En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Untitled: With rosy stages

With rosy stages the stone sinks in the moor

Song of gliding and black laughter

Figures go in and out of rooms

And death grins bony in black boat.

Pirate on the canal in the red wine

Whose mast and sail often broke in the storm.

Drowned ones bump purple against the rock

Of the bridges. Steely the call of the guards clangs.

But sometimes, the glance listens in the candlelight

And follows the shadows on decayed walls

And dancers are with sleep-devoured hands.

The night, that breaks blackly on your head

And dead people who turn over in beds

Grasp the marble with broken hands.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And The Walls Fell Down

When morning time breaks
My lonely heart aches, yeah
But no one I touch
Can tell me how much
A lonely heart takes
Cause the walls fell down
And the seas will drown
But nobody listens to my song
And the storm just broke
And the rain came down
But nobody listens to a clown
I look for your light
By day and by night
Im wasting my time
Just trying to find
Your face in my life
Cause the walls fell down
And the seas will drown
But nobody listens to my song
And the storm just broke
And the rain came down
But nobody listens to a clown
Cause the walls fell down
And the seas will drown
But nobody listens to my song
And the storm just broke
And the rain came down
But nobody listens to a clown (fade out)

song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the Evening

A blue brook, path and evening along decayed huts.

Behind dark shrubbery children play with blue and red balls;

Some swap the forehead and the hands rot in the brown foliage.

In bony stillness the heart of the lonely one shines,

A small boat rocks on blackish waters.

Through dark woods hair and laughter of brown maids flutters.

The shadows of the old people cross the flight of a small bird;

Mystery of blue flowers on their temples.

Others sway on black benches in the evening wind.

Golden sighs quietly expire in the bleak branches

Of the chestnut; a sound of dark cymbals of summer,

When the strangeress appears on the decayed staircase.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On the Edge of an Old Well

Dark interpretation of the water: broken forehead in the mouth of the night,

The boy's bluish shadow sighing in black pillows,

The rustling of the maple, steps in the old park,

Chamber concerts which fade on a spiral staircase,

Perhaps a moon which quietly climbs the steps.

The gentle voices of the nuns in the decayed church,

A blue tabernacle which slowly opens,

Stars which fall on your bony hands,

Perhaps a walk through abandoned rooms,

The blue tone of the flute in the hazel bushes - very quietly.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stone

"And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him--
A stone for him?" she said.

Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead--
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired--
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall . . .
And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father's door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.

And when I came, she stood alone--
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.

Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall--
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.

The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
"And will you cut a stone for him?"
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
With still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.

And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover's name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.

With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, overwearied hands,
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.

And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Passed slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.

Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.

poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Punk Rock 101

She works at hot topic
His heart microscopic
She thinks that it's love
But to him it's sex
He listens to emo
But Fat Mike's his hero
His bank account's zero
What comes next
Same song, different chorus
It's stupid, contagious
To be broke and famous
Can someone please save us from Punk Rock 101
My Dickies, your sweatbands
My spiked hair, your new Vans
Let's throw up our rock hands for Punk Rock 101
She bought him a skateboard, a rail slide, his knee tore
He traded it for drums at the local pawn shop
She left him for staring
At girls and not caring
When she cried cause she thought Bon Jovi broke up
Same song second chorus
It's stupid, contagious
To be broke and famous
Can someone please save us from Punk Rock 101
My Dickies, your sweatbands
My spiked hair, your new Vans
Let's throw up our rock hands for Punk Rock 101
Don't forget to delay
On the very last word
Seven years later
He works as a waiter
She married a trucker and he's never there
The story never changes
Just the names and faces
Like Tommy and Gina
They're livin' on a prayer
Did you just say that
I said
It's stupid, contagious
To be broke and famous
Can someone please save us from Punk Rock 101
My Dickies, your sweatbands
My spiked hair, your new Vans
Let's throw up our rock hands for Punk Rock 101
It's stupid, contagious
To be broke and famous
Can someone please save us from Punk Rock 101
My Dickies, your sweatbands
My spiked hair, your new Vans
Let's throw up our rock hands for Punk Rock 101
It's stupid, contagious
(Same song, different chorus)
To be broke and famous
(Same song, different chorus)
Can someone please save us from Punk Rock 101
My Dickies, your rock hands
(Same song, different chorus)
My spiked hair, your new Vans
(Same song, different chorus)
Let's shoplift some sweatbands for Punk Rock 101

