A Secret Gratitude
1
She cleaned house, and then lay down long
On the long stair.
On one of those cold white wings
That the strange fowl provide for us like one hillside of the sea,
That cautery of snow that blinds us,
Pitiless light,
One winter afternoon
Fair near the place where she sank down with one wing broken,
Three friends and I were caught
Stalk still in the light.
Five of the lights. Why should they care for our eyes?
Five deer stood there.
They looked back, a good minute.
They knew us, all right:
Four chemical accidents of horror pausing
Between one suicide or another
On the passing wing
Of an angel that cared no more for our biology, our pity, and our pain
Than we care.
Why should any mere multitude of the angels care
To lay one blind white plume down
On this outermost limit of something that is probably no more
Than an aphid,
An aphid which is one of the angels whose wings toss the black pears
Of tears down on the secret shores
Of the seas in the corner
Of a poet’s closed eye.
Why should five deer
Gaze back at us?
They gazed back at us.
Afraid, and yet they stood there,
More alive than we four, in their terror,
In their good time.
We had a dog.
We could have got other dogs.
Two or three dogs could have taken turns running and dragging down
Those fleet lights, whose tails must look as mysterious as the
Stars in Los Angeles.
We are men.
It doesn’t even satisfy us
To kill one another.
We are a smear of obscenity
On the lake whose only peace
Is a hole where the moon
Abandoned us, that poor
Girl who can’t leave us alone.
If I were the moon I would shrink into a sand grain
In the corner of the poet’s eye,
While there’s still room.
We are men.
We are capable of anything.
We could have killed every one of those deer.
The very moon of lovers tore herself with the agony of a wounded tigress
Out of our side.
We can kill anything.
We can kill our own bodies.
Those deer on the hillside have no idea what in hell
We are except murderers.
They know that much, and don’t think
They don’t.
Man’s heart is the rotten yolk of a blacksnake egg
Corroding, as it is just born, in a pile of dead
Horse dung.
I have no use for the human creature.
He subtly extracts pain awake in his own kind.
I am born one, out of an accidental hump of chemistry.
I have no use.
2
But
We didn’t set dogs on the deer,
Even though we know,
As well as you know,
We could have got away with it,
Because
Who cares?
3
Boissevain, who was he?
Was he human? I doubt it,
From what I know
Of men.
Who was he,
Hobbling with his dry eyes
Along in the rain?
I think he must have fallen down like the plumes of new snow,
I think he must have fallen into the grass, I think he
Must surely have grown around
Her wings, gathering and being gathered,
Leaf, string, anything she could use
To build her still home of songs
Within sound of water.
4
By God, come to that, I would have married her too,
If I’d got the chance, and she’d let me.
Think of that. Being alive with a girl
Who could turn into a laurel tree
Whenever she felt like it.
Think of that.
5
Outside my window just now
I can hear a small waterfall rippling antiphonally down over
The stones of my poem.
poem by James Arlington Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A demarche-Cauchy3-tricks
A demarche…
Take a pictured horse as deer.
Who will treat deer as horse?
Gods will say that.
All as pets are teacher pets.
Horse then goes as deer.
Throw the stones to test the water depth.
Games with theorems are centered guards.
Take a test upon aha actions.
With images of horse they all are Tory.
With image of deer they all are foes.
Invite a wolf into house or close the door to kill the dogs are after math after test.
poem by Cheung Shun Sang
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A Horse For Dinner
A horse A horse
My kingdom for a horse,
A horse A horse
For the main course
Muscles of might
Pulled so tight,
A body of organs
All for a meal
Why a horse?
Why not a deer?
A horse does the work,
A deer will just peer
A horse is strong
a deer has no uses,
so there for a deer
suffers the abuses
Condemned is a deer
as from the day it's born,
until the day it dies
and its meaty flesh torn
So why a horse
if a deer has no uses?
because I am a man
Who too, has suffered too many abuses
poem by John McAdam
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If I Could Fly
Last night I had a dream that I could fly-
To fly above this untrustworthy and cruel world
Would be my utmost desire-
Every place I walk I see threat in people's eyes-
From the day I was born I have always been misunderstood-
And not accepted as the person I was truly meant to be-
Not by my mother, neither by my father, and in all actuality
Not by any of the people who exist around me.
