Barns..
Barns the cat,
who knows where it's at.
He torments the dog,
as she sleep like a log.
Jumping at the dog through the air,
bouncing, darting across the floors,
On the tables and chairs,
clawing cupboards and doors.
He's got no cares.
Walks up the walls,
taking no notice of ‘get down' calls!
Yes Barns the cat,
who know where it's at!
guy lipmore.
25/06/92
poem by Guy Lipmore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happiness
The great stone Hall is silent
that is now millennia old.
Through the western windows
shines a glorious sun.
It floods the walls and floors,
the tables, chairs and doors,
panelling, pictures, artefacts
and illumines every one
until the wraiths that gather
cry out in their joy,
'Everything is gold!
Whatever is, is gold! '
A majestic cloud
emerges from the southern sea,
slides across the western sky
blotting out the sun.
Light through those western windows
pales to a thin grey day.
It dims the walls and floors,
the tables, chairs and doors,
panelling, pictures, artefacts
pales every one
until the wraiths in the shadows
cry out in dismay,
'Gone is gold, the gold is gone!
All joy has passed away! '
poem by Brian Taylor
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He Giveth His Beloved Sleep
The long day passes with its load of sorrow:
In slumber deep
I lay me down to rest until tomorrow --
Thank God for sleep.
Thank God for all respite from weary toiling,
From cares that creep
Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling
God's kindly sleep.
We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later,
We strive to reap,
And build our barns, and hope to build them greater
Before we sleep.
We toil and strain and strive with one another
In hopes to heap
Some greater share of profit than our brother
Before we sleep.
What will it profit that with tears or laughter
Our watch we keep?
Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter!
Thank God for sleep!
For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us
We turn with deep
Heartfelt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us
The Gift of Sleep.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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He Giveth His Beloved Sleep
The long day passes with its load of sorrow:
In slumber deep
I lay me down to rest until tomorrow,
Thank God for sleep.
Thank God for all respite from weary toiling,
From cares that creep
Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling
God's kindly sleep.
We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later,
We strive to reap,
And build our barns, and hope to build them greater
Before we sleep.
We toil and strain and strive with one another
In hopes to heap
Some greater share of profit than our brother
Before we sleep.
What will it profit that with tears or laughter
Our watch we keep?
Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter!
Thank God for sleep!
For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us
We turn with deep
Heartfelt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us
The Gift of Sleep.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walking Tables
How do tables walk as one?
And why do chairs seem to run?
How my rest is desired, and how
Do I kick in the air for relaxation?
My chimney is found with the soot
Of a black utterance, as seemly as light;
The light travels up and down the world,
With smoke, crime is committed, like walking
Chairs and turning tables, this world is one.
With this house may I live alone,
Where wolves like criminals detest you.
Anyone walked a long distance, anyway,
Justice must be allowed, and searched
By the home and heaven.
How do tables and chairs move?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Jumping red
My bouncing
My tumbling
My flopping
My unsteady
My jumping red
My laughing
My crying
My loving
My caring
My endearing
My jump red
My mind
My heart
My soul
My angel
My savior
My jumping red
My past
My present
My future
My fear
My hope
My jumping red
My want
My need
My being
My jumping red
poem by Vincent Armone
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Interaction A La Folie à Plusieurs
no matter how you close the doors and windows
cover the chairs and tables
put some glass walls
dust, these unwelcome, particles, always come
and with neglect
they pile upon your favorite spaces and places
you check them with your fingertips
oh, they're thick and plenty
you blow them away with your strong breath
they all come back again
like your enemies wildly laughing always reminding you
that from them, and to them, you shall return.
these are the madness of the majority.
