En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Drought

Midsummer noon: and the timbered walls
start in the heat;
and the children sag listlessly over the desks,
with bloodless faces oozing sweat
sipped by the stinging flies.

Outside, the tall sun fades the shabby mallee
and drives the ants deep underground;
the stony driftsand shrivels
the drab, sparse plants;
there's not a cloud in all the sky to cast
a shadow on the tremulous plain.
Stirless the windmills; thirsty cattle, standing despondently about the empty tanks;
stamping and tossing their heads,
in torment of the flies from dawn to dark.

For ten parched days it has been like this
and, although I love the desert I
have found myself
dreaming
of upright gums by a mountain creek
where the red borinia blooms,
where bellbirds chime through the morning mists,
and greeness can hide from the sun;
of rock-holes where the brumbies slink
like swift cloud-shadows from the gidgee scrub
to drink when the moon is low.

And as I stoop to drink, I too,
just as I raise my cupped hands to my lips,
I am recalled the drought-stricken plain
but the petulant question
of a summer - wearied child.

poem by Flexmore Hudson
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Raise Your Hands To Rock

Sometimes I feel turned around
And upside down
And sometimes maybe I drink too much
But my hearts still in touch
I remember standing tall telling you
Im gonna be a rock-n-roll star
When someone said sit down, boy
You already are
So raise your hands to rock (rock)
Uh-huh
Summertime was always right
Just me and you
Sixteen and dealing with
Those summertime blues
I was young and restless
Living on the edge of a dream
When someone somewhere said
Ya just gotta believe
And raise your hands to rock (rock)

song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Curlew Song

The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees,
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!

The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world,
And the shadows sleep around,
Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon
In her hazy glory crowned;
While dingoes howl, and wake the growl
Of the watchdog brave and true;
Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Whose loud, rough bark
Shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!

Near herby banks the dark green ranks
Of the rushes stoop to drink;
And the ripples chime, in a measured time,
On the smooth and mossy brink;
As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die,
To start from the swamps anew,
And join again o'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
And join again
O'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!

The clouds are thrown around the cone
Of the mountain bare and high,
(Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek -
To the face of the sombre sky)
When down beneath the foggy wreath,
Full many a gully through,
They rend the air, like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
They rend the air,
Like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!

The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees;
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!

poem by Henry Kendall
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Mystery Mountain

Mountain of mystery,
Rising high above the clouds.
Mountain of magic,
Standing tall and proud,
Your magical veins
Flowing silver and gold,
Your cumulus cloud glows misty red,
As apollo sets beyond your head.
Releasing the pressure built over the years
The mountain is crying hot lava tears
Molten rock created under vibrations of
Sub-terranean thunder
Ejecting boulders like pieces of sand
The mountain is
Giving birth to the land.
Under your feet you feel a rumble
As thousands of rocks are starting to tumble
Above the trees where the buzzard flies
Swirling vapors begin to rise
Beneath those misty peaks you hide
A tremendous force boiling deep inside.

song performed by by Journey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marshall's Mate

You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn --
You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn.
In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak --
'Twould frighten Satan to his home -- not far from Dingo Creek.

The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back,
The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track;
Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel --
Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.
And charcoaled on the canvas bag (`twas written pretty clear)
We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: `I'm taken queer --
I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead;
Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said.

`Let Mitchell go to Bandicoot. You'll find him there,' said Mack.
`I'll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take the dry-holes back.'
We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the sands,
And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy's station hands.
His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober then --
In times of trouble, fire, and flood, 'twas Crowbar led the men.
`Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,' said he;
`The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can see.'

We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed fate,
We found a dead man in the scrub -- but 'twas not Crowbar's mate.
The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the week --
But never news of Marshall's fate came back to Dingo Creek.
And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone,
Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die -- but Crowbar might have known.

He'd scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping breath --
They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death.
A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and joke,
But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke),
And, when we spelled at night, he'd lie with eyes still open wide,
And watch the stars as if they'd point the place where Marshall died.