Walking alone on a trail throughout this magical kingdom,
Where branches of trees reach upward to touch the sky-
I see deer running freely through the forest and I see cardinals and robins
Flying about without a care-they don't know the pain in being human or
Certainly not the pain of never having been accepted-
To fly above this world is my fondest desire- even when I am not dreaming-
The sun would be my Mandela- magically so, and never burning me-
As the moon would be my candle guiding me throughout
This magnificent universe at nightfall-
I am a believer that fantasy can become reality.
I am a believer that somewhere in this universe, another world exists
Where I can be myself and I would be respected.-
Somehow my arms have become wings which have been painted gold as are the stars,
I would lift my golden wings and fly
As they take me on an exiting and rewarding adventure
Inside the world of my dreams which has become my only veracity-
The light of the moon reflects in my golden wings that are carrying me away-
Away from, threatening intruders and those who have misapprehended me-
Perhaps I could remain in this world if I could become a bird,
Able to fly so freely about the woodlands and never be slighted or ridiculed-
Nobody would have any expectations of me and my golden wings would take me
Wherever I wished to go and I would be joyful for once in my lifetime-
Never seeing threat in anyone's eyes, neither misfortune or mistrust-and
To perch myself upon a branch of some gorgeous oak tree on a hill,
Without a care in this world- just content to have escaped humanity and
Happy to be alive, singing songs of peace, and never knowing what pain is all about?
poem by Claudia Krizay
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A Christmas Hunt
Me and ol' Bubba
on a late December hunt
Bubba's a man of few words
but he sure can grunt
The snow was fallin
a winter moon so bright
All the stars seemed special
as they sparkled that night
It was about midnight
we couldn't believe our eyes
A herd of flyin deer
seemed to fill the skies
I shot and I shot
how Bubbas gun did fire
But those flyin deer
just went higher and higher
Bubba looked at me
as I rubbed my aimin eye
It was then we both said
aint no deer that can fly
That was pert near
twelve years ago
Every late December
we still track through the snow
But not for huntin
we just go to see
Those flyin deer
ol' Bubba and me
Terry M
Winter Wonderland
There are strange and mysterious sounds
When the winds of winter blow,
The long nights are crystal clear and cold,
And the fields and meadows are covered with snow.
The stars are frosty against the sky,
And the wind's whistle is shrill,
As the snow blows against the house
And drifts against the hill.
Yet, I like to see during the winter
A white carpet on the ground,
To plod aimlessly in the deep snow,
where deer tracks abound.
I like to feel the stillness
Of a crisp winter's night,
Watching a full moon rise over the horizon,
Exposing a winter wonderland beautiful and bright.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee
I am a feather on the bright sky
I am the blue horse that runs in the plain
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water
I am the shadow that follows a child
I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows
I am an eagle playing with the wind
I am a cluster of bright beads
I am the farthest star
I am the cold of the dawn
I am the roaring of the rain
I am the glitter on the crust of the snow
I am the long track of the moon in a lake
I am a flame of four colors
I am a deer standing away in the dusk
I am a field of sumac and pomme blanche
I am an angle of geese in the winter sky
I am the hunger of a young wolf
I am the whole dream of these things
You see, I am alive, I am alive
I stand in good relation to the Gods
I stand in good relation to the earth
I stand in good relation to everything that is beautiful...
You see, I am alive, I am alive
poem by Navarre Scott Momaday
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Ken
The town is old and very steep
A place of bells and cloisters and grey towers,
And black-clad people walking in their sleep—
A nun, a priest, a woman taking flowers
To her new grave; and watched from end to end
By the great Church above, through the still hours:
But in the morning and the early dark
The children wake to dart from doors and call
Down the wide, crooked street, where, at the bend,
Before it climbs up to the park,
Ken's is in the gabled house facing the Castle wall.
