Earthbound Soul
This spirit roams the vacant corridors,
searching for something that’s uppermost,
in his mind.
Disturbing the air, causing a chilly
atmosphere, strange, eerie, a ghost
of humankind.
Continuously on his quest, he has
haunted these aisles for centuries,
decades and years.
He cannot leave this sphere until he has
solved all his trials and laid to rest
his wretched fears.
Earthbound soul, no respite ever, nowhere
to go until released from torment
and despair.
How long will he have to wander hour
after hour, with discontent, in an
endless nightmare.
This spirit roams the vacant corridors,
in pursuit of another. He’s
a despiser.
Battle without end, perpetual
exploration. The other is no
compromiser.
Possessed, this apparition, floating about,
no sound, just a silent
aura of unease.
Will he still be suspended in his
no man’s land, unable to move on.
Abhorrer in crises.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Related quotes
Vacant Space
this is the vacant space
of my room, you may come
this is the vacant hour
you may barge and talk simply talk
this is the vacant lot of my being
you may build your home
this is vacant
fill it with space, drag your hours here,
start watering the roses in your garden
beside your house
this is a vacant hole in my ear
talk simply talk
i am always listening
this is my vacant line, please fill in the missing
word
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Don't Go Far Off
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Ghost In A Haunted House
All was quiet, nary a sound.
Yet there seemed to be something around.
The halls were vacant, the rooms quite bare
but the presence of something was always there.
It moved at night and left its scent
perfuming the air wherever it went.
The house is bought. People move in.
All is silent 'til noises begin.
Creaks and steps that sound in the air
awaken the people that stop and stare.
Nothing is seen but the air turns cold.
The ghost in this house is suddenly bold.
Presents itself in shadowy form.
All around, a space that's not warm
appears as a shadow draped in white
gripping the hearts of the people in fright.
'Who's there?
Who's there? ' comes the cry.
The answer is muffled but the wail is high.
The house is haunted. We cannot stay.
The ghost that's here wants us away.
A child says, 'That's not the case.
I've seen the ghost. I've seen its face.
It smiled at me and let me know
that it's only a ghost with nowhere to go.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Insanity
Insanity is too close to us all.
It waits on all the sidelines.
No one knows if it will come to call
for most don't recognize the signs.
Brain forgetting, name forgetting,
normalcy too upsetting.
Movement strange, blinking strange,
vision starts to change.
Seeing scenes that are not there,
hearing voices everywhere.
Talking continuously all day long,
cursing words that don't belong.
Vacant stares not there before,
happening now more and more.
Insanity is too close to us all.
It's right behind a vacant door.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Fifty Years On: for Bastille Day 3
It seemed to me the mortal wrong,
the crime that marked her wretched
lay not in anything she did
but what she had neglected
nor could the woes of centuries
be righted by this course
but die she must, for otherwise
she simply was to dangerous.
The tumbril slowly started down
her shoulders shook from view
through the mud the jeering crowd
followed in pursuit
I thought a moment-should I go?
but so much blood had flowed...
I had no special love for blood
and there was work to do.
Long ago that fateful hour-
today is fifty years
since centuries of hate devoured
centuries of fear.
Maybe better, maybe not
than fifty years ago
the world turns now-but I have got
no less of work to do.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Quest
What am I looking for?
What am I searching for?
What quest is this, I know not?
Where does this path lead to?
Where is my destination?
What quest is this, I know not?
Is my quest worth it?
Or is it just a pursuit for
some goal or purpose?
Or is it an exploration of
the journey called life?
Or is it a crusade for
meeting with the Lord?
What quest is this, I know not?
Copyright©2011Rizvana Parveen
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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St. Ame
A SUNNY glade below the bridge;
Clear shadows branching through a stream;
A hillock purple to the ridge
With velvet thyme; and the far gleam
Of white clouds in a dream,
Floating above the dusky lines
Of silent mountains black with pines.
An idle hour to lose away,
To question not, nor muse, nor know:
The ripples ripple where they may
From brown into the amber glow;
The moments drift and go.
And what is life, and toil, and fret?
We only breathe, and we forget.
So in their summer fields might rest
Disprisoned shades that henceforth share
The careless strength of souls possessed
By but the moment that is there,
The strength which children wear;
Might so be stilled from thought or speech,
Passed into calm beyond their reach.
