A Kind Of Loss
Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.
I've fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, wiht summer.
With Village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed.
Kept a calender cult, declared promises irrevocable,
bowed before something, was pious to a nothing
(-to a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper) ,
fearless in religion, for our bed was the church.
From my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting.
From my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbors.
By the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest hue.
The ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.
It's not you I've lost,
but the world.
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
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Related quotes
A Picture Of Greed
on one hand
he carries a
big loaf of bread
on the other
he carries a
basket
of the same
loaf of bread
on his head
is another
basket of
the same loaf
of bread
a little child
spreads his
hands for
a loaf of bread
then he speeds
his way
as he bites
a loaf of
bread in
his mouth
the little child
follows him
and there he
is closing the
door of his
house all
made of bread
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who goes out begging with a bread will come back with a piece, who goes out with a piece will come back with a bread.
Longİ Ng Through The Seasons
ARE WE CHANGİ NG...or the seasons...the last leaves of the trees...tend no to fall from the trees...the last flowers of fall tend not to bloom again.....are we changing or the seasons...are we changing or the seasons...happy tiny fingers caress the whiteness of the falling snow near the window pane...at the other side...bare feet are shivering in the snow...as though match seller girl of andersen has revived again..some people are begging in the wilderness for piece of bread..are we cahanging or the seasons..an old woman her hair bleached by snow opening her hand..for a stand...are we chaNGİ NG OR THE SEASONS....the last flowers of the seasons of the seasons tend not to bloom again...I envy the struggle between the seasons for being and overwhelming....and when every season changes...I long for a new fresh life and world towards goodnes...beauty...peace and brother hood.............
poem by Metin Sahin
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And then the paper is dirty
You start with a clean sheet of paper
Write some words, scribble, draw some lines
Some curves, sharp lines, tangent to bold
Lines, and rough sketches of faces and
Bodies, thin lines that get crooked from
End to end of this limited space,
You doodle, you get wild with so
Many lines unimaginable, senseless,
The paper finally looks dirty,
And you do not like it, you crumple
It and throw it in a waste basket,
You get another clean sheet,
And this time, you think what is
It really that you want to make
Out of this new clean sheet of paper.
You think, you ponder, and you need
More time this time not to waste
This clean, glossy sheet of paper.
I think you are doing well with your life.
You see you are supposed to be careful
Every word is delicate and every paper
Is actually accounted.
Never mind guilt, set it aside for a while.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hope (edited)
I've heard hopes enough to keep you alive,
To pull you from the darkness,
I've heard it's enough to keep you sane,
To keep you in this life,
They say that it's a joyous feeling,
But it's not,
Hopes the knife plunged in your back,
Pushing you to the edge,
Hopes the greatest poison in any dead mans chest,
Hope that they'll come back,
Hope they'll see the light,
But hope hurts more then the deepest betrayal,
It keeps you up at night,
With dreams that tomorrow,
Well, tomorrow everything will go back,
Back to how it was,
Back to love and happiness,
And then in the morning when nothings changed,
When your all alone,
Wondering why,
Then you know the truth,
An it's many sleepless nights,
It's hope when you think you see the light,
At the end of that infinite tunnel,
That it's all going to end just like that,
And it's hope thats putting the knife to your throat,
And is leaving you there to bleed dry,
And it's hope in the morning after the loss,
That causes the pain throbbing in your chest,
And hope is the knowledge that for all your want,
It will never be the same,
And hope is the biggest betrayal,
The greatest poison in a dead mans treasure chest.
