Bull Horn Grip
Eagle like, descends the road,
deep red wine potion, brusque,
as hidden eyes reckon in dusk
of this man to stare and bode.
Hours so, consent to darkness;
starry skies salute his walking,
tis maids of long mane talking,
about a raw prowess to egress.
In the tavern, at the dockside,
pipers play a monotonous mode,
destinies weave, deathly abode,
in deep spaces of brines abide.
A drink is life, glass of grog,
players render the pipes loud,
dim stars blink and a low cloud,
covers the shore in shroud fog.
Pipers monotonous tones wield,
dew drops dropp from foreheads,
Charon awaits for a spilled red,
a bull horn blade of Sheffield.
Outside steps, inside the mist,
maids weave, his life's thread,
Persephone will be his one wed,
his bull horn Sheffield, in fist.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Related quotes
Crown Of Laurel
Amidst high clouds rises divine Kingdom;
of honor Gods dwell securely bestow
to those knights serving mortal wisdom,
scintillant souls, halcyons, in skies glow;
Olympus peaks firm stance sacred emblem;
Nymphs sing paeans to men of prowess,
as skulls and bones legions abide and aim,
to accented domes celestial boats egress.
Amid green woods, Dryads honor, 'n' twine,
Assess virtues in sounds of chords to allay;
crown of laurel on hairbreadth you 'll dine,
with Persephone, upon green fields to lay;
Soldier gallivants fetes in modes of aves,
as Siren maids in brines sing nice of loves!
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Weave In, Weave In, My Hardy Life
WEAVE in! weave in, my hardy life!
Weave yet a soldier strong and full, for great campaigns to come;
Weave in red blood! weave sinews in, like ropes! the senses, sight
weave in!
Weave lasting sure! weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant
weave! tire not!
(We know not what the use, O life! nor know the aim, the end--nor
really aught we know;
But know the work, the need goes on, and shall go on--the death-
envelop'd march of peace as well as war goes on;)
For great campaigns of peace the same, the wiry threads to weave;
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Sheffield knife
On equinox coastal unguarded brims,
forever far spent beacon's life,
small imperfection, a riddance still,
moon-flash on a Sheffield knife.
I hear his voices in this mauve dawn,
a resolution of his life's altruism,
the images he left before gone,
of odd Styx rife adventism..
One instant of hypothesis his glance,
a tragic wilt, distance of stare,
it was a never equation to solve,
a wine's spill, dim marquee of despair.
I 'll go away from that coastal of Aden,
assuming earth will be mine,
Sunday's sweet, mane of a maiden's mist
and a recall of a wilted sign..
An image of a kid in Sundays feasts,
with my voice of our friendship's skies,
of those that escaped in high mists,
sad advent will be, our shipmate's eyes.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Indian Weavers
WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Voyage through obscurity
A man is standing alone on shore in darkness on a foggy night. He is looking out over the water when suddenly he hears a ships fog horn. He can not see the ship but the repeated sound of the horn and his present state of mind he begins to associate himself with this ship.
The man is at a crossroad in his life. He knows his life has been unsatisfactory up to now and is posed with a choice as to how to proceed in the future. One way is risky, the other is safe.
A heavy fog looms over the water.
A far-off horn somewhere in the distance
Wails its melancholic voice of despair
Repeatedly with urgent persistence.
On shore I stand alone in the darkness
Feeling a coexistence with this ship
That navigates blindly more or less
Onward a potential perilous trip.
Where is my life taking me on its voyage?
What is my warning device? Do I scream
Out loud when life’s pitfalls impede my way?
Shall I navigate without a light beam
Through life’s hazardous chartered odyssey
Or flounder searching for safe guarantees?
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Help Me, Mary
Help me mary, please
Ive lost my home to your thieves
They bully the stereo and drink
They leave suspicious stains in the sink
They make rude remarks about me
They wonder just how wild I would be
As they egg me on and keep me mad
They play me like a pit bull in a basement, and for that
I lock my door at night
I keep my mouth shut tight
I practice all my moves
I memorize their stupid rules
I make myself their friend
I show them just how far I can bend
As they egg me on and keep me mad
They play me like a pit bull in a basement, and for that
Im asking, dear mary please
Temper my hatred with peace
Weave my disgust into fame
And watch how fast they run to the flame
song performed by by Liz Phair
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whippin' Piccadilly
Once upon a time, not too long ago, we took a day out in manchester
We all fall down, there's not enough hours in the day
Played a bit of football, fell into the union
Barged our way into the toilet with the kung fu king
There's not enough hours in the day
I remember seeing someone dressed in a suit, looking like a lunatic
And we all fall down, there's not enough hours in a trip
Well, academy cogwheels breaking your hand
But we got lovely posters for sale
And we all fall down, there's not enough hours in a day
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
Finally made our way back to the train, rolling into sheffield tonight
And it all falls down, there's not enough hours in a life
So try and guess my weight, waiting at the station
Whippin' piccadilly tonight, and it all falls down
There's not enough hours in a life
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
song performed by by Gomez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fisher Child's Lullaby
THE wind is out in its rage to-night,
And your father is far at sea.