The search was made as searches are (and often made in vain),
And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain;
We left the track and followed back -- 'twas Crowbar still that led,
And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead.
We reached the place and turned again -- dragged back and no man spoke --
It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke.
And when we gave it best at last, he said, `I'LL see it through,'
Although he knew we'd done as much as mortal men could do.
`I'll not -- I won't give up!' he said, his hand pressed to his brow;
`My God! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him now.
I'll see it so in twenty years, 'twill haunt me all my life --
I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife.
It's no use talking to me now -- I'm going back,' he said,
`I'm going back to find him, and I will -- alive or dead!'

. . . . .

He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week,
And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek.
We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late,
Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall's mate.
The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back,
And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the track.

They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole Creeks --
There came a day when none had heard of Marshall's mate for weeks;
They'd seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving Steers --
There came a time when none had heard of Marshall's mate for years.
They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows,
But no one knew how Crowbar died -- the soul of Marshall knows!

And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late,
The bushmen talk of Crowbar's ghost `what's looking for his mate';
For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men doubt --
The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out.
Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and Nevertire --
Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common wire --
Beyond the furthest `Gov'ment' tank, and past the furthest bore --
The Never-Never, No Man's Land, No More, and Nevermore --
Beyond the Land o' Break-o'-Day, and Sunset and the Dawn,
The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall's mate have gone
Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and clean --
Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.

poem by Henry Lawson
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After A Long Drought

She held my beating heart
Within her cupped hands
As the blood flowed
She felt its warmth
Her hands swelled
With the heat
The blood released
It was like a swollen cloud
Filled with rain
Pouring out
Upon the parched soil
Longing for moisture
After a long drought
The cloudburst quenched
The dry earth
And the humidity
Filled the air
The musk
Filled our nostrils
As we collapsed

poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Pine

I felt your lips
On mine.
My hands
Cupped your face
For that drink divine.

I sipped you…
Unto eternity.

Yet to quench
That aeon of
Thirst -
From those
Lips of thine,
My heart would
Forever pine.

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Three poems by heart

I

I can't find the title
of a memory about you
with a hand torn from darkness
I step on fragments of faces

soft friendly profiles
frozen into a hard contour

circling above my head
empty as a forehead of air
a man's silhouette of black paper

II

living--despite
living- -against
I reproach myself for the sin of forgetfulness

you left an embrace like a superfluous sweater
a look like a question

our hands won't transmit the shape of your hands
we squander them touching ordinary things

calm as a mirror
not mildewed with breath
the eyes will send back the question

every day I renew my sight
every day my touch grows
tickled by the proximity of so many things

life bubbles over like blood
Shadows gently melt
let us not allow the dead to be killed--

perhaps a cloud will transmit remembrance--
a worn profile of Roman coins

III

the women on our street
were plain and good
they patiently carried from the markets
bouquets of nourishing vegetables

the children on our street
scourge of cats

the pigeons--

softly gray

a Poet's statue was in the park
children would roll their hoops
and colorful shouts
birds sat on the Poet's hand
read his silence

on summer evenings wives
waited patiently for lips
smelling of familiar tobacco

women could not answer
their children: will he return
when the city was setting
they put the fire out with hands
pressing their eyes

the children on our street
had a difficult death
pigeons fell lightly
like shot down air

now the lips of the Poet
form an empty horizon
birds children and wives cannot live
in the city's funereal shells
in cold eiderdowns of ashes

the city stands over water
smooth as the memory of a mirror
it reflects in the water from the bottom

and flies to a high star
where a distant fire is burning
like a page of the Iliad

poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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A Better Moon

I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue.
Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp
Down to the river.
Tonight flies a better moon.
Sad water buffalo lie fast near the shallows;
A splash revealing the fly-catching fishes.
Dark gods silently watching.
Tonight flies a better moon.
I guess youve known lovers here, compliant in passion;
Softly laid in the old reed bed, harshly
Lit in the noon sun.
Tonight flies a better moon.
Now cloaked in this milky light, new as the virgin dawn,
Shrouded sweetly in all kinds of mystery,
You turn, smile and then are gone.
Tonight flies a better moon.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wandering the Desert as a Blind Man pts 1&2