Denial.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seen A Lot Of Floors
Seen a lot of walls, seen a lot of halls
Got a lot of calls, late at night
Seen a lot of doors, seen a lot of floors
Done a lot of chores, late at night
So don't come in here walkin'
So innocent and talkin'
Tryin' to make conversation
Cause I know and you know
That I know what you're here for
Don't tell me 'bout your father
Your sister or your mother
Your great big brother
Not tonight
Don't want to hear about your hang ups
Don't want know your favorite movies
Don't want to hear about other rock bands
Not tonight
So don't come in here walkin'
So innocent and talkin'
Tryin' to make conversation
'Cause you know and I know
That I know what you're here for
Seen a lot of floors
Seen a lot of doors
Done a lot of chores
Late at night
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sun And Rain And Seed
The distance calls.
Hedges and dry stone walls
On hillsides, flocks of sheep.
Rough cliffs high, valleys deep.
One stretched out patchwork quilt,
Time formed, from rocks and silt.
Our planet’s richness shown,
Under the sky’s ozone.
The distance calls.
Even through heavy squalls,
The wind, the trees reshape,
Mists falling like a cape.
Weathered timber barns,
Mountains, vales and tarns.
All grace this pleasant earth,
Prized beauty of such worth.
The distance calls.
Swift rivers, waterfalls
All senses become sharp.
The salmon, trout and carp,
Swim silently and glide,
Not easily espied.
These lands are fertile still,
With stream, with brook, with rill.
The distance calls.
Hear cows in cattle stalls.
Across the loose blown hay,
Their bellows drift away,
Fields grassed, look rich and green,
The air is fresh and clean.
And nature’s cleansed anew.
Space for every hue,
For what more does one need,
Just sun and rain and seed.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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An Invading Fungus
Listening to Mozart, looked up - felt shocked
to see black cupboards appearing everywhere
like black mushrooms blooming - an invading
fungus taking over the open-plan office and
destroying the ambience of our previously
rather handsome Kingsley palace
Apparently our Chief Director feels a need for
filing space, thus ordered these monstrosities
to overwhelm us with mustiness & dark sliding
doors, placed upon the cupboards already used
as partitions for privacy - when I see the black
ugliness threatening like burnt fields
I wonder about the nastiness in human hearts
that can inflict such sombreness on innocent
officials already slowing dying in the little work
space allocated to them, what could have pos-
sessed anyone to make cupboards black
like that?
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A Need For A New House....Or Home...
early morning
when the doors are still closed and the windows still tipsy
like the whole house
you fly away
the sun comes out with the clouds
early morning you fly away
away from it all
the clouds are floors and grasses
and you are a lonely bird among a flock of chairs
early morning you fly away
thinking about nothing
you fly away and you feel like a leaf inside
that gentle beast
it is a ride-awA Need For A New House....Or Home...ay
among the paradoxes of life
and its ironies
early morning there is this flight that takes you to a stop-over
of your life
no one knows that you are grieving
over a search for what you feel
the one you had which you lost
intentionally
among the flock of chairs landing early morning
on unstable floors
early morning you take a cab
you choose still
which house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ultima Thule: The Windmill
Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.
I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.
I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.
I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.
And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.
On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Stop Children Weep
I was agape with excitement
when my grandbabe showed me
her scribbles on the walls,
on the door, on the chairs and tables.
She is a one and a half year chick.
She takes by hand the old ones
to amble over here and there in my house.
She dances for the songs telecast
and makes us laugh and be happy.
When she sees boys and girls
she calls, Anna(Elder brother) and Akka(Elder Sister)
When I see screaming nippers
injured with the shrapnel splinters
and pallid children wrenched from their mothers
while fleeing from an embattled nation,
I feel sorry for the UNO not taking steps
to abolish war by resolving
the conflict of religious views.
A single holy book for the whole mankind
and a religion universal
alone can l save us from the niggling nukes.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Expression
Back in the sixties we used to indulge
in letting our toddler play in the lounge.
When he did drawings over our walls
we gave him free reign, hey man it's all cool.
As he went on to pursue this art form
we both encouraged, we thought it top draw
After all, in due course it would all have to end
so we thought, as he went on enjoying this bent.
But when he was ten, he persisted to scrawl
over our armchairs, the tables and floors,
and on reaching sixteen, yes, all to our cost
he still persevered in his drawings - a lot.
Now he has grown, he lives on his own
and expresses himself in his own little home.
