The Drone
I might have been a worker, but I'm nothing but a drone.
I tell my idle stories in a philosophic tone.
In a fuzzy, spiny mantle of remoteness softly furled
I lie and watch with half-shut eyes the stupefying world.
And they bustle and they rustle with their self-consuming din.
And eager feet go hurrying out and tired feet come in.
Like Bottom, when they hear a sound they all must rush to see.
They're always running after life. I let it come to me.
poem by Gamaliel Bradford
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Related quotes
A Cradle Song
O men from the fields,
Come gently within.
Tread softly, softly
O men coming in!
Mavourneen is going
From me and from you,
Where Mary will fold him
With mantle of blue!
From reek of the smoke
And cold of the floor
And the peering of things
Across the half-door.
O men of the fields,
Soft, softly come thro'
Mary puts round him
Her mantle of blue.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Keira
She sleeps, softly, eyes flicker,
mouth purses to suck
and I watch,
per chance
to take a photograph.
This is her first month,
we don't know her yet,
her personality will unfold
and her feet
will dance.
Intermingled in her genes
are mother's eyes
and daddy's smile
lost in a filigree of new
and vibrant cells.
A half smile, a half glint
of something there,
her first look
of recognition
and content.
Softly, she sleeps, eyes flicker,
hand to nose, thumbing,
as if to tell the world
sleep is all I need,
they'll have to wait.
Milky dreams, lullaby days
and a soft cot,
my new grand-baby,
a little girl
so sweet.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Buzz That Nonsense to Someone Else
To Drone or not to drone.
I choose not to do it.
Or become captivated by anyone,
Who is running for an office
To represent my interests.
I choose to be excited,
About every aspect of my life.
And if someone elects to monotone in drones,
With pretentions they know what is best for me...
Had better buzz that nonsense to someone else.
I seek to ignite much more than that.
I want the company of those who are happy,
Baggage and issue free.
And surrounding me with an energy,
Like busy worker bees!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Boys
Where are they?--the friends of my childhood enchanted--
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?
Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
Forever adrift down the years that are flown?
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
Where over the meadow,
In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?
Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;
The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,
And the dove's--I have wept at it over and over;--
I want the glad luster
Of youth, and the cluster
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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How spiny the cactus raised itself
how spiny the cactus raised itself
into the desert
how red the sand
burnt under the mid-day sun
how scorched the scorpion moved
across the red sand
and in that silence
a sudden whirlwind blows
a red, red cloud of sand
from the dunes rises
how spiny the cactus raised itself
into the tempest:
and yet
and yet
the tempest was subdued and fell
as happened long ago and now
and still
and spiny the cactus raises itself
into the desert
and the red sand
burns under the mid-day sun
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Brunt Of The Storm
the old woman
sits on the floor,
talking to the vacuum cleaner,
and laughing with the broom.
and the pictures of children,
like leaves turning seasons,
stare silently from a distance,
both chosen and not!
the dog bows her eyes,
with worry and love.
and the drone of the tv,
bores holes in the wall.
long grey hair glistening,
as sun sifts dirty blinds.
and the smell of passion,
has turned to old feet.
and no one gives a cold damn,
or understands why...
she has no need of people,
no need for chatter.
she feeds the dog and stops,
staring at the urn on the mantle...
and curses softly,
then breaks down and cries.
only the dog, and the spider in the corner,
hear the whimper,
and feel the brunt of the storm!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Baby Blues
(bth australian version)
I wonder whats happening to me
Things are changing so dramatically
Ill search for you, youre not really there
Still I wonder knowing that you do care
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up, I shut up
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up now
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up, I shut up
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up now
I shut up now, I shut up now
I shut up now, I shut up now
He is the best thing to come my way
Perfect picture baby blues in my day
He is the best thing to come around
Sleeping in his cradle safe and sound
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up, I shut up
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up now
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up, I shut up
I shut up, I shut up, I shut up now
I shut up now, I shut up now
I shut up now, I shut up now
Baby blues, baby blues
Baby blues, baby blues
Baby baby, baby blues
Baby baby, baby blues
Sha la la, sha la la, sha la la, sha la la
Sha la la, sha la la, sha la la, sha la la
Sha la la, sha la la, sha la la, sha la la
Sha la la, sha la la, sha la la, sha la la
Sha la la, sha la la, sha la la, sha la la
Sha la la, sha la la, sha la la, sha la la
song performed by by Cranberries
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Refuse To Be The One With That Title
Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.
Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.
Looking ahead and keeping one's faith,
With a hold that shows one bridled.
Are the ones who never wait too late...
Until time from them has escaped.
Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.
Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be...idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.
Procrastinators are the ones to make mistakes.
And found to be...idle.
As they watch time from them fly right by...
While trying to catch up with slow strides.
Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.
Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be...idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.
Procrastinators are the ones to make mistakes.
And found to be those idle.
While trying to catch up with slow strides,
As they watch time from them fly right by.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
And...
Don't procrastinate,
To find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one...
With that title.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Paperfaces
Staring at paper faces, expressions like empty pages, day after day
Waiting for the lights to change now,, reaching for a cloud to come down,
And cover me
Cant shut you out
Cant get you out
Cant take you down
Cant watch you drown
Waiting for the world to change, dissolution takes a bit off, and swallows me
Looking for a way to get out, wishing that the rush would come down
And smother me
Cant shut you out
Cant get you out
Cant take you down
Cant watch you drown
If you can learn to be yourself, then thats okay
If you can find a reason now, dont drift away
Walking down streets to nowhere, stepping on feet with no cares,
Losing my self
Cant shut you out
Cant get you out
Cant take you down
Cant watch you drowncant shut you out
Cant get you out
Cant take you down
Cant watch you drown
Slide away, slide away
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Interest
Hear the song with eyes shut.
See the figure with ears shut.
Watch acts with mind set
Anything will interest you.
23.07.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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Sometimes, in certain stories, I think we know at the outset essentially what the tone is going to be, or it becomes important that we're groping toward some kind of story with a certain kind of tone that we both get somehow. But I don't think how that's combined with other elements is ever in any way overtly discussed.
At the Foresters
The shadows of the gaslit wings
Come softly crawling down our way;
Before the curtain someone sings,
The music sounds from far away;
I lounge beside you in the wings.
Prying and indiscreet, the lights
Illumine, if you haply move,
The prince's dress, the yellow tights,
That fit your figure like a glove:
You shrink a little from the lights.
Divinely rosy rouged, your face
Smiles, with its painted little mouth,
Half tearfully, a quaint grimace;
The charm and pathos of your youth
Mock the mock roses of your face.
And there is something in your look
(Ambiguous, independent Flo!)
As teasing as a half-shut book;
It lures me till I long to know
The many meanings of your look:
The tired defiance of the eyes,
Pathetically whimsical,
Childish and whimsical and wise;
And now, relenting after all,
The softer welcome of your eyes.
poem by Arthur Symons
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No Liberty can Bloom where Doomsday Few Enshroud
Drone's no-fly zone sets tone for prompt poetic
Radar tracks furtive raider rarely seen
Only sophisticated systems glean
Near view. Invader unapologetic
Eyes all below, hill, hollow, scan frenetic
Seeks secrets, civil, military, sheen
Now cloaked - gold members' privilege - can screen
One at a time all details. Energetic
Flight-path for Big Brother is planned, magnetic
Lasers home in on aerodrome, demesnes,
Yet few maintain complaints as freedom's scene
ZOne borderline must meet. Heed call prophetic!
No liberty can bloom where doomsday few
Enshroud, cloud basic facts, conceal true view.
Acrostic Sonnet Drone's No-Fly Zone 21 December 2011
poem by Jonathan Robin
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United Front Song
And because a man is human
He'll want to eat, and thanks a lot
But talk can't take the place of meat
or fill an empty pot.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
And because a man is human
he won't care for a kick in the face.
He doesn't want slaves under him
Or above him a ruling class.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
And because a worker's a worker
No one else will bring him liberty.