When first I came upon him there
Suddenly, on the half-lit stair,
I think I hardly found a trace
Of likeness to a human face
In his. And I said then
If in His image God made men,
Some other must have made poor Ken—
But for his eyes which looked at you
As two red, wounded stars might do.
He scarcely spoke, you scarcely heard,
His voice broke off in little jars
To tears sometimes. An uncouth bird
He seemed as he ploughed up the street,
Groping, with knarred, high-lifted feet
And arms thrust out as if to beat
Always against a threat of bars.
And oftener than not there'd be
A child just higher than his knee
Trotting beside him. Through his dim
Long twilight this, at least, shone clear,
That all the children and the deer,
Whom every day he went to see
Out in the park, belonged to him.
"God help the folk that next him sits
He fidgets so, with his poor wits,"
The neighbours said on Sunday nights
When he would go to Church to "see the lights!"
Although for these he used to fix
His eyes upon a crucifix
In a dark corner, staring on
Till everybody else had gone.
And sometimes, in his evil fits,
You could not move him from his chair—
You did not look at him as he sat there,
Biting his rosary to bits.
While pointing to the Christ he tried to say,
"Take it away".
Nothing was dead:
He said "a bird" if he picked up a broken wing,
A perished leaf or any such thing
Was just "a rose"; and once when I had said
He must not stand and knock there any more,
He left a twig on the mat outside my door.
Not long ago
The last thrush stiffened in the snow,
While black against a sullen sky
The sighing pines stood by.
But now the wind has left our rattled pane
To flutter the hedge-sparrow's wing,
The birches in the wood are red again
And only yesterday
The larks went up a little way to sing
What lovers say
Who loiter in the lanes to-day;
The buds begin to talk of May
With learned rooks on city trees,
And if God please
With all of these
We, too, shall see another Spring.
But in that red brick barn upon the hill
I wonder—can one own the deer,
And does one walk with children still
As one did here?
Do roses grow
Beneath those twenty windows in a row—
And if some night
When you have not seen any light
They cannot move you from your chair
What happens there?
I do not know.
So, when they took
Ken to that place, I did not look
After he called and turned on me
His eyes. These I shall see—
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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Going Shopping
En route to go shopping at our local grocery store,
I came across something which I hadn’t seen before.
A rustling sound within the trees, by me, was heard;
I just imagined it was either a cat or some kind of bird.
But what emerged in front of me, gave me a surprise;
A surprise which made me question my very own eyes!
Out of the trees, there very suddenly appeared,
An extremely lively, little brown deer.
I know that large herds of deer do reside
In the big forest, in the nearby countryside.
But never before in my life had I ever found
Any deer this close to the centre of our town.
As soon as he saw me, away he sprang,
But in my mind, alarm bells loudly rang.
For the deer, I began to feel a little scared,
As I wondered how, in a town, he would fair.
He was quite far from where he had grown,
And now, here he was, having to cope alone.
The countryside compared to the town are different places;
Here, he was faced with houses, cars and people’s faces.
I imagined the sheer panic which he felt inside,
And for that poor little deer, I almost cried.
To help him, there was nothing I could do.
He was so far away from all that he knew.
I thought about him for the rest of the day,
And couldn’t believe how far he had strayed.
A deer in the town was a strange thing to have sighted.
