David
Eternal cold of silence, where each sound
Dies in its birth, and Death's pale henchmen meet
With soft Lethean traps unwary feet
Or ride with hell's white steed and slavering hound;
Which of us, searching selfward, has not found
This desolate realm, and long black seams, that greet
Our souls with recollections of defeat,
And torrid fossils in the frozen ground?
Not he, who comes among us as a king;
Strange were the secret waste and granite walls
To him whose reverent feet have travelled far
Where duty beckons and adventure calls.
He steers his course, by one red tropic star,
Where ripples the green robe of the lilting spring.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Silence
Silence
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Champion
Young and a conqueror, once on a day,
Wild white Winter rode out this way;
With his sword of ice and his banner of snow
Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong;
Now he is old, he has reigned too long.
He shall be routed, he shall be slain;
Summer shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake
Little armies in field and brake:
'Cruel and cold has King Winter been;
Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!'
First the aconite dots the mould
With little round cannon-balls of gold;
Then, to help in the winter's rout,
Regiments of crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;
See the shield of the celandine,
And daffodil lances green and keen,
To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings
Banners that mock at defeated kings;
And wherever the green of the new grass peers,
See the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound
Over the garden's battle-ground,
And lovely ladies crowd out to see
The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills,
Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,
Primrose and cowslip, friends well met
With white wood-sorrel and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;
Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;
Budding hedges and woods and trees -
Spring brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride
Over the happy countryside;
Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:
'The King is dead--long live the King!'
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;
He will ride on through the meadows bright
Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down
And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine
Between the may-trees' silver shine,
And look in the eyes of the dying knight
Who led his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say,
'Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!'
While he smiles and sighs her arms between
And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Metal
Sculpted in metal
With tongues frozen
A white tiger
With plaited hairs
A black in background
To accentuate
The grandeur
A skull of a man
With headphones
Smiling
On his death
In ashes
Or in rivers
In the ground
So many souls
Angels where stored
The sculpted metal
Wanted to grow roots
A little girl
I see in her
In infertility
She spent her life
Another one
Having wit of sparrow
With same disease
In silence her life
Raising other children
The skull smiling
Their desires
The white tiger
The chauvinist
The black in opportunity
The feet of those women
Like claws
Who the hell
Shall answer these questions
5/2/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Worship Your Feet
You want a diamond and gold shaped locket
And a fat share of my dollar sized pocket
I beg, I beg
Watch those legs
The soles of your feet
Need a comfortable seat
Uncomfortable shoes will make you retreat
And you will walk the path of shameless defeat
For the city of Paris has no definition
Once I would have merely given it a distinction
I beg, I beg
Give those legs meaning
Walk as if you are winning
Foisting of competition
Searching for my name
For the game is walk with no shame
You want to be superstar
And get the chance to drive super-fast cars
I beg, I beg
Watch those legs
For the city of London has no obvious ignition
Blocks of high-rise buildings are its recognition
If my feet walk off the ground
Will my soul stay quietly spell bound?
For there is a certain silence without sound
When that ever-lasting peace is well-found
You want a cold beer
And live your life as if you don't care
Worship your feet
When you walk on the street!
Worship your feet
In the rough cold and the heat!
On your marks - Take off!
Worship your feet as you worship your tits!
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Black Hound
WHITE-TOOTHED is the Black Hound,
And ever, as he comes after,
There is no sweetness in wine,
Nor is there joyance in laughter.
Red-tongued is the Black Hound,
And ever, as he speeds baying,
There is no shaking him off,
Nor is there stopping or staying.
Keen-sensed in the thick dark
He follows for ever and ever;
Nought stays him in his pursuit —
Nor marsh, nor mountain, nor river.
Day-long through the broad light,
His tongue like a flame outleaping,
He hunts; and we fly before,
Wan-faced, foot-weary and weeping.
Night-through in the still hours
When stars in the sky assemble,
We hear his cry on the roads,
And startled, staring, we tremble.
White-toothed is the Black Hound,
And speed to his limbs is given;
God help and pity us all
Who fly for ever, hard-driven!
Time comes when the feet fail
Or drag on the ways, unwilling;
Then fast, froth-flakes on his jaws,
He speeds keen-fanged to the killing.
