Related quotes: All winter The trees held...

The Future Of Hands

All winter
The trees held up their silent hives
As if they mattered.
But on one main street of bars and lights,
I watched a woman who had begged for days
Throw all the coins back, insulted,
Into the crowd,
And then each cheap stone on her necklace,
As if they were confetti
At a bitter wedding,
And then her stained blouse.
I smiled, then, at her dignity.
But when the night came
With only its usual stars to show,
She was applauded and spat on,
Or those passing stepped around her,
Avoiding her body
As if it had become private, or pure.
When the police arrived,
Sniveling about the cold day she had chosen
To strip,
Her face was a brown jewel,
And I knew the hands
Of the police would have to close now,
On this body abandoned to wind,
Just as her hands closed, finally,
On wind that would have nothing
To do with her,
And never had.

*

I know that wind
Had nothing to do with longing.
I have seen that, even in the eyes
Of girls across a lunch counter--
A desire to be anywhere that wasn't
Texas, and waiting on tables--
Their eyes making a pact
With the standing, staring wheat
About to be turned back into the black soil
That spreads everywhere when no one is watching.

And writing this,
I stare at my hands,
Which are the chroniclers of my death,
Which pull me into this paper
Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets,
And the woman gone.

After two hours of work,
I do not know if there ever was a woman.

I watch the flies buzz at the sill.

*

Or, if I sleep,
I must choose between two dreams.

In one of them, my hands move calmly
Over a woman's waist, or lift
In speech the way birds rise or settle
Over a marsh, over nesting places.

In the other dream,
There are no nesting places,
The birds are white, and scavenging.
They lift negligently over the town in wind,
Like paper, like the death of paper.
They dip and rise
As if there had never been a heaven.
Beneath them, it is summer.
It is the same town I was born in.
And in its one bar
The man selling illegal human hair from Mexico,
The hair of brides mixed
With the hair of the dead,
Argues all day over the price.

poem by Larry Levis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Moonlight Woman

Her long black hair flowing
Eyes that look through you
Hands that show no labour
A heart that is ever so true
Moonlight Woman
She creeps in the back door
All for a discreet embrace
Her lips are soft and ready
The look of lust on her face
Moonlight Woman
She wants to be held so close
Two giggles you here at night
Such a twisted sort of love
But she makes everything right
Moonlight Woman

poem by Suelynn Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Skin Hair

Skin Hair…

Where else does the earth rise?

settle down with a fall,

cover with strand...

after other strand,

of hair curl,

loom adversely,

along the length,

along the breadth....

of a man, woman

where it is delicate, where it is private...

pronounced an' concealed.

on the face above the eyes,

like a brush of feathers,

above the lip,

a moustache…

eloquently trim,

tweezed eye browses,

hair flock grace the neck,

onto the back.

Along the shin,

Along the skin,

Smooth touch rendered,

Chill rising the hair follicles,

Desire burn,

In the shower wet with soap,

Silk fiber strand,

Run through fingers of a lover,

Relishing the sensations erect,

Tiny hair, almost as fur…

Souring along the back,

Trough upon the skin,

Collect scent of a love scene.

The skin here dark,

Chocolate born,

Wind caress these, both hair an' skin

Creature so supreme,

Conquer all but this, delicate

Feather brush of skin against skin,

Hair rise here thin,

Space of a love gaze seen,

Hair on skin….

poem by Merlin Mwaura
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Skin Hair…

Where else does the earth rise?

settle down with a fall,

cover with strand...

after other strand,

of hair curl,

loom adversely,

along the length,

along the breadth....

of a man, woman

where it is delicate, where it is private...

pronounced an' concealed.

on the face above the eyes,

like a brush of feathers,

above the lip,

a moustache…

eloquently trim,

tweezed eye browses,

hair flock grace the neck,

onto the back.

Along the shin,

Along the skin,

Smooth touch rendered,

Chill rising the hair follicles,

Desire burn,

In the shower wet with soap,

Silk fiber strand,

Run through fingers of a lover,

Relishing the sensations erect,

Tiny hair, almost as fur…

Souring along the back,

Trough upon the skin,

Collect scent of a love scene.

The skin here dark,

Chocolate born,

Wind caress these, both hair an' skin

Creature so supreme,

Conquer all but this, delicate

Feather brush of skin against skin,

Hair rise here thin,

Space of a love gaze seen,

Hair on skin….

poem by Merlin Mwaura
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Oh

It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk,
the little white lesions
settle on the street outside.
It is snowing and the ninety
year old woman who was combing
out her long white wraith hair
is gone, embalmed even now,
even tonight her arms are smooth
muskets at her side and nothing
issues from her but her last word - 'Oh.' Surprised by death.