song performed by by Bowling For Soup
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stomp Your Hands, Clap Your Feet

Whoa!
Woo-woo yeah
Turn it up until it bangs your head
Tear it down now mother don't play dead
People stand the noise
All the little toys
Put some more coke on the fire
Stomp your hands
Clap your feet
Stomp your hands
To the beat
Stomp your hands
Clap your feet
Stomp your hands
To the beat
Mixed up kids lookin' for that night
They're getting higher everything in sight, well alright
The music's pretty loud
Someone in the crowd
Think they're gonna cause us a riot
Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh
Stomp your hands
Clap your feet
Stomp your hands
To the beat, oh
Stomp your hands
Clap your feet
Stomp your hands
To the beat
Rock on, rock on, rock on
Yow!
How how how how how
Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh
(Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh)
Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh
(Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh)
(Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh)
Whoa-oh-oh-oh ho ho ho
Stomp your hands
Clap those feet, yeah
Stomp your hands
To the beat
C'mon boys
Stomp your hands
Clap your feet
Whoa-whoa, all night, yeah, yeah, yeah
Stomp your hands
(Oh whoa oh oh)
Clap your feet
Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh
Stomp your hands
Clap your feet
Stomp your hands
To the beat
All night long
Stomp your hands
(Everybody)
Clap your feet
(Everybody stomp your hands to the beat in the heat yeah yeah yeah yeah woo!)
Stomp your hands
(Oh!)
Clap your feet
(Oh whoa whoa whoa whoa, rock all night, yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah)
Oh yeah
Stomp your hands
(Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah)
Clap your feet
(My my my, my my my my my my, my, my, m

song performed by by Quiet Riot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Calling

Sun goes down I rise
Red hair flames so bright
Iced gin breaks the night
Steal into her mind
Walk without a sound
Fire in the mountains now
If you wanna rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub
If you wanna rub-a-dub, dub love
Love calling, love calling
If you wanna rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub
If you wanna rub-a-dub, dub love
Love calling
So baby rock on
Clap hands, clap hands
For the song man
Rock on, rock on
Ooo baby rock on,
Clap hands, clap hands
For the song man
Rock on, rock on
Song man dreams for you
Moves his clapping space
Turns us into snakes
Hot hits
And the blue moon move, move, move
Move until we die
Move until she cries
If you wanna rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub
If you wanna rub-a-dub, dub love
Love calling, love calling
If you wanna rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub
If you wanna rub-a-dub, dub love
Love calling
Oo baby rock on
If you wanna rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub
If you wanna rub-a-dub, dub love
Love calling, love calling
If you wanna rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub
If you wanna rub-a-dub, dub love
Love calling
So[ooo? ] baby rock on
Clap hands, clap hands
For the song man
Rock on, rock on
Ooo baby rock on,
Clap hands, clap hands
For the song man
Rock on, rock on

song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bantry Bay

On the eighteenth of October we lay in Bantry Bay,
All ready to set sail, with a fresh and steady gale:
A fortnight and nine days we in the harbour lay,
And no breeze ever reached us or strained a single sail.
Three ships of war had we, and the great guns loaded all;
But our ships were dead and beaten that had never feared a foe.
The winds becalmed around us cared for no cannon ball;
They locked us in the harbour and would not let us go.