poem by Holly Heron
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Remember When The Music
Remember when the music
Came from wooden boxes
Strung with silver wires
And as we sang
The words would set our hearts on fire
To believe in things
So wed sing
Remember when the music
Brought us all together
To stand inside the rain
And as wed join hands
Wed meet in the refrain
With dreams to live
And hope to give
Remember when the music
Was the best that wed dream of
For ours childrens time
And as wed worked wed sing
Cause we knew time
Was just a lie
A gift to say
A gift that future gave
Remember when the music
Was a rock we could cling to
So we would not despair
And as we sang wed knew
Wed hear an echo in the air
And if we werent smiling then
Wed smile again
And all the times I listened
And all the times I heard
And all the melodies Im missing
And all the magic words
All the beautiful words
All the beautiful voices
And all the choices we had theni hope you find you got
Those kind of choices once again
Remember when the music
Brought the night
Across the valley
And as we hum the melody
Wed be safe within the sound
So wed sleep
To awake with dreams
And promises to keep
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red, White & Blue
When I'm far away
And I can't get through
Wherever I roam
Keeps bringing me back to you
Holding on to hope
There's no need to fear
Wherever I roam
This piece of home
Keeps telling you that I'm near
So lift up your heart
Cause the brave will always come through
While we're apart
We will raise the red, white and blue
When I stand alone
Without you by my side
I think of all
That you stand for
It fills me up with pride
Reaching out to you
Across mountains, sea and sky
I think of all
That you stand for
And hope will never die
Now I'm coming home again
I'm coming home to you
And as I roam
This piece of home
Has brought me back to you
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Piano Bench
sun setting,
...azure tint.
the piano bench empty,
dust gathers on the keys.
the grass damp with dew,
the wind still, and quiet.
the bookshelf sags
with books long ignored.
people walk by without talking,
darkness opens its mouth... swallows.
the lamp forlorn and chilled
waits without hope for a bulb.
nothing to say that can say,
words fall like leaves to the ground.
the room empty haunted by form,
curls up inside it's own hollow.
no fingers to touch the keys!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And after I compose my programs, but it is very easy because I look to the music in a very natural way without fuss, and so I look always music, in my home, like books and books and books, choose books and you read the pages, so I do this with music, and I make programs.
quote by Victoria de los Angeles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pandora
Pandora, undone by her own curiosity according to the story, found Hope at the bottom of the fatal basket. Hope indeed had wings-and sequins, sang and was more or less green. She also spat tobacco juice when you squeezed her tummy. She had enormous eyes that peered in all directions.
'Hi', she said, sticking out her hand, 'I'm Hope'.
Pandora was taken aback, but shook her hand, not wanting to be rude.
'Pleased to meet you', said Pandora, politely. She came to put alot of stock in Hope.
'See you later', said Hope, suddenly taking wing.
'Where are you going? '
'Don't worry. I'll be back.'
But Hope was not the last item in the basket to emerge. The myth was wrong as myths often are and completely opposed to reality, which is never wrong, though...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Creating Keys
Just because those who 'have',
Opposed to those who 'have not'...
Seem to possess keys,
To a treasure chest they can unlock.
Does not mean they obtain a wisdom,
To know how to use...
What has been given to maintain happiness.
Or replace keys when lost,
Without being instructed.
Only those creating 'keys',
Can reproduce them effectively.
And...
They may not be the ones to rise to the top.
But their knowledge is visited repeatedly.
Whether this is mentioned,
Or given an acknowledgement.
Nothing rises alone to suspend on top,
Without 'something' of support to keep it held there.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The piano chords
You play the piano chords
In this sonata as well as
In the music of Prokofiev,
Emphatically catching the music's mood.
Fingers seem to stick the keys
And the keys seem to direct the fingers,
When the thumbs move under them.
You both look like a single being,
In together.
The piano seemingly breaks the sounds.
They penetrate my soul,
Searching for the necessary words.
I understand the story of your feelings.
Dedicated to Richard Clayderman
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Keys Of Memory~6191
Memory
Plays the keys
Of my heart
Just like a Baby Grand
The melody-the tune
All off key
In an orchestra
Of fine tuned instruments
I follow the music
With my minds eye
To where-ever it leads me
And into the depths of Ballads
Of 'HeartBreak'
I, at last find myself
Locked-tethered-chained
To memories, bitter and sweet
Despairing and off key with no
Harmony, in the least
A re-write is in order, STAT
A re-play-a fine tuning, immediately
A re-awakening, a re-newing-NOW:
Of Hope
Of Hope That Sings
You know, that feeling, with wings
poem by Theodora Onken
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A Piece Of You
Im just trying to live this life of mine
The more I look, the more Im blind
And all I ask for is piece of mind
And all I want is a piece of you
Well I lost my way today
Back home from work
The snow fell like dust
I felt like dirt
Happens everytime I start to search
For that long lost piece of you
A piece of you
A piece of you
A piece of you
It seems the last time I was sure
Of anything
I sold my heart
I wore your ring
But now, the queen has lost her king
All I want is a piece of you
A piece of you
A piece of you
A piece of you
song performed by by Veruca Salt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Something
I'm writing in hope for something with sweet melody,
A rhythm that can be felt,
A beauty that can be read.