It is snowing. Paper spots
are falling from the punch.
Hello? Mrs. Death is here!
She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling, 'Oh.'
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement. Snow!
See the mark, the pock, the pock!

Meanwhile you pour tea
with your handsome gentle hands.
Then you deliberately take your
forefinger and point it at my temple,
saying, 'You suicide bitch!
I'd like to take a corkscrew
and screw out all your brains
and you'd never be back ever.'
And I close my eyes over the steaming
tea and see God opening His teeth.
'Oh.' He says.
I see the child in me writing, 'Oh.'
Oh, my dear, not why.

poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Paper Boat On A Murky River

on your hand is a paper boat
you made last night

on a rainy day like this
you put on a gray rain coat

the river rises
perfect for your scheme

you put the boat gently
on the brown water

white paper boat
carried by this murkiness

your hands push
the paper boat leaves

tonight you sleep on
the wooden floor

it is mahogany brown and you
become the paper boat

sailing inside your dream
the floor becomes the big river

your thoughts become the wind
your eyes become two moons

the room is as dark as the night
the dream is so alive like a mother's song.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Homeless

Dry and cold were the bitter winds
that crackled the ice on the panes.
Dry and cold were the old woman's hands,
red and raw from the pains.

Old were these winds that had no end.
They surfaced every winter.
Old were the hands that were this woman's
that felt as if they would splinter.

The winter winds were not welcome
for she had no place to go.
Looking for shelter from the cold,
she welcomed the sight of snow.

For the snow would blanket the box she was in
for a night or two.
She stayed inside it for many long hours
as if it were an igloo.

All through the hours she rubbed her hands.
Through a slit she looked to view,
looking for a slant of sunshine soon
but still the cold winds blew.

This is the plight of the homeless.
This is a curse on our lands.
They found her dead when the sun finally came
with stiff and frozen hands.

poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Woman Is Fire

There was a time when Woman went out of house, house of wax was left by Woman, Woman with waxen complexion I was, I was fiery Woman, Woman's body was a wax, Woman's eyes a flammable paraffin, what Woman's mouth was: withered red apples when Woman was fired out of house. House was invisible when Woman took a fire lamp and went to cheer in the smell of fallen apples, scattered around house, our moldy house. In the cold night Woman molded her body in a candle mould to revive old fire and saw Man that gathered apple stalks from moldy apple trees. It was a lonely man, Man that made a fire with waxed paper and moldering apple stalks. Man that sat outdoors on a moldy wooden bench by that fire and drunk applejack.
Woman saw Man, Man that felt Woman's looks through apple shaped embers bursting out of fire when wet apple leaves dried. Fire was a necessity for Man, for Man made his living being a fire-eater. The fire-eater wanted fire that gives birth, of fireworks, exploding fire. Man moved a long green apple stalk through fire to burn fire more. Man took a dropp and swallowed it. Man took another dropp and spat it into the fire. Suddenly Man realized what he needed and waxed on a piece of paper: fire must drink applejack for fire is becoming moldy, and he spat what he drunk mingled with apple-tasting spit. House is moldy too, Woman remembered and woman's heart became a rotten apple.. Fire was quenching as Woman closed her eyelids, apple peels, longing for house. House may be moldy, but house is not empty. Woman molded house the like, house full of candle lights and fireflies. Woman left Man's fire quenched and remained an apple scented candle. House melts easily and hardens quickly, Woman too. Woman abandoned Man not to be melt. That is old fire in Woman, as she stalks on apple waxed earth toward house.

poem by Afrodita Nikolova
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Suffocation

Last night I had the weirdest dream
I dreamt that I was lying in bed
With this girl whose hair was
As black as the night and as
Thick as a forest,
And her hair, her hair was
Smothering me
Or at least, I thought it was
Her hair,
Until I noticed it was her hands
Running over my face,
My lips
My eyes
My cheeks.
As hot as the desert
And smooth as silk
But pressing down
Pressing me into my pillow
Until I could see nothing
But the pink of her skin
And I thought,
Im gunna die
Those hands are gunna
Kill me
Until I realized really,
It wasn’t hands,
But lips,
Sucking the air from mine
Engulfing my last breath
And drawing it into her being
And I thought, well,
At least lips are
A nice way to go
Until finally I came
To my goddamn senses
And I realized,
I realized it wasn’t her lips
But the words coming
From those sweet lips
That was suffocating me
And it was “I love you”
I was choking on
Not her hair, hands or lips
At all.

poem by Nick Downer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Secret of Light

I am sitting contented and alone in a little park near the Palazzo Scaligere in Verona, glimpsing the mists of early autumn as they shift and fade among the pines and city battlements on the hills above the river Adige.