It's nobody's work but the worker' own
To set the worker free.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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Memories of my Dad
Today was a day for remembering, Dad, of things we did and said
Going back many years -- of stories told when you tucked me in bed
Pretending we were on a ship -- floating off to many lands
Finding secret treasures -- always holding hands.
Those hands were there to guide me when I took my many tumbles
To wipe my tears away, soothe the hurt from my falls and stumbles
To teach me how to read and write
Explain to me how fuzzy caterpillars become butterflies in flight
To walk out in the forest and learn the names of trees
To watch a lovely sunset -- feel a gentle breeze
To hug a fuzzy puppy and take him home as ours
To teach the pup -- his bed is not among Mom's flowers
To go to the circus and watch the clowns with painted faces
Never realizing -- many years down the road I'd be going through their paces
To eat hot dogs, cotton candy, popcorn and such
Never realizing -- a tummy ache was what we got from "too much"
To see you at my school plays -- and hear your loving praise
To have you at my graduation and all my special days
To have you take my hand, kiss me and lead me down the aisle
As on my Wedding Day, we turned our happy tears to a smile
You were always there when I needed you, through happiness and strife
I was always your "little Girl" and buddy -- even though I became a wife
Our love was a special one though we "Earthly Parted" in a veil of tears
You are always close to me -- just a short prayer away.
And some day -- Gods willing -- we'll be "home" to stay
poem by Anna Helen McDonald
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The Keys of Morning
While at her bedroom window once,
Learning her task for school,
Little Louisa lonely sat
In the morning clear and cool,
She slanted her small bead-brown eyes
Across the empty street,
And saw Death softly watching her
In the sunshine pale and sweet.
His was a long lean sallow face;
He sat with half-shut eyes,
Like a old sailor in a ship
Becalmed 'neath tropic skies.
Beside him in the dust he had set
His staff and shady hat;
These, peeping small, Louisa saw
Quite clearly where she sat -
The thinness of his coal-black locks,
His hands so long and lean
They scarcely seemed to grasp at all
The keys that hung between:
Both were of gold, but one was small,
And with this last did he
Wag in the air, as if to say,
"Come hither, child, to me!"
Louisa laid her lesson book
On the cold window-sill;
And in the sleepy sunshine house
Went softly down, until
She stood in the half-opened door,
And peeped. But strange to say
Where Death just now had sunning sat
Only a shadow lay:
Just the tall chimney's round-topped cowl,
And the small sun behind,
Had with its shadow in the dust
Called sleepy Death to mind.
But most she thought how strange it was
Two keys that he should bear,
And that, when beckoning, he should wag
The littlest in the air.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Tone
The tone
Of her
Voice
Changes
When she
Recognizes
Me on the
Phone
Don't know
If she feels
Jealous of my
Success or my
Failures make her
Voice drone
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Till I Go Down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Ive already seen the lies
On the faces of the men of war
Leading people to the killing floor
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
No no
Till I go down
Till the world stops spinning around
Till Im six feet under the ground
Till theres no sound
Till theres no pain
Im gonna swing this chain
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my mouth
Im for the truth to come out
About the leader with the iron will
And his allegiance to the dollar bill
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Till I go down
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A glimpse
a glimpse
the half opened door
some would say
a half closed door
it all depends on the
state of mind you are in
well half closed for pessismist
and half opened for optimist
half opened or half closed door
so long as it is open
and not close
a good exercise for the mind
of a story teller, novelist, a film maker
a glimpse at the half closed door
the mind is thrown open
like the kick you would give
a half opened door
so that you and pet cat could
glide through easily
the stories that start coming out
from a glimpse at the half opened door
agatha's murdered corpse lying behind
a stalker, a ghost in the corridor of the mind
from the glimpse of the half closed door
a million possibilities, ideas pouring forth
half closed door, half opened door
whichever way you may say
it is an opened door
a million stories, ideas, possibilities
knock at the door of my mind
a glimpse of the half closed, half opened door
my half closed half opened eyes
open themselves to my ever curious mind
boundless as the universe
inspired by
A Glimpse
A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night-And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going-of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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