Then some, as they pass, say —
Few pausing, and weeping, fewer —
'Hound-work is this that we see,
Fang-work of him, the Pursuer!'
Black Care is the Black Hound,
And ever 'tis his to follow
Pale men from birth to that hour
When grave-mouths open and swallow.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Aeolian Harp
O pale green sea,
With long, pale, purple clouds above -
What lies in me like weight of love ?
What dies in me
With utter grief, because there comes no sign
Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line ?
O salted air,
Blown round the rocky headland still,
What calls me there from cove and hill?
What calls me fair
From thee, the first-born of the youthful night,
Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight ?
O yellow Star,
Quivering upon the rippling tide -
Sendest so far to one that sigh'd?
Bendest thou, Star,
Above, where the shadows of the dead have rest
And constant silence, with a message from the blest?
poem by William Allingham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Three Kings
WHEN the star in the East was lit to shine
The three kings journeyed to Palestine;
They came from the uttermost parts of earth
With long trains laden with gifts of worth.
The first king rode on a camel's back,
He came from the land where the kings are black,
Bringing treasures desired of kings,
Rubies and ivory and precious things.
An elephant carried the second king,
He came from the land of the sun-rising,
And gems and gold and spices he bare
With broidered raiment for kings to wear.
The third king came without steed or train
From the misty land where the white kings reign.
He bore no gifts save the myrrh in his hand,
For he came on foot from a far-off land.
Now when they had travelled a-many days
Through tangled forests and desert ways,
By angry seas and by paths thorn-set
On Christmas Vigil the three kings met.
And over their meeting a shrouded sky
Made dark the star they had travelled by.
Then the first king spake and he frowned and said:
'By some ill spell have our feet been led,
'Now I see in the darkness the fools we are
To follow the light of a lying star.
'Let us fool no more, but like kings and men
Each get him home to his land again!'
Then the second king with the weary face,
Gold-tinct as the sun of his reigning place,
Lifted sad eyes to the clouds and said,
'It was but a dream and the dream is sped.
'We dreamed of a star that rose new and fair,
But it sets in the night of the old despair.
'Yet night is faithful though stars betray,
It will lead to our kingdoms far away.'
Then spake the king who had fared alone
From the far-off kingdom, the white-hung throne:
'O brothers, brothers, so very far
Ye have followed the light of the radiant star,
'And because for a while ye see it not
Shall its faithful shining be all forgot?
'On the spirit's pathway the light still lies
Though the star be hid from our longing eyes.
'To-morrow our star will be bright once more
The little pin-hole in heaven's floor--
'The Angels pricked it to let it bring
Our feet to the throne of the new-born King!'
And the first king heard and the second heard
And their hearts grew humble before the third.
And they laid them down beside bale and beast
and their sleeping eyes saw light in the East.
For the Angels fanned them with starry wings
And the waft of visions of unseen things.
And the next gold day waned trembling and white
And the star was born of the waxing night.
And the three kings came where the Great King lay,
A little baby among the hay,
The ox and the ass were standing near
And Mary Mother beside her Dear.
Then low in the litter the kings bowed down,
They gave Him gold for a kingly crown,
And frankincense for a great God's breath
and Myrrh to sweeten the day of death.
The Maiden Mother she stood and smiled
And she took from the manger her little child.
On the dark king's head she laid His hand
And anger died at that dear command.
She laid His hand on the gold king's head
And despair itself was comforted.
But when the pale king knelt in the stall
She heard on the straw his tears down fall.
And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet
And laid on his bosom her baby sweet.
And the king in the holy stable-place
Felt the little lips through the tears on his face.
* * * * * * *
Christ! lay Thy hand on the angry king
Who reigns in my breast to my undoing,
And lay thy hands on the king who lays
The spell of sadness on all my days,
And give the white king my soul, Thy soul,
Of these other kings the high control.
That soul and spirit and sense may meet
In adoration before Thy feet!
Now Glory to God the Father Most High,
And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by.
And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was born
And laid in the manger on Christmas morn!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Song For The Life
(rodney crowell)
I dont drink as much as I used to
cos lately that just aint my style.
And the hard times dont hurt like they oughta
They pass quickly like when I was a child.