On the nineteenth of October, by eleven of the clock,
The sky turned black as midnight and a sudden storm came on--
Awful and sudden--and the cables felt the shock;
Our anchors they all broke away and every sheet was gone.
The guns fired off amid the strife, but little hope had we;
The billows broke above the ship and left us all below.
The crew with one consent cried 'Bear further out to sea,'
But the waves obeyed no sailor's call, and we knew not where to go.

She foundered on a rock, while we clambered up the shrouds,
And staggered like a mountain drunk, wedged in the waves almost.
The red hot boiling billows foamed in the stooping clouds,
And in that fatal tempest the whole ship's crew were lost.
Have pity for poor mariners, ye landsmen, in a storm.
O think what they endure at sea while safe at home you stay.
All ye that sleep on beds at night in houses dry and warm,
O think upon the whole ship's crew, all lost at Bantry Bay.

poem by John Clare
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Black City

Riding, crashing, charging
Run to the wrong side in the night
Bastard, savage prowler
Whip the engine for more power
Fast winds, highway, hell song
Feel the fog in the black storm
Darkness, black walls, shadows
Can't see the light on the road
Alone in a haunted
concrete fondation
Abandonned and possessed
In a ghostly mansion
Desert, ghost town, bare land
Dark street, create a fear
Closed lamps, curfews
Dead leaves
The black cat awaits the witch
Don't stay in black city
Your soul will catch the spell

song performed by by Voivod
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Helian

In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Along the yellow walls of summer.
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always sleeps
The son of Pan in the grey marble.

At eventide on the terrace we got drunk on brown wine
The red peach glows under the foliage.
Tender sonata, joyous laughter.

Lovely is this silence of the night.
On the dark plains
We gather with shepherds and the white stars.

When autumn rises
The grove is a sight of sober clarity.
Along the red walls we loiter at ease
And the round eyes follow the flight of birds.
In the evening pale water gathers in the dregs of burial urns.

Heaven celebrates, sitting in bare branches.
In hallowed hands the yeoman carries bread and wine
And fruit ripens in the peace of a sunny chamber.

Oh how stern is the face of the beloved who have taken their passage.
Yet the soul is comforted in righteous meditation.

Overwhelming is the desolated garden‘s secrecy,
As the young novice has wreathed his brow with brown leaves,
His breath inhales icy gold.

The hands touch the antiquity of blueish water
Or in a cold night the sisters’ white cheeks.

In quiet and harmony we walk along a suite of hospitable rooms
Into solitude and the rustling of maple trees,
Where, perhaps, the thrush still sings.

Beautiful is man and emerging from the dark
He marvels as he moves his arms and legs,
And his eyes quietly roll in purple cavities.

At suppertime a stranger loses himself in November’s black destitution;
Under brittle branches he follows a wall covered under leprosy.
Once the holy brother went here,
Engrossed in the tender music of his madness.

Oh how lonely settles the evening-wind.
Dying away a man‘s head droops in the dark of the olive tree.

How shattering is the decline of a family.
This is the hour when the seer’s eyes are filled
With gold as he beholds the stars.

The evening’s descend has muffled the belfry‘s knell in silence;
Among black walls in the public place,
A dead soldier calls for a prayer.

Like a pale angel
The son enters his ancestor’s empty house.

The sisters have traveled far to the pale ancients.
At night, returned from their mournful pilgrimage,
He found them asleep under the columns of the hallway.

Oh hair stained with dung and worms
As his silver feet stepped on it
And on those who died in echoing rooms.

Oh you palms under midnight’s burning rain,
When the servants flogged those tender eyes with nettles,
The hollyhock’s early fruit
Beheld your empty grave in wonder.

Fading moons sail quietly
Over the sheets of the feverish lad,
Into the silence of winter.

At the bank of Kidron a great mind is lost in musing,
Under a tree, the tender cedar,
Stretched out under the father’s blue eyebrows,
Where a shepherd drives his flock to pastures at night.

