Your Lips Taste Like
your lips taste like
my heart wrapped in brown paper,
and left out in the rain....
the cloud that drifts by taunting,
the old dog dying in the field.
the rose just before it opens,
the blood surging from the bullet wound.
the bottom of the bridge
the homeless sleep under...
a falling star, a leaf blown by the wind.
the hungry child's whimper,
the howl of the wolves.
the desire of the turtle,
a flat tire on a deserted road.
the surge of the ocean,
and the pulse of the mountain.
like a postage stamp
from a faraway shore...
like the little girl's hands
opening the door of the cage,
and the sound the feathers make,
the light glinting on her tears.
and the soft underside
of my own heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
I'm In The Mood
I knock off with a lot on my mind
From a long hard day
Pull in at home, see you and find
My stress slipping away
Then you run to my arms
and give me a kiss
And nothing else matters
When you hold me like this
(Chorus)
Girl, I'm in the mood to be your man
To win your heart all over again
Let my eyes trace, let my lips taste
Nothing but you
I'm in the mood to close the door
Make love tonight like never before
Rush after rush, like waves on the shore
Girl, I'm in the mood
All day long I'm so strong
Then I hear you speak
I'm drawn to your fire, your signs of desire
Girl, you make me weak
I go drifting away
Like a leaf in the wind
I'm under a spell
Your touch put me in
Girl, I'm in the mood to be your man
To win your heart all over again
Let my eyes trace, let my lips taste
Nothing but you
Yeah, I'm in the mood to close the door
Make love tonight like never before
Rush after rush, like waves on the shore
Girl, I'm in the mood
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Rain Stopped Falling
there is this heavy rain
falling on top of your roof and it is so disturbing
that you wake up
and lock your windows
to shut yourself away from the sounds
of falling
but you cannot help worrying even when you cannot
literally hear the sound of the falling rain
you still imagine how they fall inside your mind
as though you can hear every syllable that every neddle of rain
is pricking in your brain
your ears
and your eyes still have the image of these
series of fallings
that even if the rain finally stopped
and you open your window to check
in the middle of this time
when morning cracks fromt the shutters of your windows
you still think like crazy
you hear the sound of the wind and it is like the sound of the falling
rain
and even if the wind has left like a leaf flown to the eastern side
of your house
even if there is no shadow of the leaf anymore
you hear your heart falling from your chest
now you must accept
leaving.
now you must accept the pain.
do not deny it.
it is you that is falling out
from the grace of her love.
it is you.
cry it out!
shout it!
it is you.!
it is you!
it is not the rain, it is not the wind, it is not the leaf that was blown away
towards the eastern part of the house.it is not the design of the house.
it is not the purple curtains. it is not the lonely courtyard
it is not the red bowl. it is not the tower.
it is not the blank sheets of paper.
it is not the bell.
it is not the winding stairs.
it is not the dirty garage.
it is not the scaffold.
it is not the white paint.
it is not the doorbell.
it is not the turbulence of the plane.
it is not the slap of the hand.
it is not the blue fan.
it is not the cellophance floating in the air and whirling in that corner
a dead-end.
it is you! and that is the truth!
be calm now. wipe the tears.
try sleep and dream.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trembles Your Thoughts
i am the brown skinned lover,
sweat wrapped in shadow.
the window left open,
the latch broken by desire.
i am the turpentine taste
of the dangerous and forbidden.
i am the graveclothes left
by the door to your room.
i am the rabid dog,
howling against the wind.
i am the moment before
the storm tears down the house.
i am hunger sharpened
by the loss and the fury.
i am legs uncrossed,
quivering and damp!
i am love dares the bullet,
and taunts the noose.
i am the shackles broken,
the sinews of deep want!
i am the heart, the tongue,
the fingers, and the plow...
waiting for the moon to light
the field too long untouched!
i am the beard of eros,
and the pipe of beauty.
i hum the song
that trembles your thoughts!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Three Island Songs
AFTER the wind in the wood,
Peace, and the night.
After the bond and the brood,
Flight.
After the height and the hush
Where the wild hawk swings,
Heart of the earth-loving thrush
Shaken with wings.
After the bloom and the leaf
Rain on the nest.
After the splendour and grief,
Rest.
After the hills and the far
Glories and gleams,
Cloud, and the dawn of a star,
And dreams.
------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
O, THE gray rocks of the islands and the hemlock green above them,
The foam beneath the wild rose bloom, the star above the shoal.
When I am old and weary I'll wake my heart to love them,
For the blue ways of the islands are wound about my soul.
[Page 66]
Here in the early even when the young gray dew is falling,
And the king-heron seeks his mate beyond the loneliest wild,
Still your heart in the twilight, and you'll hear the river calling
Through all her outmost islands to seek her lastborn child.