And lately Ive learnt how to listen
To a sound like the sun going down
In the magic that morning is bringing
Theres a song for the life I have found
It keeps my feet on the ground
Now the midsummer days aint so heady
They just drift like a breeze through my mind.
And nothing appears in a hurry
As if to make up for some old long-lost time
And lately Ive learnt how to listen
To a sound like the sun going down
In the magic that morning is bringing
Theres a song for the friends I have found
They keep my feet on the ground...
They keep my feet on the ground...
They keep my feet on the ground
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
In the empty studio
The diffused northern sunlight
of this studio at dawn
matches the silence and the stillness
like the speaking silence
of the retrochoir behind the altar
of a simple white Greek island church –
that has no ornament; simply walls
painted in a pale blue wash,
the space, the air itself, as radiant with heaven;
behind the iconostasis – gold and candle and eternal gaze -
where praise is prepared; thought surrendered;
humility the robe; the sacred word awaits
the moment when it’s spoken;
so this studio; and at its centre, calling,
stands an easel with a white canvas on it;
what waits in this empty studio
that’s so full of emptiness that calls?
what challenges? This canvas
waits, as being ever does; full, content,
needing nothing but itself…
the silence will accept our spoken word,
then return to stillness;
the canvas will not be so forgiving;
‘make a mark on me that will not diminish
my completeness…; so let our being
meet, before a mark is made…’
this holy place: only godself may mark
this canvas and yet not detract; from space,
draw space; or may with colour stain transparent
this white white radiance of eternity:
and in the place whence all arises,
Nothing and Everything smile together
in their secret play.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When it will be spring
see flowers on my window
Cold winds whipping about
Soon I think
Wolves will begin to howl
When will it be spring?
Frozen days
When nature stands statue still
Cold hands, cold feet, cold heart
When will it be spring?
Haven’t heard a bird sing
The sun shines through a frozen haze
Sad days, cold days
When will it be spring?
poem by Jaya Ghosh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nature Calls
Winds whisper
Secret truths
Doves cry
A lullaby
Singing Seas
Silence tides
Mountain walls
Echo’s ride
Desert’s drone
Lovers hide
And when
Duty Calls
Soldier's Rise
poem by Brian Kilpatrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
First Footsteps
A little way, more soft and sweet
Than fields aflower with May,
A babe's feet, venturing, scarce complete
A little way.
Eyes full of dawning day
Look up for mother's eyes to meet,
Too blithe for song to say.
Glad as the golden spring to greet
Its first live leaflet's play,
Love, laughing, leads the little feet
A little way.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Camp Within the West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’
And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?
Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.
Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’
And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?
Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.
And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.
Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cold Feet
There was a little boy once upon a time
Who in spite of his young age and small size knew his mind
For every copper penny and clover he would find
Make a wish for better days the end of hard times
For no more cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
His clothes were always clean
His face was always scrubbed
There was food on the table enough to fill him up
His house was full of life - his house was full of love
But when winter days arrived
There was never money enough to shod his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He grew up to be a worker determined to succeed
He made a life for himself, free from worldly wants or needs
But with nobody to share the life hed made
No body to keep him warm at night
When hed go to sleep hed sleep alone with his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
One night he walked the street looking to the heavens above
Searching for a shooting star a benevolent god
When a woman passing by brushed his arm
He turned and found love
He then wished for the courage to ask this stranger
Who she was to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought shed like the party life and want the finer things
So he promised more than he could buy
And he promised her the sun and moon to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He worked day and night his fingers to the bone
Hi worried mind guilty conscience drive him on
He cant give her what she needs
He wants to give her what he thinks she wants
Her sad-eyed face, his empty pockets drive him on and his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Hed struggled all his life to be an honest man
Proud that the dirt on his palms was the soil of the land
But some guys he knew from high school days
Said they had a plan to get rich quick
And they could count him in if he dont have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought about their offer accepted it without qualms
Dreamt about the life hed buy
The comfort that would come without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He decided to tell his wife things would soon turn around
He said the little boy is dead