The rime on the window is hard and white
But dear, you are near to me.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
The little boat rocks in the cove no more,
But the flying sea-gulls wail;
I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,
For sight of a home set sail.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
In the gale that rides the sea,
But we'll not believe it, not you and I,
Who mind us of Galilee.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Round & Round
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
It's hard enough losin' the paper illusion you've hidden inside,
Without the confusion of findin' you're usin' the crutch of the lie
To shelter your pride when you cry.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
Now you're movin' too slow and wherever you go there's another beside.
It's so hard to say no to yourself and it shows that you're losing inside,
When you step on your pride and you cry.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
How the hours will bend through the time that you spend till you turn to your eyes,
And you see your best friend looking over the end and you turn to see why,
And he looks in your eyes and he cries.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tapestry Of LIfe
I see life
Like a Tapestry
Were you weave
In and out of life
As the journey unfolds
Each thread
Inter woven in your dreams
Have vibrant colours
That burst into being
That burst into life
Then often as in life
You have the black
Grey and white
The hidden nightmares
The hidden dreams
The shadows of life
The beauty of it all
Is how each thread
Intertwines its way through life
Each colour vibrant
With each thread you sew
Even the shadows
Bring out the colours
On a tapestry of Gold
poem by Kaila George
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Dennis Shand
THE shadows fall along the wall,
It's night at Haye-la-Serre;
The maidens weave since day grew eve,
The lady's in her chair.
O passing slow the long hours go
With time to think and sigh,
When weary maidens weave beneath
A listless lady's eye.
It's two days that Earl Simon's gone
And it's the second night;
At Haye-la-Serre the lady's fair,
In June the moon is light.
O it's “Maids, ye'll wake till I come back,”
And the hound's i' the lady's chair:
No shuttles fly, the work stands by,
It's play at Haye-la-Serre.
The night is worn, the lamp's forlorn,
The shadows waste and fail;
There's morning air at Haye-la-Serre,
The watching maids look pale.
O all unmarked the birds at dawn
Where drowsy maidens be;
But heard too soon the lark's first tune
Beneath the trysting tree.
“Hold me thy hand, sweet Dennis Shand,”
Says the Lady Joan de Haye,
“That thou to-morrow do forget
To-day and yesterday.
“For many a weary month to come
My lord keeps house with me,
And sighing summer must lie cold
In winter's company.
“And many an hour I'll pass thee by
And see thee and be seen;
Yet not a glance must tell by chance
How sweet these hours have been.
“We've all to fear; there's Maud the spy,
There's Ann whose face I scor'd,
There's Blanch tells Huot everything,
And Huot loves my lord.
“But O and it's my Dennis 'll know,
When my eyes look weary dim,
Who finds the gold for his girdle-fee
And who keeps love for him.”
The morrow's come and the morrow-night,
It's feast at Haye-la-Serre,
And Dennis Shand the cup must hand
Beside Earl Simon's chair.
And still when the high pouring's done
And cup and flagon clink,
Till his lady's lips have touched the brim
Earl Simon will not drink.
But it's, “Joan my wife,” Earl Simon says,
“Your maids are white and wan.”
And it's, “O,” she says, “they've watched the night
With Maud's sick sister Ann.”
But it's, “Lady Joan and Joan my bird,
Yourself look white and wan.”
And it's, “O, I've walked the night myself
To pull the herbs for Ann:
“And some of your knaves were at the hutch
And some in the cellarage,
But the only one that watched with us
Was Dennis Shand your page.
“Look on the boy, sweet honey lord,
How drooped his eyelids be:
The rosy colour's not yet back
That paled in serving me.”
O it's, “Wife, your maids are foolish jades,
And you're a silly chuck,
And the lazy knaves shall get their staves
About their ears for luck:
“But Dennis Shand may take the cup
And pour the wine to his hand;
Wife, thou shalt touch it with thy lips,
And drink thou, Dennis Shand!”
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Round Round
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It wont be long, it wont be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It wont be long, it wont be long.
Its hard enough losin the paper illusion youve hidden inside,
Without the confusion of findin youre usin the crutch of the lie
To shelter your pride when you cry.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It wont be long, it wont be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It wont be long, it wont be long.
Now youre movin too slow and wherever you go theres another beside.
Its so hard to say no to yourself and it shows that youre losing inside,
When you step on your pride and you cry.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It wont be long, it wont be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It wont be long, it wont be long.
How the hours will bend through the time that you spend till you turn to your eyes,
And you see your best friend looking over the end and you turn to see why,
And he looks in your eyes and he cries.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It wont be long, it wont be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It wont be long, it wont be long.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hernani
Cistercians might crack their sides
With laughter, and exemption get,
At sight of heroes clasping brides,
And hearing--O the horn! the horn!
The horn of their obstructive debt!
