D e s p i t e 1865
...in the beginning,
when insignificance
upheld its worth
and passed torch
to pertinence,
vouchsafing they
who laid down their souls
in fresh cotton fields
with leaves hung on stems,
hot. bloody sharp
as rusted steel knives,
pricking and piercing,
the sweating paled flesh,
the pulse twitching nerves
of subluxed spines,
over again,
and over again -
over and over again
for water and stale cornbread.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Related quotes
Cotton Fields
When i was a little bitty baby
My mama done rock me in the cradle
In them old cotton fields back home
It was back in louisiana
Just about a mile from texarkana
In them old cotton fields back home
Let me tell you now well got me in a fix
I caught a nail in my tire doing lickitey splits
I had to walk a long long way to town
Came upon a nice old man well he had a hat on
Wait a minute mister can you give me some directions
I gonna want to be right off for home
Don't care if them cotton balls get rotten
When i got you baby, who needs cotton
In them old cotton fields back home
Brother only one thing more that's gonna warm you
A summer's day out in california
It's gonna be those cotton fields back home
It was back in louisiana
Just about a mile from texarkana
Give me them cotton fields
(it was back in louisiana)
Let me hear it for the cotton fields
(just about a mile from texarkana)
You know that there's just no place like home
Well boy it sure feels good to breathe the air back home
You shoulda seen their faces when they seen how i grown
In them old cotton fields back home
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pride
pride settles for many words
words that stab back like the knives of the knaves
shimmering and sharp and shaking
pride flying without wings
scaling the heights of mountains
hollow body without bones
feathered without flesh
pride too light for wisdom
too heavy with reasons less
pride jumps out of the cliff
lands on the the sharp stones
curses and crushes upon itself
bloody and shattered and pierced
mourns for no other
but itself unto itself losing
all upon itself knowing pretending
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Presidents with strong nerves are decisive. They don't balk at unpopular decisions. They are willing to make people angry. Bush had strong nerves. Clinton, who passed up a chance to eliminate Osama bin Laden, did not. Obama is a people pleaser, a trait not normally associated with nerves of steel.
quote by Fred Barnes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bacon Francis
So shall i kill them slowly
Twisted knives sharp honed by fate
And lay their bodies there before them
Like fresh chops upon a plate?
So shall they kiss oblivion
So shall they learn to dread
The greyest of grim reapers
Whose words burn a bloody red.
So shall i wreak my vengeance
so shall i dim their light
their lives forever fearful
not knowing when i'll strike.
poem by David Keig
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Words Are Swords
Of little worth sharp swords of steel
Words cut deeper penned or spoken
Truth laid bare, indeed revealed
Abhorrent acts of men can be broken
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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L a s t - R e q u e s t {Ariel's Promise}
Standing close, yet not quite o'er you,
so as not to disturb your stilled presence;
your flesh, shades of ecru, 'n like an aura,
I feel the pulse of your once amber heart...
touching me...cotton gentle, bisquit warm...,
telling me, 'Love......I am not far away''.
But come 'morrow, when they open th'earth,
lower you.....into your final stead,
will i no longer feel that aura about me,
as that would inflict great pain on this heart,
like long rusted nails thru' my arteries;
tell me love.....you'll not be far away.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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I like the sound of violin
Sharp and probing
Pricking like needles
My heart is numb and painful
Acupuncture violin
Pricking my heart my soul
I become lost too unbecoming
My defined peace
It is here in settled absences
Nothing fills it
Now it must be something coming new
Filling pricking needles of violins
Make me live make me pain some more.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Am
i am, become...
i worked your steel mills,
i walked the i-beams of your scrapers.
i dug deep in your coal mines,
i plowed your fields, picked your crops...
i picked your cotton, milked your cows,
worked your furniture factories,
in your cotton mills...
built your tracks, rode your trains,
popped your trucks, poured your concrete...
my sweat and blood, the foundation,
the nails in the wall!
i an America, the common,
and the magnificent...
i am the pulse, the breath, the beat.
i am the lover, the fighter, the dreamer...
i am the father, and the mother...
i am the sinner and the holy.
i am the truth, at all costs.
i am the man behind the wheel,
the dream behind the man...
the faith behind the dream...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Strawberry Fields Forever
Let me take you down, cause Im going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
Its getting hard to be someone, but it all works out
It doesnt matter much to me
Let me take you down, cause Im going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
No one, I think, is in my tree
I mean, it must be high or low
That is, you cant, you know, tune in, but its alright
That is, I think its not too bad
Let me take you down, cause Im going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Always, no, sometimes, think its me
But, you know, I know when its a dream
I think, er, no, I mean, er, yes, but its all wrong
That is, I think I disagree
Let me take you down, cause Im going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Strawberry fields forever
Strawberry fields forever
(cranberry sauce)
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Need A Sure Thing
You are a razor blade
You are precision-cut
You are a stare sharp as the tack in my eye?