A man stands with you now without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Without cold feet - cold cold cold cold feet
He thought hed set his clock right - he though hed read his watch
He left in such a hurry he didnt think to wish for luck
Makes no difference if youre early - no difference if youre late
When youre out of time - the flowers have been laid
Youre six feet underground
With cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The dancing whirling leaves
I will befall into my tomb
As a waning river falls to the sea
I embrace death the existence of ‘not to be’
As a child welcomes his calm night dream
I walked in the shadows of darkness and sorrow
Unfriendly and cold and alone
As dismally gurgle besides me
The bleak river desolate moan
The rise of the volleying thunder
The mountain’s lone echoes repeat
The roar whirl wind around me
The galling autumn leaves at my feet
I stooped in shadows of darkness and sorrow
Uncheered by the moon’s spangled ray
Not a friend that I love but is dead
Not a hope I have but have faded away
Oh Shall I rest in the tomb
Wrapped about with the chill winding white sheet
For the roar of the wind is around me
And the waving yellow leaves above my head
I heed not the blasts that sweep over me
I mind not the hail the storm and the raging sea
I blame not the tempest of night
They are not the foes who have banished
The visions of youthful delight
I hail the wild sound of their raving
Their merciless presence I greet
Oh let it be! Let me join these eternal elements
And roam the land and rove the vexed sea
Yet my fate is the roar of the wind engulfing me
And the piling reddened leaves at my feet
In this waste of existence and solitude, for solace
On whom shall my lone spiral call?
Shall I seek shall I fly to the friends of my bosom
My God I have buried them all
They are dead they are gone they are cold
My embrace no longer they meet or feel
Fall to the roar of the wind around me
The yellow leaves hissing in a macabre music at my feet
Those eyes that glanced love into mine
With motionless and cold slumber are pressed
Those hearts which once throbbed are no more in line
They are chill as the earth where they rest
Then around me my wan withered form
Let the pestilent gale beat
Submit to the howling wind around me
While the mocking leaves dance at my feet
Like the voice of the owl in the hall
Where the song of choir and the banquet ceased
Where the green weeds have mantled the hearth
Where raise the proud flame of feast
So I cry to the storm whose dark wings
Scatter on my eyes the wild driving sleet
Let the roar of the wind around me
And the dancing whirling clan leaves at my feet
copy rights 2010
See The Snake In Her Eyes
Look into the wind, your empty thoughts wrapped up and thrown out in the bin, the igloo was cold, you should have been told, life can be good if you don't have no soul. The pictures that fall from your marshmallow walls, keep reminding me of times, out on the street, no skin on my feet, the blood opens up from hands and thighs, and yet I remember, yet I remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.
The dentist he smiles with a toothless reply, neon lights like a hawk, they gazed down, sodden, brazen only to frown. I'm fumbling around, lost and stupid around on the ground. I've come to the end, the sound of waves crashing a remarkable friend. But long distant pier, and some more frothy beer, curled up in comfort before she dies, and yet I remember, yet I remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.
The world, she's looking in, but I have to remember, she's just made of tin, she smiles as she crawls, up and down my marshmallow walls, sucking the sweet, caressing my feet, but they have no skin, extra blood is an added treat. Sense the tingle, even the needle. She sends me high, yet I remember, yet I remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.
So now, I cried by the walls, of Jerusalem walls, wish to climb and linger and I long to fall. I talk to the tree’s, for they talk to me, just make a nonsense of it all. I dance with the crows, for they are so bold, so black and so very old. Temptation calls, they point to a cross that makes me look so small and dross, I find my own nails, dipped them in such a holy Grail, the Grail has no time and throws me back to rhyme and rhyme. So I must seek the way back to the street, where my love I trusted to blue skies, yet I remember, must always remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.
poem by Fergus Michael Condron
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song For The Life
(rodney crowell)
Well I dont drink as much as I used to
Lately, it just aint my style
And the hard times dont hurt like they ought to
They pass quicker, like when I was a child
And somehow Ive learned how to listen
For a sound like the sun going down
In the magic the morning is bringing
Theres a song for the life I have found
It keeps my feet on the ground
And the midsummer days sit so heavy
But dont they flow like the breeze through your mind
When nothing appears in a hurry
To make up for someones lost time
And somehow Ive learned how to listen
For a sound like the sun going down
In the magic the morning is bringing
Theres a song for the life I have found
It keeps my feet on the ground
And somehow Ive learned how to listen
For a sound like the breeze dying down
In the magic the morning is bringing
Theres a song for the friend I have found
She keeps my feet on the ground
She keeps my feet on the ground
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
On Death
Death, thou art a harden’d crook!