And lo, the dragon-fly's locked wings
Upon the leaf my breath could stir;
And on my sleeve undoubting springs
A merry-minded grasshopper;
And, see, behind that fir,
A rat across our brook has come,
And rustles past us to his home.
And the sweet air is hushed with sound
More tranceful than low lullabies,
The plashings of the waters drowned
In babble of small insect cries
And surge of leafy sighs.
We hear, not heed: enough for us
Resting to feel that rest is thus.
Not now. Oh vacant hour long past,
Wherefore to-day live back in thee?
Ill hour that grew no growth to last,
Flower without seed, unfruitful tree,
Hast thou still right to be?
Fade out forgotten, ghost of nought,
What worth or wisdom hast thou brought?
Nay, seedless, fruitless hour, not so;
Fade not, but hide from sterner looks.
We have a secret we two know,
The secret of the woods, the brooks,
Of wild flowers in their nooks,
Of all glad growing things' delight
That live and never long for night:
A secret hidden from thought and will,
And only given to those who cease
From toil and pondering and are still,
The secret of that soulless peace,
The soul's joy and release,
To sit and see the sun and smile
Only because we live the while.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Pentecost
Lord God, the Holy Ghost,
In this accepted hour,
As on the day of Pentecost,
Descend in all thy power.
We meet with one accord
Within this hallowed place,
And wait the promise of our Lord,
The Spirit of all grace.
Like mighty rushing wind
Upon the waves beneath,
Move with one impulse every mind;
One soul, one feeling breathe;
The young, the old inspire
With wisdom from above;
And give us hearts and tongues of fire,
To pray, and praise, and love.
Spirit of light, explore
And chase our gloom away,
With lustre shining more and more
Unto the perfect day.
Spirit of truth, be Thou,
In life and death, our guide:
O Spirit of adoption, now
May we be sanctified.
poem by James Montgomery
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Spirit Of America
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
The bonneville salt flats had seen some strange things
But the strangest thing yet was a jet without wings
Once as a jet it played in the stars
But now on the ground its the king of our cars
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
An airplane an auto now famous worldwide
The spirit of america, the name on the side
The man who would drive her craig breedlove by name
A daring young man played a dangerous game
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
With a j-47, a jet for his power
Craig breedlove had averaged four-o-seven per hour
Both man and machine had given fair warn
Theyd set a new record on that warm august morn.
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
Spirit of america
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Playground of Life XIX
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
And Love is worth a full century of glory
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man's Truth; and
During that century Truth sleeps between
The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself
The Natural Law, and for that century she
Imprisons herself behind the law of man;
And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a
Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is
Purified by flaming sorrow and
Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth
Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent
On self-investment taken solely from
Earthly substance.
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages;
Recorded earthly for centuries;
Lived in strangeness for years;
Sung as a hymn for days;
Exalted but for an hour, but the
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Communion With Flowers
A bunch of fresh flowers,
Have the divine power
To lift your mood,
As only prayer could.
As you lie in silent despair
In pain, alone, unable to share,
Friends and relatives come
And ask you what you have done
To yourself, to lie prostrate
And try to commiserate.
You dare not take off your mask
And pretend you are fine when they ask,
For they get uneasy if you reveal
The pain is too much to bear and deal.
Hence I feel,
I can help myself heal,
If I talk to the sublime flowers
For they have the divine power.
And are silent witness in that hour
When I am feeling low and dour.
They don’t judge you in your weak moment,
When you spirit is in torment
Lord, you have endowed them with such virtues
That they come to our rescue
With their playful smile without any guile.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Sonet VI
As in the hostel by the bridge I sate,
Nailed with indifference fondly deemed complete,
And (O strange chance, more sorrowful than sweet)
The counterfeit of her that was my fate,
Dressed in like vesture, graceful and sedate,
Went quietly up the vacant village street,
The still small sound of her most dainty feet
Shook, like a trumpet blast, my soul's estate.
Instant revolt ran riot through my brain,
And all night long, thereafter, hour by hour,
The pageant of dead love before my eyes
Went proudly; and old hopes, broke loose again
From the restraint of wisely temperate power,
With ineffectual ardour sought to rise.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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A Vacant Smile
A vacant smile on someone’s lips,
someone I thought I used to know
from a yesterday a long time ago.
A life I wanted with,
but remained as vacant as the smile.