The river has recovered from this morning's rainfall. It is now restoring to its shapely body its own secret light, a color of faintly cloudy green and pearl.

Directly in front of my bench, perhaps thirty yards away from me, there is a startling woman. Her hair is black as the inmost secret of light in a perfectly cut diamond, a perilous black, a secret light that must have been studied for many years before the anxious and disciplined craftsman could achieve the necessary balance between courage and skill to stroke the strange stone and take the one chance he would ever have to bring that secret to light.

While I was trying to compose the preceding sentence, the woman rose from her park bench and walked away. I am afraid her secret might never come to light in my lifetime. But my lifetime is not the only one. I will never see her again. I hope she brings some other man's secret face to light, as somebody brought mine. I am startled to discover that I am not afraid. I am free to give a blessing out of my silence into that woman's black hair. I trust her to go on living. I believe in her black hair, her diamond that is still asleep. I would close my eyes to daydream about her. But those silent companions who watch over me from the insides of my eyelids are too brilliant for me to meet face to face.

The very emptiness of the park bench in front of mine is what makes me happy. Somewhere else in Verona at just this moment, a woman is sitting or walking or standing still upright. Surely two careful and accurate hands, total strangers to me, measure the invisible idea of the secret vein in her hair. They are waiting patiently until they know what they alone can ever know: that time when her life will pause in mid-flight for a split second. The hands will touch her black hair very gently. A wind off the river Adige will flutter past her. She will turn around, smile a welcome, and place a flawless and fully formed Italian daybreak into the hands.

I don't have any idea what his face will look like. The light still hidden inside his body is no business of mine. I am happy enough to sit in this park alone now. I turn my own face toward the river Adige. A little wind flutters off the water and brushes past me and returns.

It is all right with me to know that my life is only one life. I feel like the light of the river Adige.

By this time, we are both an open secret.

Verona

poem by James Arlington Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

That Summer

I went to work for her that summer
A teenage kid so far from home
She was a lonely widow woman
Hell-bent to make it on her own
We were a thousand miles from nowhere
Wheat fields as far as I could see
Both needing something from each other
Not knowing yet what that might be.
til she came to me one evening
Hot cup of coffee and a smile
In a dress that I was certain
She hadnt worn in quite a while
There was a difference in her laughter
There was a softness in her eyes
And on the air there was a hunger
Even a boy could recognize.
She had a need to feel the thunder
To chase the lightning from the sky
To watch a storm with all its wonder
Written in her lovers eyes
She had to ride the heat of passion
Like a comet burning bright
Rushing headlong in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burning both ends of the night.
That summer wind was all around me
Nothing between us but the night
When I told her that Id never
She softly whispered thats alright
And then I watched her hands of leather
Turn to velvet in a touch
Theres never been a summer
When I have ever learned so much.
We had a need to feel the thunder
To chase the lightning from the sky
To watch a storm with all its wonder
Written in her lovers eyes
She had to ride the heat of passion
Like a comet burning bright
Rushing headlong in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burning both ends of the night.
I often think about that summer
The sweat, the moonlight and the lace
And I have rarely held another
When I havent seen her face
And every time I pass a wheat field
And watch it dancing with the wind
Although I know it isnt real
I swear inside I feel
Her hungry arms again.
She had a need to feel the thunder
To chase the lightning from the sky
To watch a storm with all its wonder
Written in her lovers eyes
She had to ride the heat of passion
Like a comet burning bright
Rushing headlong in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burning both ends of the night.
Rushing in long in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burnin both ends of the night

song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Christmas Eve

Glitter twinkled at my fingertips.
As if the angles themselves had sent
songbirds. Singing softly.
The Christmas lights became stars
as the sun sunk into sleep.
The smell of cold and gumbo
clung to the air as we huddled on the floor.
Paper was torn as each pair of hands
opened their box of Mystery.
I shed a silent tear
when I tore my silver paper
and undid my blue ribbon
and found an empty box.
I closed it gently. Thanked the donor.
Turned to see a strange child
sitting on the floor
beside me.
Her clear blue eyes stared
at the empty tree.
Emotionless.
I touched her thick fire hair.
She did not blink.
I put my box in her hands.
She smiled at me,
kissed my cheek,
left.
The box safe in her soft palms.
Never to be seen again.