I was Blind before you found me
And I couldnt find my way
Its a wonder that i can see
Now, I only hope your hear to stay

There was Darkness all around
Every motion frightened me
What was lost has now been found
And Babe you were the Key

Babe you led me to the Well
I was parched and took a drink
Before I was Blind and couldnt tell
Now, your Light has shown me what to think

The Desert took a hold of me
I was laying down on the floor
Now the Light has set me free
Drinkin all the Water and still wantin more

I dont live where the Water flows
Rivers and Lakes move to the Salty Sea
Couldnt Drink it anymore when I found where it goes
I want to live by an Oasis, Babe can you give it to me

I Wandered Blind through the Dry Wilderness
Trying to find the Sweetest Water i could find
Babe you Stumbled upon me in that emptyness
I was close to Death and you were much to kind

Im Living in a Desert and Thirsty all the time
Dry Sand and Dunes as far as the eye can See
I want to save this Water and make it mine
Babe let me stay, come and set me free

---------------------

Suddenly the lights grew dim
All around me was cast into dark
The well is at bottom when i thought it at the brim
I can see at least, but the pain has left its mark

The water inside has all gone
And nothing for miles theres desert all around
Its getting dark ill have to wait for dawn
In dry wilderness water makes no sound

Shall I rush to where the water flows
And wade in water chest deep
This I know is where everyone goes
But last time I went I was asleep

I was blind and wandered before
Alone and thirsty in the black abyss
I was close to death and lying on the floor
In the desert I had no idea that love exists

I cannot wait for your rains to fall
For the well is there no longer
Alone in the desert i begin to crawl
In the end i hope my soul is stronger

Its not all bad, you tought me how to see
Now alone at least I can find the stream
But still you are the sweetest water, please be with me
Come and talk to me so it doesnt turn into a dream

Please come, and rescue me from my slumber
Again alone I walk in the direction of the river
Hoping im in time, for death is calling out my number
Because alone in the dark, my soul begins to shiver

poem by Jake Andrews
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The Rain that Came to Stay

‘How much longer this drought, ' he said,
‘The creeks are running dry,
There's not a lot in the reservoir
And not a cloud in the sky,
The farmers, shooting the cattle that
Have nothing out there to drink,
How much longer this drought, ' he cried
In the pub at Innaminck!

The soil had turned to a fine bulldust,
The drought had cracked the clay,
There wasn't a green shoot anywhere
To be seen by the light of day,
The crops had failed, were ploughed back in
In hopes that the rain would come,
But the skies were clear for the rest of the year
From there to Jerusalem!

A tinker called in a beat-up car
And staggered in with his bag,
‘I'm Mickey Malone from County Down
With a thirst that could choke a shag! '
The barman served him a schooner, with
One gulp, he put it away,
But emptied his empty pockets when
The barman asked him to pay.

The tinker started his blarney then,
‘I'll sharpen your knives for free!
Just give me another schooner, chum
And we'll see what we will see!
I'll cut your keys, and I'll wash a dish,
Or I'll give you a hundred pegs.'
The barman reached and he grabbed his throat,
And lifted him off his legs!

‘You'll have to do better than that, my man,
Don't drink my beer for free!
I'm taking the wheels of your beat-up car
‘Til you play it straight with me! '
‘Hang on, hang on, just what do you want,
Whatever will pay my due! '
‘We could do with a shower of rain, my man,
But that's all I'd want from you! '

The tinker nodded, ‘No sooner said!
I'll make it tomorrow noon,
You'll have to give me a room to rent
And I'll whip it up in the gloom.'
The barman sneered, ‘You're having me on,
No way can you make it rain! '
‘You'll see, tomorrow, ' the tinker said,
‘Though you might think I'm insane! '

The barman locked him and his bag in a room,
And took a wheel off his car,
He knew if the tinker tried to escape
He wouldn't be going far,
But come the dawn, was a distant cloud
Spread out, and up from the south,
It tumbled and turned in the atmosphere
And looked like a dragon's mouth.