Trying souls unwary to hook;
By the waters of a brook;
Few elderly to book.
Never art thou better than Birth!
Without which, no soul gets Mirth;
By Baptism, the Soldier of God
Enters His Abode, of the Lord.
Fie Death! Thou art a fool to steal
Souls unready to die- I feel;
But only through thy cruel Kiss,
Open the gates to Heaven’s Bliss.
God, He redeemed this sinful world
Through you; To show His love, I’m told;
His Resurrection proved Him God!
By thee, man goes to His Abode.
Man dies by fire, water, soil;
Soul climbs the celestial trail;
The unwary cannot get bail!
One day, all must to Him set sail.
Some day, man will have to die!
And in the grave, rest for a while;
The body, soul shall then live come,
For His Judgment, from every tomb!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Black Top Angel
Stay out of the road, get out of this one's way
He's got a full load and he just won't be late
He is driving under the Devils spell and he won't stop and he won't tell
He is the Black Top, Black Top Angel of Hell
His cargo is the souls of men that once had lived they died
Eighteen wheels rolling, coming, run hide
Truck driver get out of the way or just stand in his way
You may find you can't outrun, destiny is today
He is the Black Top Angel, one can hear the souls that wail
He holds his passions true, he knows his course so well
Sent by the Devil, the lightning streaks the night
To harvest the souls of the men who had a choice but they died
He is The Black Top Angel, The Black Top Angel of Hell
There is no time to waste, the thunder already swells
In the quiet of night the lightning strikes, he turns around
One more soul, another free ride
Can you not see the look of death that is upon his face
Sent by the Devil, to harvest souls of the human race
He holds his passions true, he knows his roads so well
He is the Black Top Angel, The Black Top Angel of Hell.
poem by Bill Simmons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Words
Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles,--
Usumcasane and Theridamas,
Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis? --MARLOWE
Bring the great words that scourge the thundering line
With lust and slaughter-words that reek of doom
And the lost battle and the ruined shrine;--
Words dire and black as midnight on a tomb;
Hushed speech of waters on the lip of gloom;
Huge sounds of death and plunder in the night;--
Words whose vast plumes above the ages meet,
Girdling the lost, dark centuries in their flight,
The slave of their unfetterable feet.
Bring words as pure as rills of earliest Spring
In some far cranny of the hillside born
To stitch against the earth's green habiting;--
Words lonely as the long, blue fields of morn;--
Words on the wistful lyre of winds forlorn
To the sad ear of grief from distance blown;
Thin bleat of fawn and airy babble of birds;
Sounds of bright water slipping on the stone
Where the thrilled fountain pipes to woodland words.
Bring passionate words from noontide's slumber roused,
To slake the amorous lips of love with fruit,
Dripping with honey, and with syrups drowsed
To draw bee-murmurs from the dreaming lute-
Words gold and mad and headlong in pursuit
Of laughter; words that are too sweet to say
And fade, unsaid, upon some rose's mouth;--
Words soft as winds that ever blow one way,
The summer way, the long way from the south.
For such words have high lineage, and were known
Of Milton once, whose heart on theirs still beats;
Marlowe hurled forth huge stars to make them crown;
They are stained still with the dying lips of Keats;
As queen they trod the cloak in Shakespeare's streets;
Pale hands of Shelley gently guard their flame;
Chatterton's heart was burst upon their spears:
Their dynasty unbroken, and their name
Music in men's mouths for all men's ears.
But now they are lost, their lordliest 'scutcheon stained;
Upon their ruined walls no trumpet rings;
Their shrines defiled, their sacraments profaned:
Men crown the crow, they have given the jackal wings.
Slaves wear the peplum, beggars ride as kings.
They couple foolish words and look for birth
Of mighty emperor, Christ or Avatar,
They mate with slaves from whom no king comes forth;
No child is theirs who follow not the Star.
poem by Muriel Stuart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!