Or there are screams which escape the sleep;
When an iron angel approaches man in the grove,
The holy man’s flesh melts over burning coals.

Purple wine climbs about the mud-cottage,
Sheaves of faded corn sing;
The buzz of bees; the crane’s flight.
In the evening the souls of the resurrected gather on rocky paths.

Lepers behold their image in dark water;
Or they lift the hemp of their dung soiled attire,
And weep to the soothing wind, as it drifts down from the rosy hill.

Slender maidens grope their way through the narrow lanes of night;
They hope for the gracious shepherd.
Tenderly, songs ring out from the huts on weekend.

Let the song pay homage to the boy,
To his madness to his white eyebrows and to his passage,
To the decaying corpse, who opened his blue eyes.
Oh how sad is this reunion.

The stairs of madness in black apartments –
The matriarch’s shadow emerged under the open door
When Helian’s soul beheld his image in a rosy mirror;
And from his brow bled snow and leprosy.

The walls extinguished the stars
And the white effigies of light.

From the carpet rise skeletons, escaping their graves,
Fallen crosses sit silent on the hill,
The night’s purple wind is sweet with frankincense.

Oh ye broken eyes over black gaping jaws,
When the grandson in the solitude
Of his tender madness muses over a darker ending,
The blue eyelids of the silent god sink upon him.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)

After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout'
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hodded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body).
But I, Ann's bard on a raised hearth, call all
The seas to service that her wood-tongud virtue
Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads,
Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods
That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel,
Blees her bent spirit with four, crossing birds.
Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statue
With the wild breast and blessed and giant skull
Is carved from her in a room with a wet window
In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year.
I know her scrubbed and sour humble hands
Lie with religion in their cramp, her threadbare
Whisper in a damp word, her wits drilled hollow,
Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain;
And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone.
These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumental
Argument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalm
Storm me forever over her grave until
The stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry Love
And the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.

poem by Dylan Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Deliriums

[1 is missing]

2

Dark interpretation of the water: forehead in the mouth of the night,

Sighing in black pillows the rosy shadow of man,

Redness of autumn, the rustle of the maple in the old park,

Chamber concerts which fade on decayed stairs.

3

The black excrement, which runs off the roofs.

A red finger dips into your forehead

Blue snow sinks in the attic,

The deceased mirror of lovers.

poem by Georg Trakl
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The Spilling Of The Wine

The soldiers lie upon the snow,
That no longer gyrates under the spinning lights
Night juggles in her fat black hands.
They will not babble any more secrets to loose-mouthed
nights
Expanding in golden auras,
While sleigh-bells jingle like new coins the darkness
shuffles . . .
They will not drink any more wine—
Wine of the Romanoffs,
Jewelled wine
The secret years worked slowly at
Till it was wrought to fire,
As stones are faceted
Until they give out light.
The soldiers lie very still.
Their shadows have shrunk up close
As toads shrink under a stone;
And night and silence,
The ancient cronies,
Foregather above them.

But still over the snow, that is white as a ram's fleece,
Arms swing like scythes . . .
And shadows in austere lines
Sway in a monstrous and mysterious ritual—
Shadows of the Kronstad sailors
Pouring blood and wine. . .
Wine
Spurting out of flagons in a spray of amethyst and gold,
Creeping in purple sluices;
Wine
And blood in thin bright streams
Besprinkling the immaculate snow;
Blood, high-powered with the heat of old vineyards,
Boring . . . into the cool snow . . .
Blood and wine
Mingling in bright pools
That suck at the lights of Petrograd
As dying eyes
Suck in their last sunset.

The night has a rare savor.
Out of the snow-piles—altar-high and colored as by a
rosy sacrifice— Scented vapor
Ascends in a pale incense . . .
Faint astringent perfume
Of blood and wine.

poem by Lola Ridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hayeswater

A region desolate and wild.
Black, chafing water: and afloat,
And lonely as a truant child
In a waste wood, a single boat:
No mast, no sails are set thereon;
It moves, but never moveth on:
And welters like a human thing
Amid the wild waves weltering.

