Vision of Death
In a cold frost covered land
at the heights of creation
white sheets yellow gold
faded urine stains
a red marker an unfinished book of poems
a love letter signed forgiveness
ash spilt upon the carpet tar stains upon the lungs
death scratching his head under grey hood
at a post war park bench
playing chess with a graying old man
the old man scratching his beard
together locked in a stale mate
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Mirror
'-Em que espelho ficou
perdida a minha face? '
(Cecília Meireles*)
The old mirror
In what I've looked so much times
In what I've seen my many faces
It looks like never to change
It looks like to be always the same.
But my face is not anymore
The beautiful face that I had before.
It has changed through all the ages
Like a book turning its pages.
I see the time goes by
leaving old memories
Everytime when I stare at the mirror
I see its wounds on me.
With a lot of colours
Through the years
I've painted my soul
Black, brown, gray
for the bad ones
White, yellow, blue
for the good ones.
And all my wrongs
that I've regreted
are just few stains
on the mirror.
I've cleaned the mirror
with my rights
but some of the stains
won't never disappear.
I've faced my fear
But the mirror broken
When the person for whom I fell in love
Left me alone in the cold room.
And the mirror was so dirty
When I did it bad
And it was so embarassed
when I felt myself so sad.
In this mirror I see my soul
All the scenes of my life.
My life has chaged a lot
But the mirror remains the same
through the time!
_____________________
(*) Cecília Meireles was a great poetess from the modern
phase of the brazilian literature.Her poems are filled with
the existentialism, love, and anothers theories from her love
for the Indian culture.This quotation from one of her poems
means: '-In which mirror was lost my face? '
poem by Lindemberg Pereira da Silva
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The rain is gone
You got wet clothes to dry
A face to wipe some droplets of rain
Some stains
On your breasts
Kissing stains
Some bluish marks
On your thighs
You always say
These things, stains and bluing
Happen
Because of the rain
The rain that refuses to leave at once
And you are caught to his embrace
You always say the rain
Is responsible, one season to blame
Why these things, these stains cling to your body
The thoughts of rain
Leaving
Saddens you now
How you wish the rain comes back
The stains caused by him smells and
The scent of sweat makes you sway, gives
You the feeling of
Stay, I love you, stay, do not go away.
Wonder, how the rain could have removed
The stains, smell, sweat, but you say
The rain causes it, he cannot leave you
He still has the fear of getting rainy wet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bleeding Rose
red streaks run along the
edges of the white petals
like the ones that run down her arms
trickling slowly down the stem
and to the floor
like the tears she sheds every
second of the day
the red stains upon the
leaves unwashed
the red stains upon her fingers
untouched
red stained carpet and
red stained cloths
a jacket worn at all times
a black jacket covering the scars
red puddles left behind
and a Bleeding Rose
poem by Chessney Ferguson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Season’s Carpet
I sat on a bench,
and watched the autumn leave fall.
A gentle breeze would shake them loose,
until they drifted to the ground.
Soon there is a carpet of leaves,
red, yellow and brown,
dancing with the wind
inches above the ground.
Another season ending,
as the autumn leave come drift down.
Winter would soon be here,
with another carpet grand.
This one would be a carpet white with snow,
and would stretch right across the land.
Another carpet for another season
would soon be close at hand.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Essence of a Stain
Some people are always obsessed
with washing out stains
ashamed of what the stand for
but what do stains truly stand for?
Stains show a part of our character
- what is a tattoo
other than a bodily stain
revealing a small part
of our inner character
to the outside world
even stains can be seen in a positive light
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A demons return
A demons return
~
I hear their scratching
At the metaphorical walls I’ve built
Their voices spitting into the air
Poisonous words to ignite
That flame of madness within me
Already strange to the world
Somewhat distant is said
That is not the half of it
That is not even close to understanding
The is a darker realisation
A more blood thirsty situation
A demon within a soul
The price of creation
Was the mind now long lost
The breaking of mortar
As the scratching grows louder
Barricade with what I ask
And none, none do answer
Alone I listen with fear
I hear their scratching
At the metaphorical walls I built
The demons are returning
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Locked in a Box
I'm in a locked box
and I'm searching
for the key.
The key that
will set me free.
But wait this locked box
is like no other...
the locked box I'm
in is not made from
cardboard, glass,
wood, plastic or
leather.
The locked box I’m in
is made by an alloyed created
by my own hands.
My mind is the locked
box that I'm in.
The bottom is made from
the ghetto streets
I grew up on.
And one side of the box
is made from the violence
and abuse I suffered
at home.
Now another side is made from
the drugs and alcohol I used
to escape.
While another side is made of
my own self hate.
Now the last side of the locked
box is made from the things
that used to be my hopes
and dreams,
and the lid of this locked box
is made from my nightmares
and screams.
Now, I’m scratching the walls
trying to set myself free.
Because I can feel this
lock box closing in on me.