At rest in my veins
[Your pulse in my neck?]
As sharp-edged as questions the time I have left
And so you are on my mind.
I need a burning stake
I need a piercing dart
I need something as hot as it is sharp
And I need to bleed
I need to burn
I need a sure thing
I need a sure thing
And you are a mystery to me
You are a paper bird
Folded and folded and creased
And bent and shaped from a five dollar bill
It's priceless to me
And never spent
It hangs from a ceiling fan over my bed
And so you are on my mind
song performed by by Dashboard Confessional
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Missing
Sharp disaster in a fresh new coma
Was worth it when it was over
Proving yourself right
You'd make the biggest noise
Well I'd lock my hands behind my head
I'd cover my heart and hit the deck
I'd brace myself for the impact if I were you
(Its a long wait) is there anything
(For an answer) worth looking for
(Is there any news) worth loving for
(Is there any word) worth lying for
(Is there trauma) is there anything
(Or a struggle) worth waiting for
(Am I missing) worth living for
(Was the body found) worth dying for
song performed by by Dashboard Confessional
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Am I Missing
Sharp disaster in a fresh new coma
Was it worth it when it was over
Proving yourself right
You'd make the biggest noise
I'd lock my hands behind my head
I'd cover my heart and hit the deck
I'd brace myself for the impact if I were you
(It's a long way) Is there anything
(For an answer) Worth looking for
(Is there any news) Worth loving for
(Is there any word) Worth lieing for
(Is there trauma) Is there anything
(Or a struggle) Worth waiting for
(Am I missing) Worth living for
(Was the body found) Worth dieing for
Repeat x2
song performed by by Dashboard Confessional
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Rusted In Shifted Dust
Once one stops!
A beginning that had started...
For them comes to an end.
Although not official,
There is something about a lifelessness...
That becomes wasted on debate.
As the advancing of Sunset,
On them dims.
And yet,
Those appearing to be lifeless...
Seem to be all over the place,
Taking up space.
With activities insignificant.
But to what degree of insignificance?
This delays...
A validation to be confirmed.
And...
Observed to be wasting debates,
As time most valued...
Slips from them quickly.
While they remain in the process...
Of procrastinating efficient and effectively.
Although not official,
There is something about a lifelessness...
That becomes wasted on debate.
'Can we move on from this agenda.
To prioritize the last agenda...
That upheld the one prior to that?
Facts are facts.
And rest assured...
Progress,
As 'we' know it...
IS being made! '
And too late it becomes,
For the ones to get things done.
When a time that is perceived is kept,
To be borrowed and used at one's discretion.
With life's lessons that many come to learn,
Dismissed by those...
Who have chosen to invoke,
A reviewing of a point of view...
Long rusted in shifted dust!
And from a nonexistence...
The winds of time has blown away.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cotton Fields
Chorus1:
When I was a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in the cradle,
In them old cotton fields back home;
Chorus2:
It was down in louisiana,
Just about a mile from texarkana,
In them old cotton fields back home.
Chorus3:
Oh, when them cotton bolls get rotten
You cant pick very much cotton,
In them old cotton fields back home.
Chorus2
Chorus1
Chorus2
Chorus3
Chorus2
Chorus1
Chorus2
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Carrying A Torch
Im carryin a torch for you
Im carryin a torch
You know how much it costs
To keep carryin a torch
Flame of love it burns so bright
That is my desire
Keep on liftin me, liftin me up
Higher and higher
Youre the keeper of the flame
And you burn so bright
Baby why dont we re-connect
Move into the light
Ive been going to and fro on this
And Im still carryin a torch
You must know how much its worth
When Im carryin a torch (alright)
Baby youre the keeper of the flame
And you burn so bright
Why, why, why, why, why, why dont we re-connect
And move on further, into the light
Ive been calling you on the phone
'cause Im carryin a torch (yeah)
I can do it all on my own
'cause Im carryin a torch
Im carryin a torch for you, baby
Im carryin a torch
You know how much its worth
Because Im carryin a torch (one more)
Im carryin a torch for you, baby
Im carryin a torch
You know how much its worth
Because Im carryin a torch.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bullet From A Gun
I lived my life
Like a bullet from a gun
racing down a barrel
from an explosive past
Always smoke and fire and blast
Then I moved on
In my haste racing away
I'm concerned not who
I graze
All my days I came
crashing into, littered souls
What carnage, too
Once I left I was gone
awesome, strong
Hell-bent on ways
that destruction sent
Cold steel and
Hot lead
My nerves bled
and others too
Through your flesh and heart
I pierced
With never a thought
of mercy due
I lived my life
Like a bullet
from a gun
Cold, cold steel and
Red hot lead
poem by Midnights Voice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bat, Bat, Come Under my Hat
(A Modernity)
Twelve good friends
Passed under her hat,
And devil a one of them
Knew where he was at.