Behind, a buried vale doth sleep,
Far down the torrent cleaves its way:
In front the dumb rock rises steep,
A fretted wall of blue and grey;
Of shooting cliff and crumbled stone
With many a wild weed overgrown:
All else, black water: and afloat,
One rood from shore, that single boat.

poem by Matthew Arnold
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Untitled :Rosy Mirror

Rosy mirror: an ugly image

That appears in the black background,

Blood weeps from broken eyes

Blaspheming plays with dead snakes.

Snow runs through the staring shirt

Purple over the black face,

That breaks in heavy pieces

From planets, deceased and strange.

A spider appears in the black background

Lust, your countenance deceased and strange.

Blood runs through the staring shirt

Snow weeps from broken eyes.

poem by Georg Trakl
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Charity Begins At Home

A shake of the tin
The money drops in, but is it a sin
Youre standing in rags
Youre selling your flags
But who gets the dough at the end of the day
We saw your drop-dead fancy wheels
Your little house up on the hill
But when your conscience pricks
A little sacrifice sweetens the pill
So keep your hands in your pockets
Charity begins at home
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity wont leave you alone
We take to the stage
The audience rave, were doing our bit
A heavenly cast, a blast from the past
Theres a song to be sung, will it make number one
We wanna see your money roll
But our eyes are on the hall of fame
'cos business is business
And hits are the name of the game
So keep your hands in your pockets
Charity begins at home
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity wont leave you alone
Everywhere that we turn
There are mouths to be fed
How can we sleep
The battle goes on while were
Safe in our beds
So dont turn away
No dont turn away
Your doors are locked
You switch on the box to take in a show
You think that youre safe
But here comes that face
And wouldnt you know its that message again
They want to take your plastic cash
Your hand reaches out to the phone
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity begins at home
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity begins at home
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity wont leave you alone
Everywhere that we turn
There are mouths to be fed
How can we sleep
The battle goes on while were
Safe in our beds
So dont turn away
No dont turn away
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity begins at home
Keep your hands in your pockets
Charity wont leave you alone
(repeat 5x)

song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wars and the Unknown Soldier

I
Dry leaves, soldier, dry leaves, dead leaves;
voices of leaves on the wind that bears them to
destruction,
impassioned prayer, impassioned hymn of delight
of the gladly doomed to die. Stridor of beasts,
stridor of men, praises of lust and battle,
numberless as waves, the waves singing
to the wind that bears them down.

Under Osiris,
him of the Egyptian priests, Osynmandyas the King,
easward into Asia we passed, swarmed over Bactria,
three thousand years before Christ.

The history of war
is the history of mankind.
So many dead:
look at them there in the dark, look at them going,
the longest parade of all, the parade of the dead:
between then and now, seven thousand million dead:
dead on the filed of battle.

The people which is not ready
to guard its gods, and its household gods, with the
sword,
who knows but it will find itself with nothing
save honour to defend - ?

Consider, soldier
whatever name you go by, doughboy, dogface,
marine or tommy. God's mercenary – consider our lot
in the days if the single combat. You have been seen on the
seashore.
In the offshore wind blown backward, a wavecrest
windwhipped and quivering, borne helpless and
briefly
to fall underfoot of an oncoming seawall, foam-
smothered,
once more to recede, wind-thwarted again; thus
deathward
the battle lines whelmed and divided. The darkling
battalions
locked arms in chaos, the bravest, the heroes,
kept in the forefront' and this line once broken,
our army was done for.