I just hope that, with his herd, he was safely reunited.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Star Child
A child 5 years of age stared into the sun
She stared into the bright lights so long it
Burnt a hole in her mind and branded her eyes
It imprinted upon her soul, mysteries of both young and old
And then shed close her eyes tight to feel the darkness
Shes a dancing girl, dancing girl
She danced so fast, so fine
She danced around with her eyes shut
To see the stars in her mind
A spinning jupiter, a spinning mars
She herself was just a singing star
A breathing constellation
Cause shes a bright point of light
Traveling through the skies of her mind
Oh and how she knew the stars
And the map of the human heart
For long lengths of time, shed stay in her mind
And follow roads back, ancient tracks and primitive times
When giant birds lifted themselves of
Starry wings to burn white, fiery silhouettes into the night sky
Shes a dancing girl, dancing girl
She danced for them
And she followed all the lines back
To where they did begin
She saw her mother in pegas wings
She felt her father in a scorpial sting
A genetic constellation
Cause she was a bright point of light
Traveling through the skies of her mind
Oh and how she knew the stars
And the map of the human heart
She saw bursting flowers made of lucride stone
Shooting stars who songs sang to her bones
She saw stories her grandfather used to tell
His flesh was frozen was frozen and kept so well
And a clear meeting of words, but pictures to
Tell her what she knew she needed to hear
Shes a dancing girl, dancing girl
She danced so fast, so well
And she danced until her knees got weak
And all resistance fell
And all the walls, they came tumbling down
She stood eyes open, back on the ground
Wiser, full of glory
She was a bright point of light
Traveling through the skies of her mind
Oh and how she knew the stars
And the map of the human heart
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem of Hunting, Fishing, and a Truck
I throw my gun in the back of my truck
With it I hope to kill a 12-point buck
While in the woods, BANG! I see the deer fall
I take him home, freeze the meat, and mount his horns on my wall
I grab my pole and tackle box and head to the lake
At this time in the morning, I feel barely awake
There is no school today, I’m glad there is no class
A mighty tug on my line, I hook a large mouth bass
There is nothing like hunting; waiting for the kill
Cutting and cleaning the meat my freezer I’ll soon fill
Deer steaks and deer jerky have such a great taste
And with his head on my wall nothing goes to waste
I like fishing, fishing is fun
Fishing underneath the rising sun
I like catching the fish and putting them in a net
Fish is a great dish when the table is set
My truck is unstoppable; it can’t beat
I slam the door and strap myself in the seat
I start the engine and press the gas to the floor
My truck takes off and my engine lets out a roar
I wouldn’t be able to hunt or fish if it wasn’t for my truck
With it I carry poles, guns, and my fallen buck
I pull my boat with my truck in four-wheel-drive
At my destination I always arrive
poem by Glaedr the poet
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Notes On An Unadorned Night
after Rene Char
Let's agree that the night is a blank canvas, a station
break, a bridge of a song.
Let's agree further that activities at night—movies,
campfires, reading by a lamp—are all
basically an homage to the day.
I have come to regard these two statements as
contradictory. Let me explain.
First, set aside that one could see a movie, torch a fire,
and read with the sun blazing over us.
The in-between aspect of night need not spark a flurry of
activity, is all I'm saying.
You could do nothing at night! Just lay and sleep!
A Cézanne sketch I looked at last night bears
mentioning.
A big Gallic face, reclining upwards, looks up at three
boxcars on train tracks.
The man's eyes are wide open and unfulfilled.
The two disemboweled deer I saw the night before also
bear mentioning.
The torsos of both deer were connected to faces, both
looking up.
I assumed they were struck by trains near the house
where I was sleeping.
Anyway, it occurred to me that as I looked into these
two dead deer's eyes that so much has fallen at
me, rather than simply by me.
I want to be among people. I do.
But I just want the easy parts skipped, for bodies to rub
up against each other, to always feel as new flesh
touches new flesh.
Those deer weren't an emblem of anything. I'm not like that.
I don't need dead animals to mirror my own interior world.
But what I am saying is that the dead eyes did shock me,
and it didn't help things that it was by a dark
highway.
And it did force me to feel my own heart bumping fast, me in
my sweatpants and jogging sneakers.
I felt like a damn idiot out there, under the moon with two
dead deer at my feet.
It made me want to go home and watch a big, dumb, funny
movie.
At least it did at first.
I turned the movie on, but I couldn't focus.
It seemed as if what I was watching—the man and woman's
looks of madcap surprise, the snappy music cues—were
fake re-enactments. Which, of course, they were.
And then the whole idea of movies, especially watching them at
home, especially big, dumb, funny movies, seemed to be the
stupidest idea in the world.
Watching them in a room with complete strangers, in a dark
room—that's a better idea.
At the theater where I see most of my movies, an employee makes
seating announcements over a PA speaker.
All the patrons wait and corral inside a rope, much like
livestock, until the announcement is made.
We then descend down an escalator, silent, and go into the
theater.