Had they but known,
Then had they known all things, --
The littleness of great things,
The unmeasured immensity of small things.
They had known the Where and the Why,
The When and the Wherefore,
And how the Eternal
Conceived the Eternal, and therefore
Beginning began the Beginning;
They had apprehended
The ultimate virtue of sinning;
They had caught the whisper
That Vega vibrates to Arcturus,
Piercing the walls
Of heavy flesh that immure us.
But if they had known,
Then had there been no mystery;
And Life had been poorer,
And laughter unsurer,
And the shadow of death securer,
By lack of this brief history.
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude IV.
When the long murmur of applause
That greeted the Musician's lay
Had slowly buzzed itself away,
And the long talk of Spectre Ships
That followed died upon their lips
And came unto a natural pause,
'These tales you tell are one and all
Of the Old World,' the Poet said,
'Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall,
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;
Let me present you in their stead
Something of our New England earth,
A tale which, though of no great worth,
Has still this merit, that it yields
A certain freshness of the fields,
A sweetness as of home-made bread.'
The Student answered: 'Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet,
Who careth in what mill 't was ground,
Or of what oven felt the heat,
Unless, as old Cervantes said,
You are looking after better bread
Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays
To what is old give little praise;
All must be new in prose and verse:
They want hot bread, or something worse,
Fresh every morning, and half baked;
The wholesome bread of yesterday,
Too stale for them, is thrown away,
Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain,
The Poet's face, before so gay,
Was clouded with a look of pain,
But suddenly brightened up again;
And without further let or stay
He told his tale of yesterday.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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And we will call it Britain
Crisp green the stems of daffodils
That brave in spring cold sun
Soft tender green the hawthorn buds
Unfurled with winter done
Bright green the fresh leaves on the limes
That verdant branches lace
Dark green the lily’s slender shoot
That moist earth, piercing breaks
But greenest of all that is green
An island Earth did make
And we will call it Britain
Natures green estate
poem by Egal Bohen
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An Interlude
IN the greenest growth of the Maytime,
I rode where the woods were wet,
Between the dawn and the daytime;
The spring was glad that we met.
There was something the season wanted,
Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet;
The breath at your lips that panted,
The pulse of the grass at your feet.
You came, and the sun came after,
And the green grew golden above;
And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter,
And the meadow-sweet shook with love.
Your feet in the full-grown grasses
Moved soft as a weak wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With face made out of a rose.
By the stream where the stems were slender,
Your bright foot paused at the sedge;
It might be to watch the tender
Light leaves in the springtime hedge,
On boughs that the sweet month blanches
With flowery frost of May:
It might be a bird in the branches,
It might be a thorn in the way.
I waited to watch you linger
With foot drawn back from the dew,
Till a sunbeam straight like a finger
Struck sharp through the leaves at you.
And a bird overhead sang Follow,
And a bird to the right sang Here;
And the arch of the leaves was hollow,
And the meaning of May was clear.
I saw where the sun’s hand pointed,
I knew what the bird’s note said;
By the dawn and the dewfall anointed,
You were queen by the gold on your head.
As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember
Recalls a regret of the sun,
I remember, forget, and remember
What Love saw done and undone.
I remember the way we parted,
The day and the way we met;
You hoped we were both broken-hearted,
And knew we should both forget.
And May with her world in flower
Seemed still to murmur and smile
As you murmured and smiled for an hour;
I saw you turn at the stile.
A hand like a white wood-blossom
You lifted, and waved, and passed,
With head hung down to the bosom,
And pale, as it seemed, at last.
And the best and the worst of this is
That neither is most to blame
If you’ve forgotten my kisses
And I’ve forgotten your name.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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