
Slow went a-seeking who was in hiding,
Who came a-tapping—how should I know?
Pushed wide the window, leaned to the silence—
'Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
'Twas but a dead branch, broken and brown branch,
Soft knock-a-knocking there on the pane.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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