------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
I SAT among the green leaves, and heard the nuts falling,
The broad red butterflies were gold against the sun,
But in between the silence and the sweet birds calling
The nuts fell one by one.
Why should they fall and the year but half over ?
Why should sorrow seek me and I so young and kind ?
The leaf is on the bough and the dew is on the clover,
But the green nuts are falling in the wind.
O, I gave my lips away and all my soul behind them.
Why should trouble follow and the quick tears start ?
The little birds may love and fly with only God to mind them,
But the green nuts are falling on my heart.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Gasping For Light
1
i built a fire in the yard.
slowly walked back into the house.
gathering everything of value.
my books, my clothes, my boots,
old photographs, letters, pictures,
everything i've ever written.
every memory.
took them outside,
and fed them to the fire!
and walked off barefoot
into the night.
2
lover, dance with me!
we call unto each other
from distances, through barriers,
breaking down walls of seperation;
through tears and angry silence,
echoing through the night.
i kiss your eyes, your lips,
the arch of your neck.
your fingertips, your feet,
the inside of your thighs.
your wetness.
you open your eyes,
and the shadow disappears!
3
spirits dance in the moonlight!
a soft wind rustles
through the trees.
the howl of a dog,
car lights on a forgotten road;
a screen door closes softly.
old house wrapped in stillness.
only a faint sound.
the footsteps of God
walking in your heart!
4
i can smell your perfume,
or maybe the scent of rain coming.
i can taste you in the
cool damp earth,
in the blood of a small animal
killed by a passing car,
in the cry of the baby
waking up hungry,
in the web of the spider.
in the hollow of my soul.
5
two moths lost in the darkness,
gasping for light.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blunt Questions!
does a falling star
know that it's falling?
does the green leaf know
that autumn comes?
does the unborn child
know his mother's face?
does the murderer know
his victim is himself?
does the cloud know
that the rain is needed?
does the day know
it was born at night?
does the peacemaker know
that the bullets are his?
does the liar know
that the truth has won?
does the lover know
tis only a moment?
does the moment know
that it holds eternity?
and do the hungry, sick,
and the homeless know.....
do they really know
that they are human?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Silly Song
'O HEART, my heart!' she said, and heard
His mate the blackbird calling,
While through the sheen of the garden green
May rain was softly falling,--
Aye softly, softly falling.
The buttercups across the field
Made sunshine rifts of splendor:
The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood
Peeped through its leefage tender,
As the rain came softly falling.
'O heart, my heart!' she said and smiled,
'There's not a tree of the valley,
Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss
Freshens in yonder alley,
Where the drops keep ever falling,--
'There's not a foolish flower i' the grass,
Or bird through the woodland calling,
So glad again of the coming of rain
As I of these tears now falling,--
These happy tears down falling.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The Girl I Left Behind Me
With sweet Regret — (the dearest thing that Yesterday has left us) —
We often turn our homeless eyes to scenes whence Fate has reft us.
Here sitting by a fading flame, wild waifs of song remind me
Of Annie with her gentle ways, the Girl I left behind me.
I stood beside the surging sea, with lips of silent passion —
I faced you by the surging sea, O brows of mild repression!
I never said — “my darling, stay!” — the moments seemed to bind me
To something stifling all my words for the Girl I left behind me.
The pathos worn by common things — by every wayside flower,
Or Autumn leaf on lonely winds, revives the parting hour.
Ye swooning thoughts without a voice — ye tears which rose to blind me,
Why did she fade into the Dark, the Girl I left behind me.
At night they always come to me, the tender and true-hearted;
And in my dreams we join again the hands which now are parted;
And, looking through the gates of Sleep, the pleasant Moon doth find me
For ever wandering with my Love, the Girl I left behind me.
You know my life is incomplete, O far-off faint Ideal!
When shall I reach you from a depth of darkness which is real?
So I may mingle, soul in soul, with her that Heaven assigned me;
So she may lean upon my love, the Girl I left behind me.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Where Nobody Lives
i can taste my desire
on your lips, turned bitter
with the wounds of time...
your body walks
apart from your soul,
strangers on diverging paths.
passionate ashes blown
by the wind, falling like
charcoal tears on a silent tomb.
with only the sound of a screen
door banging in the wind...
a house that smells like a home,
where nobody lives!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Possession
THE child was yours and none of mine,
And yet you gave it me to keep,
And bade me sew it raiment fine,
And wrap my kisses round its sleep.
I carried it upon my breast,
I fed it in a world apart,
I wrapped my kisses round its rest,
I rocked its cradle with my heart.
When in mad nights of rain and storm
You turned us homeless from your door,
I wrapped it close, I kept it warm,
And brought it safe to you once more.