Closing in so tight it is taking
away my breath.
This locked box is becoming
my resting place after my death.
Wait a minute death may be
the key.
For if I die I will be free.
I'm in a locked box.
Unraveling My Poem Unraveling My Life
you think you know me
every inch every color
since you have read
every poem i have written
you equate what i am
with what i have written
and your equation goes
through and through the lines
of logic like a telephone
pole connecting two islands
every sigh is learned
from every syllable of my lines
every yawn is discerned
from every sleepy letter that you
meet and see
are there no strangers there
that you meet? did you not
care to ask for his name?
are there no oceans there?
if there are, there must
be some oceanfloors
some sinks sinking
some whales occupying
so much space for your
kind understanding and
you may find yourself
hard of breathing, like a
diver whose oxygen tank
is leaking. You don't die
with me. You don't like my
sickness. You don't like to
get this infection beyond
my own solitude.
you unravel a poem you
discover that i have become
more covered. A voice tells
me, i am not my poems, i am
more than them. I am not just
a syllable, a word, a line.
I am more than what you have
tried to swallow inside your mouth.
i am blood and i am flowing.
you dip your finger once and
taste a dropp of my blood and
then in a second, i am no longer
there. I am a flowing blood and
what you have are stains, yes,
only stains turning into scars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
where did I park my car?
1
where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before
had a coffee at the center
caught up with some friends
watched a movie
and bought some stuff for home
and now I can’t find my car
though I’ve searched past 10 minutes
where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before
no, that’s not mine
that’s a Mercedes;
that one’s too shiny;
and maybe it’s this one
- no, mate,
we won’t go any nearer
this car is too clean
mine will look like
it’s not been washed since Noah
where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before
2
well, yes, help me look out...
it’s an old Nissan
blue faded into white;
no, nobody ‘ll steal that
and the only people
who’d give it a second look
will be the traffic police
who’d wave as if to say:
Pull over, Sir;
let’s have a look at
your rego and front tyres
now, where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before
well, damn,
I’m sure it hasn’t moved
it’s not that sort with smart technology
self-park, self-drive or with sensors;
it’s like an old useless dog
completely lost without its master
where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before
now that we’ve looked
about 30 minutes or more
I’m not sure if this is the right level;
Oh, did I stop at Yellow Level
or Blue or Green or Pink?
was it level 1 or 2 or 3 or 9?
it’s completely out of my mind
where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before
ah, there it is
that old boneshaker;
thanks mate, for helping me look
You were saying you want a lift –
yes, come - I'll dropp you…no trouble…
yes, it’s just on the way…
Hey…Where you going?
What? Don’t want a lift?
You’d rather walk home?
Hey, what’s wrong with my car?
OK, suit yourself…
at least I found my faithful car…
where did I park my car?
it was Level 5, Yellow Sector
Lot 125
all the while
and that beauty was here each second
an old helpless dog, waiting for its master
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Return Post
(v. peterson/s. hoffs)
Vicki
Writing the lines as they come to me
Scratching them out almost immediately
Dont know what its done to me
Its cold and its wet its been raining all night
And theres a letter Ive been trying to write
Something better waiting somewhere for me
One of them is sitting on the wrong coast
One awaits an answer by return post
Waiting, waiting
Try to remember how long its been
There was more to us than paper and pen
Think how easy it is to conceal
And I know when were together again
Well be strangers for an hour and then
Well have to figure out if this thing is real
One of them is sitting on the east coast
One awaits an answer by return post
Waiting, waiting
Take a drink and staring out the window
Wondering how long this can continue
Waiting, waiting
song performed by by Bangles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Grey Evening
When you went, how was it you carried with you
My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours?
My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,
And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?
Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped
Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields
Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped
And garnered that the golden daylight yields.
Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among
The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk,
As farther off the scythe of night is swung,
And little stars come rolling from their husk.
And all the earth is gone into a dust
Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold,
Covered with aged lichens, past with must,
And all the sky has withered and gone cold.
And so I sit and scan the book of grey,
Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding
With wounds of sunset and the dying day.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Man
The old man sat on a park bench
just watching the people pass by.
He did it day after day
alone in everyone's eyes.
He would smile occasionally
but no one ever knew why.
Everyone who saw him
wondered why he sat so still
and just looked out
at everyone who passed him there.
The old man sat in repose
from dawn until dusk fell.
He sat there in the summer sun
and as winter's bleakness fell.
He looked for some face
he might remember from his past
so they could reminisce for a while.
Sadly, the years slipped away.
Everyone spoke about him,
but no one ventured to talk.
Then one day the old man
wasn't on the park bench
and he was nowhere to be seen.
Now a different question was asked.
Day after day, the bench was empty.
Where had the old man gone?
Had he simply passed away?
The questions remained unanswered
because no one ever stopped
to enquire of his name.
I would like to think
that in the dying hours
on the park bench one day
that he had found
what he was waiting for
and then happily he faded away.