But quit the stage, that note applies
For sermons cosmopolitan,
Hernani. Have we filched our prize,
Forgetting . . .? O the horn! the horn!
The horn of the Old Gentleman!
poem by George Meredith
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Mans Road
Written by jimmy webb, 1982
Found on the last unicorn soundtrack and your move (french import only).
Horizon rising up to meet the purple dawn
Dust demon screaming, bring an eagle to lead me on
For in my heart I carry such a heavy load
Here I am on mans road, walking mans road, walking mans road
Im hungry, weary, but I cannot lay me down
The rain comes, dreary, but theres no shelter I have found
It will be a long time till I find my abode
Here I am on mans road, walking mans road
Moon rising, disguising lonely streets in gay displays
The stars fade, the night shade falls and makes the world afraid
It waits in silence for the sky to explode
Here I am on mans road, walking mans road, walking mans road
Walking mans road, walking mans road, walking mans road
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Void Start
It was the Spring time of a void year,
you approached me, a pleasant light,
opalescent in any nonadjacent tear,
and annulled dreams of a bluish flight.
Amid night hours a chastened clock,
counted our words in sort out play,
and there were lingering eyes to lock,
your stare tearful of my soul to slay..
And then, a rendering of air in foliage,
spirits of forest to descend on earth,
and hymn in wind a forgotten adage,
my poem for you and our loves worth..
..................................
..................................
Evanescent was that light and empty,
my soul followed in sheer darkness;
't was a ghostwrite, and a notion hefty,
't was a shadow upon my emptiness.
Night birds were calling, dark and yon,
with their monotonous, deathly call,
an airy vision, was upright to abscond
as my soul ascended in silvery stroll.
Kindly she bestowed, all I have loved,
an offer to assuage my aphotic depart,
brunette gleam was a darkness above,
amid stars wraith was she, a void start.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Insomniac Who Drew The Head Of A Sheep Wildly On A White Paper
the insomniac's heart is bleeding. she is in pain tonight like the other past night.
she thinks she is dying right on her own bed. changing positions. finding the right way to sleep. she could not find it. she is lost in the darkness of this loneliness. she goes naked towards the refrigerator to get a cold glass of water.
ice cubes. water rushing to the glass. clicking sound of glass and another glass.
coldness rushing to her esophagus. Coldness multiplying in her burning heart. her blankets burning. She could not sleep tonight. She gets a white paper, a pen and begings to scribble her life: wildly, some lines run. Shaping the head of a sheep. one. two. three. four. five. Five eyes. She stops. She needs five eyes to see everything. Awake. The ceiling where the lizards grow to become alligators on the plywood swamp. No grasses but cobwebs of sleepy spiders.
Five Jacks are hidden on the ears. On the ears are hairs of corn. Blonde. On the nose are paper clips. With them, she is cruel. Then she hides a bull inside her pharynx, the one that shits inside her mouth. She stinks. The bull makes a call for desire. For lust. She closes it with the prison wall of her teeth and gums and lips. Her lips are sealed now. All the five eyes are open throughout the night. Looking for love. Love is not found. Her heart bleeds. Stains of blood penetrate the white paper.
She had not slept for five nights. She will add another five eyes. She knows
if this happens again and again, she will die. She pretends that she is strong.
She will not forget these nights. Preludes to her death. She writes some hieroglyphics all over the empty spaces of the white paper. She will not forget
what each line and curve and sharp edges mean. She codes them. She writes the date 9.2.2008.
She does not put her name. It is enough that no one knows and remembers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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By the horn
Heightened excitement and a little fear
The matador faces a bull, with a crowd behind him it lessens his care
Frustrated, harnessed to entertain
Frantic charging with poor aim
Targeting this red rag, the bull has missed
While the matador plays to the crowd and blows a kiss
A stroke of luck, our bull has made contact
While the matador feels sheepish, the crowd witnessed the fact
Carried by his breeches he's tossed up high
Oohs, aahs, the crowd sees his breeches torn
He attempts to cover his modesty as they are exposed by a horn
Heartened, our bull charges again and delivers a better aim
Escape is on hand as the matador takes flight and is tossed into the stand.
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
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You Will Forget Me
You will forget me. The years are so tender,
They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep,
This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendour
Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep,
The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over
Will banish the last rosy colours away,
And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover
The scar which you think is a life-mark today.
You will forget me. The one boon you covet
Now above all things will soon. seem no prize,
And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it
True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.
The one drop to-day, that you deem only wanting
To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem
But a valueless mite; and the ghost that is haunting
The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.
You will forget me, will thank me for saying
The words which you think are so pointed with pain.
Time loves a new lay, and the dirge he is playing
Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.
I shall pass from your life, I shall pass out forever,
And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.
Youth buries its dead, grief kills seldom or never
And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Blade Is A Space
Between life and death
Awaits a blade
And a man awaits in decision
The midnight
The stars above
Awaits with a loud laughter
To cheer up the defeat...
Pranab k c
Edited on 01/08/2012
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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