A future never realised,
as the years grow old.
A vacant smile a memory perhaps
of a time long ago that has now lapsed.
7 August 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Refugees
In the shabby train no seat is vacant.
The child in the ripped mask
Sprawls undisturbed in the waste
Of the smashed compartment. Is their calm extravagant?
They had faces and lives like you. What was it they possessed
That they were willing to trade for this?
The dried blood sparkles along the mask
Of the child who yesterday possessed
A country welcomer than this.
Did he? All night into the waste
The train moves silently. The faces are vacant.
Have none of them found the cost extravagant?
How could they? They gave what they possessed.
Here all the purses are vacant.
And what else could satisfy the extravagant
Tears and wish of the child but this?
Impose its canceling terrible mask
On the days and faces and lives they waste?
What else are their lives but a journey to the vacant
Satisfaction of death? And the mask
They wear tonight through their waste
Is death's rehearsal. Is it really extravagant
To read in their faces: What is there we possessed
That we were unwilling to trade for this?
poem by Randall Jarrell
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So-called humanitarian corridors or other measures aimed at providing respite to those affected by conflict must be well planned and implemented with the agreement of the parties to the conflict. Regardless of whether humanitarian corridors are implemented in the coming days, parties must continue to protect civilians and civilian infrastructure under international humanitarian law both for those who choose to leave and those who remain.
quote by International Committee of the Red Cross
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hint Of Jasmine
The hint of jasmine
seeped through the broken pane
for the occupant within.
Those that walked the corridors
on their endless trek
searching for their lost loves
they never wanted to let go.
The yawn of a door opening
beckons someone in
then the click of it closing
shows that they are gone again.
Still the occupants wander
on their endless trek
as the hint of jasmine
lingers in the air.
14 October 2009
poem by David Harris
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Sanctuary
At times in the corridors of our mind,
we open doors in quiet moments
to find a daydream to keep us occupied.
Something in the vacant minutes
to take us away from where we are
to some far off peaceful sanctum
where we are who we are
with no mandatory hustle and bustle
that surrounds us everyday.
Just fluffy clouds to lie on
and dream our lives away.
28 January 2011
poem by David Harris
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Laid me to rest and take me in your Hands
let the sacred soul return, the spirit that tired from a
bounded journey and nestle in the acumen of fresh
hyacinth of angels home, the endless paradise of the
seven heaven glows of avenue with the ONE
laid, my holy body in the engrave stone and shower
with a drops of the sacred fume of incense; with
the harmony of notes in the altar park to stand, glow
and wind the candle chandelier, with the angel's
choir in every ladder i step in the garrison of soul,
where I come from
let me speak of the language of the angel, and seat
a side with the judge as i remain calm, silent me in
the midst and wait till, the sun will lead me to rest,
touch me dear Holy One, for my aching soul fall me
down, leaving my wounded spirit to lay my head in
the soil, for i forever return
rise me at the end of the day; a second, a minute, an
hour, is just a longing to see, tears dropp wouldn't
hold me to be in the heaven i permanent stay, melted
candle and scented silent prayer will only appease
your mercy in me, may the grace and mercy pity my
poor soul for the judgment will always be with me
live no regret; humble your heart and leaving no
souls stray; pure every moment with your love one
and take each day that seems you leave with nobody
want you to be free
be ready and leave with full of joy and happiness in
your heart........its everybody's Journey...
poem by Antonio Liao
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Who IS in the FOG
Whenever Fog comes and roams about
In her whitish bulk I feel some doubt.
I feel some unheard footsteps
Follow me without stops.
They neither come near
Nor they go too far.
Perhaps it is some past memory
Or the dead days ghost hoary.
Or my own fickle fancy
Or peaceful Fog's discrepancy.
Never alone I feel in this earthly cloud
Surrounded by an endless crowd.
Fog is the dispersion of my memories
Or a noise of my soul's silent cries.
poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai
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Gothic Wuthering Heights In Ghost Nights
Gothic souls roam
eternal moors spirit
passion birth land
beauty etched
in tempest mist
weathered soul banshee land
wind etched
into trees our youth love bent
into passions land
heather hues red
yellow green mist
purple blue moor moves land
skies cloud lit
dying red crimson yellow soul
rainstorm bound
wild places silent
haunting soul
music is centuries echo in ghost land
poem by Terence George Craddock
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