At noon the cloud was over their heads,
All black, and threatening rain,
A whirly blew up a dust storm there
And swirled at each window pane,
They locked the door of the pub up tight
And waited, tense as a rag,
The rain came down, ‘Aha, ' he said,
And the tinker patted his bag!

The patter of rain was heard on the roof,
The gutters began to fill,
The windows washed of their dust and silt
Right down to the window-sill,
The dust was settled, the ground was wet,
The cattle lowed in the field,
And everyone danced in the yard out there
The tide of their fortunes sealed.

The rain grew heavier by the hour,
The creeks had started to flow,
And even the reservoir burst its banks,
With nowhere else to go,
The water flooded across the plain
They waded up to their knees,
‘Enough, enough! ' But Malone replied:
‘Begorra, you're hard to please! '

It rained all night, and the following day,
It rained and rained for a week,
The pub was flooded from wall to wall
The water burst from the creek,
‘You've got to stop it, ' the barman cried,
But the tinker stood and frowned,
‘If the water rises much higher than this,
I think that we'll all be drowned! '

‘You said you wanted the rain, all right,
I gave it, now for my pay,
I can't go on in these tattered clothes
And my car's a give-away.
I'll need the van that you've parked out front
And a hundred cans of beer,
Not much to ask for your water, chum,
At the drought time of the year! '

The barman collared and kicked him out
With his bag and all beside,
The tinker lay in the water there,
His bag had sunk in the tide,
‘Will you stop it now, ' the barman said,
‘Or you'll wish you'd never been born! '
I can't! ' The tinker sat and he cried,
‘You've drowned my Leprechaun! '

It rains and rains at Innaminck,
It rains both day and night,
The pub sank under the water there
In a lake that's ten miles wide,
The farmers had to desert the land
To leave their sunken homes,
But put out a ‘Wanted', Nation wide
For a tinker, called Malone!

David Lewis Paget

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Where You Are

There you are standing strong, I may leave holding on
You believe like a child, in this fire runnin' wild
Oh I love how you see right to the heart of me
You're a waterfall, washing over me
I'm a thirsty man let me drink you in
Well I am on my way, you're a mountain top
When I reach for you, your love lifts me up
All that I want to be is where you are
I'm the frozen ground, you're the warm sunlight
Shining down on me, baby just in time
Well I have never been in a love like this
Oh, you move my soul every time we kiss
And I love how you heal; I can't believe how alive I feel
You're a waterfall, washing over me
I'm a thirsty man let me drink you in
Well I am on my way, you're a mountain top
When I reach for you, your love lifts me up
All that I want to be is where you are

song performed by by Rascal Flatts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Macleay Street and Red Rock Lane

Macleay Street looks to Mosman,
Across the other side,
With brave asphalted pavements
And roadway clean and wide.
Macleay Street hath its mansions,
Its grounds and greenery;
Macleay Street hath its terraces
As terraces should be.

Red Rock Lane looks to nowhere,
With pockets into hell;
Red Rock Lane is a horror
Of heat and dirt and smell.
Red Rock Lane hath its brothels,
Of houses one in three;
Red Rock Lane hath its corner pubs
As fourth-rate pubs should be.

Macleay Street, cool and quiet,
Is marked off from the town,
And standing in the centre
The tall arc lamps look down.
The jealous closed cabs vanish
That stole from out the row,
Fair women stroll bareheaded,
And theatre parties go.

Red Rock Lane, hot with riot,
Hides things that none should know;
The furtive couples vanish
Through doorways dark and low.
Lust, thievery, drink and madness
In one infernal stew—
And Mrs Johnson, raving,
Walks out—bareheaded too.

Macleay Street hath its swindles,
But on a public scale;
Macleay Street hath its razzles
Until the night grows pale.
Macleay Street hath its scandals,
But—only this is plain,
That nothing is a scandal
Down there in Red Rock Lane.