But the last time you drove us forth,
The snow was wrapped about its head,
That night the wind blew from the North,
And on my heart the child was dead.
The child is mine and none of yours,
My life was his while he had breath,
What of your claim to him endures,
Who only gave him birth and death?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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You... Now!
you are... now,
the small fire built
'neath a tree in the rain,
the song of the whipporwill.
the dirty faced little girl
playing down in the barn,
the milk cow butchered
to face the winter.
the gurgle of the stream,
the whisper of branches bare.
the taste of blood
on the tip of the tongue.
the yelp of love,
the stink of hunger.
the cup held out,
and the hand that pours.
the howl of the wind,
the arch of the back.
the mouth of desire,
and the holy whore.
the long far echo
of the heart's screaming beat.
the soft falling rain,
the prayer, unanswered!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Buddhist Lesson # 2
enlightment,
the act of opening,
like a rosebud,
like a mother,
opening the door...
like a child
opening a present,
like a woman
opening to a man....
opening...
all the hidden chambers,
every door to every
secret kingdom of the soul.....
opening the box that holds
your secret thoughts, desires....
opening...
the door of the cage,
letting the winged breath fly....
opening....
your heart to itself,
and to all hearts beating....
opening....
the vault of conceptions,
the entrance to the tomb
of past lives and memories....
opening...
your hands to the world
as if it were your neighbor,
and you, it's home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Such A Rainy Day
such a rainy day
she comes to my door
knocking for help
for some comfort in the coldness of a rainy day
some winds too strong
dry leaves blown to the other side
some trees giving to a crack to a fall
she comes on such a rainy day
she is wet and so pitiful to look at
her clothes pasting to her frail body of
a woman deserted
her hair uncombed and blown and scattered
she stands by my door
my brother left her just an hour ago
she is wet, her hair, her body some rain still drips
how can i forget her?
my brother did not love her and he left her
she is crying and her tears drip on her cheeks on her body
how can i be so cruel for not telling her
i love her so,
but she leaves, she is crying and the rain starts pouring again
she is only looking for my brother who left her
how can i help her?
she never utters my name
in her heart, i do not exist.
she loves him, he left her,
i love her, she leaves me
the rain keeps on pouring and fate plays so well like a crazy child
on us
on a rain that comes unplanned, unasked, and goes away unnoticed.
i stand on this door.
i have to close it,
fate does it always better.
i am that crazy child playing in the rain, in my brain
i am wet, my thoughts dripping like rain,
like droplets and my tears,
i am glad, my tears are invisible.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Still Falls the Rain
Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.
Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet
On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain
In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.
Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us---
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.
Still falls the Rain---
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,---those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear---
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.
Still falls the Rain---
Then--- O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune---
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree
Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,---dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.
Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain---
"Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee."
poem by Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
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Cynicism, and Hope
as i grow older
my cynicism grows...
i've grown tired of paper kingdoms
& dreams that end
with the taste of blood in my mouth.
i do not believe that
God lives in synagogues & churches,
or in the exhortations of evangelists,
or in the rituals of priests...
or in hell-fire & damnation,
the sword of judgement, the end of time,
or in holy graves...
i see God in the eyes...
the eyes of small children,
of homeless men beneath the bridge...
in the eyes of young lovers
madly lost in each other...
in the eyes of the old woman dying
in the empty house where she raised her children...
in the eyes of the activist arrested
& confined to a cold cell for believing
in human rights...
in the eyes of the addict
whose life is lost in the hole of the memory
that the needle fills...
in the eyes of dead soldiers
forever staring into the rage of war...
in the eyes of those struggling to survive
drowning in the despair of cold reality...
in the eyes that stare at me in the night,
& wont let me sleep without feeling...
in the eyes of the dog lying faithfully at my feet,
with no need to be anywhere else...
who is this God? of form & formless,
of light and shadow, dissolving, redefining...
who's not always male, but often female!
not owned, and not owning....
like the waves that carve the shore,
& leave it nameless...
(hungry for the footprints
of human desire!)
not aloof, but immersed,
almost drunk with sadness & joy...
not bound by dwelling or canyon,
but as free as the wind
that cant be spoken!
do i believe? yes! madly! ecstatically!
in life, & stillness, & even death!
in the song that takes no prisoners,
leaving dew in the parched grass...
& in the Lover who opens & closes the door
of eternity in the human heart...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The House In The Woods
At the back of the houses there is the wood.
While there is a leaf of summer left, the wood
Makes sounds I can put somewhere in my song,
Has paths I can walk, when I wake, to good
Or evil: to the cage, to the oven, to the House
In the Wood. It is a part of life, or of the story
We make of life. But after the last leaf,
The last light--for each year is leafless,
Each day lightless, at the last--the wood begins
Its serious existence: it has no path,
No house, no story; it resists comparison...