II
In the new city of marble and bright stone,
the city named for a captain; in the capital:
under the solemn echoing dome, in the still tomb,
lies an unknown soldier.*

In the brown city,
old and shabby, by the muddy Thames, in the gaunt
avenue
where Romans blessed with Latin the oyster and the
primrose,
the stone shaft speaks of another. Those who pass
bare their heads in the rain, pausing to listen+

Across grey water, red poppies on cliffs and chalk.
Hidden under the arch, in the city of light,
the city beloved of Abelard rests a third,
nameless as those, but the fluttering flame
substituting for a name.

Three unknown soldiers:
three, let us say, out of many. On the proud arch
names shine like stars, the names of battles and
victories;
but never the name of the man, you, the unknown.
Down there runs the river, under dark walls of rock,
parapets of rock, stone steps that green to the water.

There they fished up in the twilight another unknown,
the one they call
L'Inconnue de la Seine
: drowned
hands,
drowned hair, drowned eyes, masked like marble she
listens
to the drip-drop secret of silence; and the pale eyelids
enclose and disclose what they know, the illusion
found like fire under Lethe. Devotion here sainted
the love here deathless. The strong purpose turns
from the daggered lamplight, from the little light to
the lesser,
from stone to stone stepping, from the nex-to-the-lasy
heartbeat and footstep even to the sacred, to the last.

Love: devotion: sacrifice: death: can we call her
unknown
who has not unknown to herself more? Whose love
lives still
as if death itself were alive and divine?

And you, the soldier
you who are dead: is it not so with you?
Love: devotion: sacrifice: death: can we call you
unknown,
you who knew what you did? The soldier is crystal:
crystal of man: clear heart, clear duty, clear purpose.
No soldier can be unknown. Only he is unknown
who is unknown to himself.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Blood on your hands sister

You said you loved him told him you cared
Promised him forever together
Instead you broke his heart into countless pieces
You drew tears of blood from the Prince of hearts
Hurt his pride with your insolent words
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands

I saw the pain in his eyes
I felt the bitter tears that he cried
Kicked a man when he was down
You left him a broken man
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands

From a loving giving sensitive Prince amongst men
You took your pleasure and stifled his laughter
You took your fill and threw him upon the scrapheap
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands

But his precious tears are wasted
Wasted on a dry barren heart like yours
For his heart is alive and flourishing
Whilst yours is dead and lifeless
He is the victor
Whilst you the loser

You may wash your hands of him
But the stains will never fade
Blood on your hands sister
Blood on your hands

poem by Lilac Wine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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65

My hands holding some shadows

On white laces and flowing
Whiteness of dress
You walk towards a breezy
Shore on some dreams
Your black long hair flowing
Blown against your direction
Your soft hands touch your face
In disbelief
Why this sadness must come and
Happen and linger
In your almond eyes

Sadness like the night
Hovers you except for a surprise
You hum our song
From your heart
And though faraway I will always
Be there
My hands holding some shadows
To comfort you

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Until My Valkyrie Arrives

Assiduously, the gears pirouetted in their waltz
and the pendulum swayed with my inebriation
careening with all the lonely bones
and ephemeral montages and letters -
camouflaged in stone walls and iron eyes
like a gray madhouse without windows,
without doors; just a cage sheathing
the holocaust dislimning every breath

The cicatrix ailed and one by one
the hands of day reached out -
The rain soundlessly pummeling into sand,
the gyration of black figures in a storm,
the awakening of tulips on the lifted spring,
the stars promenading their diadems -
Life was blossoming at its best
because death is arriving like a thief

One by one, the world left
the labyrinthine cul-de-sac and
assailed into an empty saudade night
and one by one, my little hands
let go of your manifold vines and
swayed into the currents of dementia

Inside the wound of a lonely soul
I go gently, unfettered, unto this goodnight
where slumber is a luxurious peace
and remembering is an immovable feast
I shift, like constellations adrift the pensive sea
counting crows, feeling nothing
dreaming of being alive and the enviable,
bliss of being cradled in someone's dream
until the air let down the gilded stairs
and my Valkyrie arrives without a song.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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