With words flowing like water over rocks,
Steadily without fault or obstruction.
A liquid in its purest state.
I'm writing in hope for something with sweet remembrance,
Like the scent of falling rain,
Or the memorable sound of a mothers cooing voice.
Something so memorable,
The slightest reminder sends you back to the exact moment,
Replaying in unbroken pattern of mind.
I'm writing in hope for something spectacular to happen,
For my words to form a feeling so deep they hurt,
For each image to be as clear as these words on this paper.
I want you to feel what I feel,
A feeling of lonely discontent,
Sitting alone in my own my own world, writing away.
I am writing this in hope for something to stick with you,
A message or a meaning that I've hidden inside a syllable,
A voice of reason that you have kept from yourself,
Silenced with the voice of your shallow desires.
A dream that you once had forgotten,
Lost in the darkness of the night.
I am writing this in hope for something to be brought to light.
Maybe a buried thought that you wish you never had,
Or an inner conflict that you hadn't noticed but feel tearing apart your skin,
Even an aspiration you promised to live up to but left to die.
Something so lost in the world of your mind,
Swallowed by deep chasms of thought and memory.
I am writing this in hope of telling a story.
The story of a world that can only be imagined in a dark room,
Hidden from the world and apart from anything else.
The story of a broken heart of a shortened life,
The story of the silent cries of a lost soul reaching for sanity.
My own story, perhaps, or even yours, is this your story?
I am writing in hope of making your thoughts and feelings dance,
A slow and steady music in the background,
Propelling your eyes left to right and back again.
Following the steps of each word,
The flow off each line and stanza.
An endless waltz with the reader and the writer, will you dance with me?
I am writing in hope of making an impression on your mind,
Maybe not an everlasting one, but even just a brief moment,
A moment of realization that you are now reading what I have written,
That for one moment in time our minds share the same space and thought,
Each word playing in our head the same as the other's.
Can you hear my voice, can you feel my thoughts?
I don't know why I am writing, or why I am writing what I am writing,
But I know that it has accomplished one thing,
It has given a purpose to something, if even just a piece of paper,
It has given worth to something that at one point was just a blank sheet,
Waiting for something to be etched into its surface, making it something.
I guess that's why I'm writing, I'm just writing; something.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The big man with his rusted keys
The big man with his rusted keys,
kicks his own family in the balls,
for this is my blood,
and this is my bread,
and if you cross this line, ill make
you wish you werent born, or even
thought of.
This mistranslated love is muddled
in fatigue, and garbed in hate, and
the big man with the rusted keys,
just smiles , and spits on his own
family,
for this is my blood,
and this is my bread,
and if you cross this line, ill make
you wish you werent born, or even
thought of.
The big man with the rusted keys,
finds his family gone, and the house
in perfect shape, and a note from his
so called family, that read,
have a nice life, you mean fu ck, and
dont forget to take out the trash...and
those rusted keys, you can shove them
up your...........
poem by David Gerardino
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Music Is Endless
Music is life
Music is colorful
Music is passion
Music is soothing.
Music makes one romantic
Music evades loneliness
Music makes to forget worries
Music gives hope.
Music can take you ages back
Music can tell you stories
Music can control emotions
Music is always endless….
poem by Sreekala Sukumaran
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Missed Opportunity
Music by daryl hall
Lyrics by daryl hall, john oates, sara allen
Keep on missing each other
Our worlds out of order
All I see is missed opportunity
Will we ever learn
In trouble where will we turn
And when youre losing the fight
Whos your white knight gonna be
Feel you drift away
(oh baby) you dont hear what Im sayin
We had a chance to stay together
Ooh forever
But we got lost in the dream
Keep on missing each other
Our worlds out of order
All I see is missed opportunity
Talk but never show
Youre holding back
Words lack meaning thats all
Things you say ricochet
Miss by a mile
The words dont work for me
Ooh who understands.
Why the worlds nasty girl
When we re doin the best we can
Even tho were walking a wire
Where theres hope theres desire
Calling you back to your white knight
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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