One clear, repeated, lapping gurgle, like a spoon
Or a glass breathing, is the brook,
The wood's fouled midnight water. If I walk into the wood
As far as I can walk, I come to my own door,
The door of the House in the Wood. It opens silently:
On the bed is something covered, something humped
Asleep there, awake there--but what? I do not know.
I look, I lie there, and yet I do not know.
How far out my great echoing clumsy limbs
Stretch, surrounded only by space! For time has struck,
All the clocks are stuck now, for how many lives,
On the same second. Numbed, wooden, motionless,
We are far under the surface of the night.
Nothing comes down so deep but sound: a car, freight cars,
A high soft droning, drawn out like a wire
Forever and ever--is this the sound that Bunyan heard
So that he thought his bowels would burst within him?--
Drift on, on, into nothing. Then someone screams
A scream like an old knife sharpened into nothing.
It is only a nightmare. No one wakes up, nothing happens,
Except there is gooseflesh over my whole body--
And that too, after a little while, is gone.
I lie here like a cut-off limb, the stump the limb has left...
Here at the bottom of the world, what was before the world
And will be after, holds me to its back
Breasts and rocks me: the oven is cold, the cage is empty,
In the House in the Wood, the witch and her child sleep.
poem by Randall Jarrell
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By A Thousand Doors
perhaps now this ark is finished,
i can smell the distant dawn.
the light against the window be no stranger,
nor the sound of bare feet in the night.
the crows gather neath the pine tree,
as the wind prepares to die.
voices fallen from the trees,
mine a cloud, a branch, a stone.
it seems tonight the stars finally answer,
all this time i thought i was alone.
a child is born, a life is taken,
streetlights blink in perfect time.
while redemption sleeps in alleys,
and poets silently sweep.
the heart revealed no longer journeys,
for the destination be now the feet.
the tears of god gleam in the darkness,
a stranger's kiss, a soldier's prayer.
infidels gather jewels cast aside,
feed the hungry with human souls.
the song wrapped in plain brown paper,
left by a thousand doors!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Buddha, Or...
a buddha...
or just another homeless man,
standing on the corner
of the street going nowhere.
what do we hold in our hands
that will remain?
even daylight is swallowed by night,
and night disappears into the dawn.
and love in the end
is merely a moment given,
a grain of sand
on a deserted beach.
the trees shed their leaves
for the winter cleansing,
and so we lay our bodies
down into the earth's embrace!
o to be ocean,
filling the great chasms of history.
o to be mountain,
and bridge the earth to the sky.
o to be wind,
to come and go without restraint.
o to be fire,
to consume, and yet to give warmth!
and o to know,
that we are each and all,
that we are none and nothing.
both the falling star,
and the blackened sky...
and yes a grain of sand
beneath the traveller's feet,
the home that cannot be taken,
but is freely given!
and hands that have no need to hold!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ocean's Rose
The ocean's rose The ocean's rose
Is a sight
Is a sprite
Is a playful child
Dancing along the Dancing along the
Shore, Shore,
A lion's roar,
A squeaky door,
Making a sound, a
Difference somewhere, Change in the air,
A change in the air, A difference somewhere,
Pulling and tugging Pulling and tugging at
Your mind,
At your heart,
The feeling you get
When the ocean's waves
Scroll over your feet
Getting you wet.
The ocean's rose The ocean's rose is a
Memory of something
Long forgotten:
A seashell, a clam, a
Boot, nasty and rotten.
Better than a picture,
A souvenir for life,
From the early ages of
Childhood, to the Childhood, to the
Moment when you are
Laying on your deathbed,
And you hand it off to your
Children as you
See the light.
See the light.
-refrain-
And the memory lives And the memory
On. On.
**This poem is a two person poem. While one person reads the right column, the other person reads the left column, **
poem by Alex M.ller
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Dying Soldier
I taste blood.
I am dying.
I see things more clearly now.
I feel the broken bones
Within my exhausted sack of a body
And I know
I am dying.
I see the doctors come to examine me.
I know there is nothing they can do.
Too many bullet wounds.
So much blood has gone.
The nurses look at me
With pity and pain.
I cry, silently, at night
Taste the saltiness of my tears,
Hear the screams of the madmen some of us have become.
We will never be whole again.
I turn away from everything.
The drugs make me drowsy, but don't make me forget.
I'd have nightmares in my sleep.
Put me in a drug induced coma
Inside I would still weep.
I know I am dying.
My parents will be given a medal
At my funeral.
Another son of the country dies
Honorably
At battle.
I taste blood, I feel the pain
In my exhaustion I see things clearly.
I am dying.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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