Macleay Street looks to Mosman
In morning’s rosy glow,
And freshly to the city
The summer-suited go
While wild-eyed, foul and shaking,
Red Rock Lane wakes again.
This morning at the Central
They’re fining Red Rock Lane.

The Central says “the risin’”,
“Seven days”, or what you will;
Macleay Street says, “Drive slowly”
When any one is ill.
The law sends Black Maria
When Red Rock Lane is dead.
But doctors come in motor cars
When Macleay Street’s got a head.

The grey-faced, weedy parents
Sunk in Red Rock Lane holes—
They worry, pinch, and perish
To save their children’s souls.
The fairy of Macleay Street
Shall never soil her hands—
Her Pa is independent,
Or high up in “the Lands”.

And—well, there seems no moral,
And nothing more to tell,
But because of that fierce sympathy
Of souls to souls in hell;
And because of that wild kindness
To souls in sordid pain,
My soul I’d rather venture
With some in Red Rock Lane.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Bottled At The Source

Approaching the oasis this thirsty pairing
A ragged beggar and a snake charmer
Noticed an oddly shaped ominous cloud
Which seemed to be hovering overhead__
Ready for a much needed refreshing drink
They cupped their hands and took aim at the water's surface
But before they could break the tension of the mirror like pond
Their eyes beheld what appeared to be the reflection
Of an utterly demonic yet spiritual creature....
Fearing to take a drink as the water may be poisoned
The beggar behooves and begs pardon for his intrusion
While the snake charmer drinks because he had seen
The devil's face before and had charmed many serpents
The snake charmers thirst was uncontrollable and so it was
He scooped up all his hands could hold and drank fully
Within seconds of quenching his parched throat
He grabbed at it and as if to be strangling himself
He fell face down in the liquid dose and did not move
The beggar fearful and pleading for his life to be spared
Fell on his back petitioning God to deliver him from a similar fate
.....and at that very moment the oddly shaped ominous cloud
Opened up its vessel and from it poured a drink of rain
Into the beggar's mouth....until the heavenly gift was fully evaporated
The beggar now having been revived...
Sits up and taking notice of the snake charmer's status
Robs him of his sandals and his cloak___

2007 © T Sheridan

poem by Ted Sheridan
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Harry Pearce

I sat beside the red stock route
and chewed a blade of bitter grass
and saw in mirage on the plain
a bullock wagon pass.
Old Harry Pearce was with his team.
"The flies are bad," I said to him.

The leaders felt his whip, It did
me good to hear old Harry swear,
and in the heat of noon it seemed
his bullocks walked on air.
Suspended in the amber sky
they hauled the wool to Gundagai.

He walked in Time across the plain,
and old man walking on the air,
for years he wandered in my brain;
and now he lodges there.
And he may drive his cattle still
when Time with us had had his will.

poem by David Campbell
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Drink Drink Sire

Drink drink sire
None other times
Insistent more
No other shadow
But thyself
Moon and stars

Drink drink sire
Thy creed to followers
Lonely hearts
Under the moon
And in the flowers

Drink drink sire
What times other
What seasons other
Spring and stars
And the moon
And song of love

Drink drink sire
To the last drop
Un satiated
More and more
From moon now
To stars now
To milky way

Drink drink sire
To the passion of drink
To meet again in the journey

For Li Po

Islamabad
17/3/2010

poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Anacreontics, Drinking

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in Nature 's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there--for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

poem by Abraham Cowley
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On A Cattle Track

Where the strength of dry thunder splits hill-rocks asunder,
And the shouts of the desert-wind break,
By the gullies of deepness and ridges of steepness,
Lo, the cattle track twists like a snake!
Like a sea of dead embers, burnt white by Decembers,
A plain to the left of it lies;
And six fleeting horses dash down the creek courses
With the terror of thirst in their eyes.