He paints and he writes on the ceilings and walls
he'll let the phone ring, he's not in to take calls.
He doesn't seem bothered of what people think
although when they visit they tut and they blink.
He's expressing himself and it makes him feel good,
he's not really bad, he's just misunderstood.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Intro
O-U-T-K-A-S-T
Live, from the center of the earth, 7 light-years below sea level we go,
welcome to Stankonia. The place from which all funky things come. Would you
like to come?
(girl moaning, lasts throughout intro)
Bounce baby. (We're bouncing)
Bounce.
Bounce. (We're bouncing)
2 times bounce bounce. (We're bouncing)
We bouncing. (We're bouncing)
BOUNCE... (We bouncing baby)
(We're bouncing!) C'mon, bounce.
(Bouncing! Bounce baby) Bounce!
Bounce bounce. (Baby!) Bounce bounce.
(Let's bounce) C'mon bounce. (Everybody let's bounce)
(Let's bounce) We bouncing now.
All that bouncing, niggaz be from the H-L. We got Bankhead right here,
southwest and 92 strong.
BREAK!! -clap-
song performed by by Outkast
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Night With The Rain
i have closed the doors
and the windows
and let go the curtains
touching the floors
i close my eyes and listen
to the rain
i dream of stars
i miss the moon
the walls close on in me
beyond the glass windows
to the sea
i hear the sad calls of the
night
outside the trees are blown
the black cat stares at me
and then some tears
begin to fall
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bouncing Off The Walls
She's ecstatic
She can't help it
She's bouncing off the walls again
Listening to her favorite love songs
Chatting with her man
Recalling old times
Bring up old memories
Listening to her favorite love songs
Shes bouncing off the walls again
Cause her love maybe coming back into her life
While listening to her favorite love songs
I think she has a permanent smile on her face
She's bouncing off the walls again
Drinking English Breakfast tea and listening to her favorite love songs
(5-1-05)
poem by Brandi Young
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Inside My Study Room
five o'clock, the usual time
but i already woke up at 3: 45
too early really
but i could not go back to
sleep
the words arrive
riding on the boat
such wind
hovering
disembarking in my
brain
i am surrounded by
glass walls
and light brown
drapes
books scattering
like garbage
on the floors and
tables
i smell the odor of
dust and
water inside a vase
unchanged
the red rose
had long wilted
no one comes around
to fix things
and keep all of these
in their proper places
the windows are still
closed and it
is still dark outside
though the crows
have already
sounded their
sad calls
the cocks keep sounding
it is already morning
and the windows
must not be opened
i write some lines
as usual and then
i'll wear my socks
and put on my
rubber shoes
and then i will take
my walk to the
woods
it will be cold
and i can see my breath
like smoke from a pipe
but i need this
my body craves
my feet want to move
the walls are too much
and the curtains feel
like they have to be washed
i open the door
and then i meet a new
world again
i know at first it will
still be cold
that is usual
i know after this
the sun comes again
as usual
and things will warm themselves
again
on promises
like what hope is all about.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Back In The Village
Turn the spotlights on the people,
Switch the dial and eat the worm.
Take your chances, kill the engine,
Drop your bombs and let it burn.
White flags shot to ribbons,
The truce is black and burned,
Shellshock in the kitchen,
Tables overturned.
Chorus
Back in the village again,
In the village.
Im back in the village again.
Throwing dice now, rolling loaded,
I see sixes all the way.
In a black hole, and Im spinning
As my wings get shot away.
No breaks on the inside,
Paper cats and burning barns,
Theres a fox among the chickens,
And a killer in the hounds.
Questions are a burden
And answers are a prison for oneself
Shellshock in the kitchen
Tables start to burn.
Chorus
But still we walk into the valley
And others try to kill the inner flame
Were burning brighter than before
I dont have a number, Im a name!
Chorus
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blessing On Your Barns
The increase of your livestock,
The produce of your ground,
Blessing on your barns and storehouses;
And like the work of your hands,
For, you will be at the top always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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