12 July 2012
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Doubts are like stains on a shirt. I like shirts with stains, because when I'm given a shirt that's too clean, one that's completely white, I immediately start having doubts.
quote by Antonio Tabucchi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Shameful
Like an alligator tending her eggs
on tongue, death moves the life
on strength of charisma, overreaches
for requiem and then distributes the raw
moments in subterfuge, we play the game
to cheat each other without shame.
A red carpet is laid on white floor
of the wax house, making gold from
sun rays. The moon bleeds internally.
The rivals come face to face walking
on the ashes of ancestors, ungrieving for the
loss of sperms. Fertility will come in petri dishes
without the name of father. I am here,
nobody, ready to unanswer any question.
My stains are becoming darker every day.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Memories On A Park Bench
He sat on a park bench
just to pass the time away
when he saw her there
from the corner of his eye.
She was older now,
but her beauty had not faded.
She turned in his direction
and he smiled at her.
At first, she looked at him strangely
until there was recognition.
She smiled back
and then joined him.
They sat there on the park bench
the sun smiling down on them
as the daffodils swayed in the breeze.
For both of them came a flood
of memories of when they were young
before the world spirited them away.
Both had walked down many roads,
had some hard knocks along the way.
Both recalled them now
the way old friends meeting do.
As they sat there
recalling memories from happier days.
All too soon they would be parting
and as they would go,
they would take with them
a little of each other
in the form of memories
that they acquired on a park bench.
5 April 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Daisies
I have daisies
for Misses Murphy
soft tender sheets
finest felt flannel
the meadow stains white
white dusking contour
white the colour
our silhouette shadowed
randy resh 2007
poem by Randy Resh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Colours
Green is the carpet that covers the hill
White is the sheep who is eating his fill,
Blue is the curtain that hangs overhead
Black is the darkness that's better not said.
Purple is kingly and rightly should be
Brown is the earth as it holds you and me,
Yellow is summer and warm like the sun
Red at the end of the day when it's done.
Grey is a bleak day and filled with the rain
Always uncertain and so to remain,
Silver is quickly, and costly is gold,
But lovely are poems
When once they are told.
Written Feb 1994
poem by John Carter Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nocturnal nod!
Truthfulness!
She wears her transparent nightgown
without an underpant
under the starry night
and I see the World's end?
On the way back
along the same road
Falsehood sleeps on the roadside
groaning!
and I feel sorry for her.
The drunkard old politician
scratching his ringworm
sings under a lamp-post
'We need both of them'
and a retired Lawyer
of his faded uniform
claps to the tune!
nimal dumnuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Disintegration
Oh i miss the kiss of treachery the shameless
Kiss of vanity the soft and the black and the
Velvety up tight against the side of me and
Mouth and eyes and heart all bleed and run in
Thickening streams of greed as bit by bit it
Starts the need to just let go my party piece
Oh i miss the kiss of treachery the aching kiss
Before i feed the stench of a love for a younger
Meat and the sound that it makes when it cuts
In deep the holding up on bended knees the
Addiction of duplicities as bit by bit it starts
The need to just let go my party piece
But i never said i would stay to the end so i
Leave you with babies and hoping for frequency
Screaming like this in the hope of the secrecy
Screaming me over and over and over i leave
You with photographs pictures of trickery
Stains on the carpet and stains on the scenery
Songs about happiness murmured in dreams
When we both us knew how the ending would
Be...
So it's all come back round to breaking apart
Again breking apart like i'm made up of glass
Again making it up behind my back again
Holding my breath for the fear of sleep again
Holding it up behind my head again cut in deep
To the heart of the bone again round and round
And round and it's coming apart again over and
Over and over
Now that i know that i'm breaking to pieces
I'll pull out my heart and i'll feed it to anyone
Crying for sympathy
Crocodile cry for the love of the crowd and the three cheers from everyone
Dropping through sky through the glass of the roof through the roof of your mouth
Through the mouth of your eye through the eye
Of the needle it's easier for me to get closer to
Heaven than ever feel whole again
I never said i would stay to the end i knew
I would leave you with babies and everything
Screaming like this in the hole of sincerity
Screaming me over and over and over i leave
You with photographs pictues of trickery
Stains on the carpet and stains on the memory
Songs about happiness murmured in dreams when
Both of us knew how the end always is...
How the end always is...
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Love Letter Received By A Wrong Person!
A letter intended for someone, received,
The post man clouded with confused doubts,
As the letter was registered, a sign needed,
When the cloaked person's same old pen signed,
The post man smiled at his pretentious friend,
Whom he knew for many months, the elf,
Changed into a seraph, fully made up,
when The sleeve was pulled up, wrinkles seen,
The same old name carried same old IC number,
He scratched his head with unbelief,
Why a person must put make up as old and young,
Even at his own home, either he wanted to impress,
Himself or fool the visitors who are unaware.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!