The false strength of fever, that deadly deceiver,
Gives foot to each famishing beast;
And over lands rotten, by rain-winds forgotten,
The mirage gleams out in the east.
Ah! the waters are hidden from riders and ridden
In a stream where the cattle track dips;
And Death on their faces is scoring fierce traces,
And the drought is a fire on their lips.

It is far to the station, and gaunt Desolation
Is a spectre that glooms in the way;
Like a red smoke the air is, like a hell-light its glare is,
And as flame are the feet of the day.
The wastes are like metal that forges unsettle
When the heat of the furnace is white;
And the cool breeze that bloweth when an English sun goeth,
Is unknown to the wild desert night.

A cry of distress there! a horseman the less there!
The mock-waters shine like a moon!
It is 'Speed, and speed faster from this hole of disaster!
And hurrah for yon God-sent lagoon!'
Doth a devil deceive them? Ah, now let us leave them -
We are burdened in life with the sad;
Our portion is trouble, our joy is a bubble,
And the gladdest is never too glad.

From the pale tracts of peril, past mountain heads sterile,
To a sweet river shadowed with reeds,
Where Summer steps lightly, and Winter beams brightly,
The hoof-rutted cattle track leads.
There soft is the moonlight, and tender the noon-light;
There fiery things falter and fall;
And there may be seen, now, the gold and the green, now,
And the wings of a peace over all.

Hush, bittern and plover! Go, wind, to thy cover
Away by the snow-smitten Pole!
The rotten leaf falleth, the forest rain calleth;
And what is the end of the whole?
Some men are successful after seasons distressful
[Now, masters, the drift of my tale];
But the brink of salvation is a lair of damnation
For others who struggle, yet fail.

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Plain Jane

Ah, tell 'em about it Darlin'.
Here we go.
She's a waitress at her corner,
Always dancin' nine-to-five.
Well, she ain't no supermodel,
But I'm here to tell you, she's fine, (Ha, ha.)
She's so fine, Johnny.
She's like the classic girl next door,
There's somethin' 'bout her walk:
There's somethin' that goes off inside,
Each time she starts to talk.
Plain Jane,
Oh, I love her name.
She drives me insane.
She's my plain Jane.
She always gets my business,
I can't wait to ring her bell.
(Ah, I bet you can't Donnie.)
She puts a quarter in the jukebox:
Says she don't kiss an' tell.
Is that right, brother.
The way she wears that dress, (Yeah.)
It's time that I confess:
The music starts an' my heart stops,
An' I become a mess.
Plain Jane,
Oh, I love her name.
She drives me insane.
She's my plain Jane.
Nothin' fancy: she's just got everything.
She's so addicting; she's so amazing:
Can't think of anything.
Do, do, do do.
(Whoa, talk to me, plain Jane.)
Do, do, do do, do, do.
Whoa, yeah,
C'mon.
Plain Jane,
Oh, I love her name.
She drives me insane.
She's my plain Jane. (Jane, Jane.)
Plain Jane,
Oh, I love her name.
She drives me insane.
She said just call me plain Jane.
(That's right, buddy."
Plain Jane,
She's my plain Jane.
She's my plain Jane.
She's my plain, (Jane)
Whoo, she's my plain Jane.
(No, she's mine.)

song performed by by Van Zant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Homing Swallows

Swift swallows sailing from the Spanish main,
O rain-birds racing merrily away
From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain
Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say--

When at the noon-hour from the chapel school
The children dash and scamper down the dale,
Scornful of teacher's rod and binding rule
Forever broken and without avail,

Do they still stop beneath the giant tree
To gather locusts in their childish greed,
And chuckle when they break the pods to see
The golden powder clustered round the seed?

poem by Claude McKay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unfolding!

listen!
in every voice
something familiar!
in every face
something that
reminds you...
in every flower
that blooms.
in every cloud,
in every leaf
blowing in the wind.
in every child
that's born...
in every old person
that you bury.
in every man
working with his hands.
in every woman
raising her children.
in every mountain
standing silent...
in every river
flowing free...

the song of living,
the dance of darkness
and light....
the universe unfolding
in your hands!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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