My head has to crane uncomfortably to see the screen, since I
have this long gawky neck.
The theater doesn't have what they call "stadium seating."
Another thing about the theater is that every few minutes
during the movie, you can hear the train—the 6, the
D, Q, and F—rumbling beneath your feet.
No one, at least to my knowledge, has complained about this to
the managers.
It's somehow reassuring that people are going somewhere while
you're seeing a movie with other people.
It's a good theater because the movies there are of a high
quality, and you're with other people who want to see
a movie.
One time, Cindy Crawford, the famous fashion model, was in the same
theater as me, right behind me and my date.
Everyone tried not to look at her, but of course we all did.
I was on a date with an Irish girl who was an interior designer.
We went to see a movie that took place in Ireland, in a swamp.
It was a very quiet movie, and about halfway through, I fell
asleep.
The rumble of the trains woke me up.
When I woke up, I at once smelled the Irish girl's hair and saw
the movie screen.
The scene was a little girl, petting the head of a deer.
The sound of a nearby brook was heard in the back speakers.
Cindy Crawford had gone.
When we left the theater, it was still daylight outside.
I was still sleepy.
Submitted by da
poem by Daniel Nester
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Run free, Angel (R.I.P. Chelsea King)
She loved to run through the green forest,
Where the sun watched over her,
Where the lake’s cool and riveting motions
Met with the tranquil flow of the wind.
But the sun’s eyes
Could not change her destiny
They could not predispose her judgment
Or those of the Monster
Whose impulses were like those of a Tiger
Ready to pounce
Out of thirst, out of hunger, out of a sick taste for Vulnerability.
She ran like a deer,
Graceful and liberated,
Her eyes saw no danger
She succumbed to no fear.
But as a deer is entranced by a clean patch of grass
A Tiger finds opportunity
Strikes hard, and strikes fast.
The Tiger, the Monster,
Pounced on her body, devoured her soul
Fed her to the lake, who swallowed her whole.
The lake watched over her until the people came
It knew that the Monster would not win this game
His satisfaction would not go unnoticed
For this deer, this child, this girl
Was an Angel,
Is an Angel
And will always be.
poem by Jamie Ries
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The White-Footed Deer
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
'It were a sin,' she said, 'to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
'This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
'The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
'I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell.'
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Home On The Range
Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Oh give me a land where the bright diamond sand
Flows leisurely down the stream
Where the graceful white swan goes gliding along
Like a maid in a heavenly dream
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Oh often at night, when the heavens are bright
From the light of the glittering stars
Have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed
If their glory exceeds that of ours
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Forsaken
Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come
from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such
far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause!
Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear
be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped
it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame,
just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did,
and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die?
That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not
be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child
alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face
the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled
for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me!
I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me 'whore',
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman,
he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart,
what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin,
Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman
must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never
feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby!
He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good
a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school
in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve,
so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois,
out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things,
I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy,
I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful,
take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months.
To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born
for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away!
Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it!
And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known
my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body,
and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above,
and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man,
I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!
So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart
where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be
quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues
when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby,
when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me,
his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making,
and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels
to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings?
I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem
just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him,
but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Doubt
Heat & say it.
at the chock deer
Let her go.
Trade, the horse
heads, running wild,
in black-and-white
Swallow the crown
The crowned fair
Burn, clean light
The doubt
Once I loved the memories of the mirrors.
Twist on the faith -deep in the caves
Insane, they don't know,
Lips, and words, blind forget.
Like a tra- la- la song
I drifted & dust
Burn your eyes
Deep, tremble
Your sight
Death mess your mind,
afraid condensed, deep inside
It trumpets your feel.
Spit and stand,
Inside me juggle.
He was you,
The hungry lion,
hunted and buried.
Like Puppets tied at strings,
crawling, like tangled wings
where there is not stood.
I see you holding the scissors.
Cutting the strings,
Turn you apart
Curdle your lips.
Red sour kiss
Medicine incurable
Tied up on my bed
With you, my baby
Melt like thunder,
between storm and forms
Talk to the lord
The eyes are the place.
The moon high temple crystal closet
out of the ocean, on the highest mountain, deep on the sea
Cold, as hard, wishes pass by.
Treat me, try me, one more time.
poem by Luca Menin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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without IT she couldn't fly
She glared at the dark night sky,
Her gentle skin had felt the rain,
She spread her wings, prepared to fly
But crouched down in awful pain.
She jumped into the hell not sky,
Her snow white wings are now black
Whith IT she used to reach so high,
And now for her there's no turning back.
She stood and glared at night sky,
Her dirty clothes are soaking wet,
If only she didn't fly
Her mind of not been now dead.
She took a look apon the sky,
For very last time- spread her wings,
A silver blade had raised up high
LIke lightning it had split her wrists.
The girl collapsed in need of dose,
Without it she couldn't fly
' So why I need to live? ' she froze
A needle had appeared in the sky.
She reached for it, but it's too high,
Her brown eyes- are now blanc,
'COCANE' her mind had begging- wishpered back,
As life had left her in the dark...
poem by Snejana Novosedlova
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dogs In The Midwinter
You ever had a day like I had today,
When things are stacked up bad?
You look around and every face you see
Seems guaranteed to send you mad.
And you peer into those hallowed institutions.
And they bark at you from every side.
But the bite goes wide.
I see them running with their tails hanging low
Like dogs in the midwinter.
The prophets and the wise men and the hard politicos
Are all dogs in the midwinter.
Let the breath from the mountain still the pain,
Clear water from the fountain run sweeter than the rain.
Dogs in the midwinter.
The boss man and the tax man and the moneylenders growl...
Like dogs in the midwinter.
The weaker of the herd can feel their eyes and hear them howl
Like dogs in the midwinter.
Though the fox and the rabbit are at peace,
Cold doggies in the manger turn last suppers into feasts.
Dogs in the midwinter.
You ever had a day like I had today ---
Dogs in the midwinter.
You look around and every face you see ---
Dogs in the midwinter.
And you peer into those hallowed institutions.
And they bark at you from every side.
But the bite goes wide.
Were all running on a tightrope, wearing slippers in the snow...
Were all dogs in the midwinter.
The ice is ever thinner. be careful how you go
Like dogs in the midwinter.
And its hard to find true equilibrium
When youre looking at each other down the muzzle of a gun.
Dogs in the midwinter.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Angel of Darkness
An Angel with Broken Wings,
Torn by the Demons that have risen
from the Everlasting Darkness below.
Falling further into Hell,
Forgotten and Abandoned by all
of the Angels that he Trusted.
Finally realizing the Painful Truth
No One has ever Cared for him,
His Trust has been Betrayed.
Two options are left for this Condemned Angel.
Accept his Demise and die an Angel of Light
or Fight and become an Angel of Darkness
He chose to become the Angel of Darkness
after replacing his White Angel Wings,
with the Dark Black Wings of a Demon.
Now he has Vowed to Kill all of the Angels
that have Decieved him with False Feelings,
and those who have Plotted Against him.
With this newfound Reason to Live
his Life now has Meaning,
As an Angel among Demons.
This Angel is finally where he Belongs.
Living with the Demons in the Dark Abyss
after being Accepted and becoming their Leader.
Vincent Toll
poem by Vincent Toll
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kill The Sun
Its good to have a window on the world
And to live deep in the heart of the beast in the sun
Night after night, I do the same damn thing
Do the weirdness dance, for those who cant
Its getting to the point where I cant take it anymore
Waking up at 3 pm
In a thrashed bedroom, sharp with needles and knives
Reach for the crutches that keep in motion
Vague memories that keep me alive
Like when she used to call me baby
All alone in our room, in the middle of the night
Kill the sun, yes, kill the sun
Kill the sun
Come on, come on, stop the light
Yes, I ve got sunshine
Its a suicide song in the back of my mind
Pure white evilwrapped around my eyes
Yeah Ive got all the cities of light to live in
I dont even want no part
Hard is the fall
Cold is the bite
Kill the sun, yeah come on stop the light...
Kill the night
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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