poem by Zoe Guillory
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Death Papers.... (Part Two)

i, the body
of earth and wind,
cry for the mountains,
the valleys, and rivers.
i am man,
the warrior naked,
muscled dark and lean.
with eyes borrowed from the hawk,
and hands that turn the ground.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the marks of the whip scar my back.
with hardened phallus,
and panting breath,
i follow the trail of the wolves.
i am woman,
the warrior naked,
long hair swept by the wind.
with eyes borrowed from the owl,
and hands skilled in healing.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the scar of the chains on my wrists.
breasts born with fire,
garden wet with hungry birth,
i am the trail the wolves follow!

and now,
i, the body
lay down my cross,
seed in the furrow,
sunlight waiting
for darkness's goodbye kiss.
for i, the body,
am earth and wind....
mountains, valleys,
and rivers cry for me!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Free

Chill in the bones, chill in the air
Do you think that i haven't been around?
Boy i wasn't born yesterday, yesterday
Coming home late at night, flowers on the doorstep
Trying to make it right
Boy you gotta be high's what i got to say
I got to say, i've done all i can
I've given you every chance to prove you are my man
But now there's nothing left to lose
I'm free, like the wind
Independent once again
Yeah, i'm gone, i gotta be moving on
Free, watch me fly
Lift your hands and wave bye bye
'cause i'm gone
I gotta be movin' on, movin' movin' movin' on
Movin' movin' movin' on, movin' movin' movin' on
I think i'll go do the mall, make a couple of calls
Gonna hang with the girls
Just to keep from crying on a shoulder
Ain't gonna turn back
Nothing you can say can change that feeling that you get
When you know that it's finally, finally over
I've made up my mind
Even though it hurts to leave your love behind
I've got nothing left to lose
I'm free, like the wind
Independent once again
Yeah, i'm gone, i gotta be moving on
Free, watch me fly
Lift your hands and wave bye bye
'cause i'm gone
I gotta be movin' on, movin' movin' movin' on
Movin' movin' movin' on, movin' movin' movin' on
I'm gone
Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do
Even if your heart is trying to tell you to
Stay a little bit longer, trell you to
Try a little bit harder, baby i know
I can't live another day, sleep another night
Waiting for you to change into something i
Wish you could have been
It's not what i'm into now
I've done all i can
Given you every chance to prove
You are my man
But now there's nothing left to lose
I'm free, like the wind
Independent once again
Yeah, i'm gone, i gotta be moving on
Free, watch me fly
Lift your hands and wave bye bye
'cause i'm gone
I gotta be moving on
Free from your spell
Taking care of me myself
Yeah, i'm gone
I gotta be moving on
I'm free, like the wind
Independent once again
I'm gone, moving on
Free, watch me fly
Lift your hands and wave bye bye
Moving on
Free from your spell
Taking care of me myself
Moving on, i'm gone
Free from your spell, independent
I'm gone

song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Summer's Wind

You are the wind on a hot summer’s day
That cools off the air
Surrounding my body
You are the wind in my hair
As I walk down the street
You are the wind
That blows through my dreams
And awakens me to feelings
Of living and smiling
You are the wind
In which my hair rises
And my breath quickens
As my smile lifts
You are the wind
On a hot summer’s day

You are the sun
In which I need
To stay warm
You are the moon
In which I need
To read at night
You are the sun
In which brightens the day
To show me the way
To your arms
You are the moon
In which I need
To see the starts
To gaze under

You are the wind
On a hot summer’s day
You are the wind
That cools off the air
And helps so I can smile again
You are the wind
In which I feel
Your simple touch
Which makes me yield
You are the wind
In which I stop
And feel, calm, relaxed
And realize I am alive
You are the wind
On a hot summer’s day
That makes me realize
Life
Might just be
Ok

poem by Scarred Unknown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Out In The Cold

The day fell down, the air got cold
I walked out in the street
Daydreamed for a mil e or two
Staring at my feet
Like a workin boy, out of luck
Fallin through the cracks
Night rolled in, I turned back home
A hard wind at my back
Im out in the cold (out in the cold)
Body and soul (out in the cold)
Th eres nowhere to go (out in the cold)
Im out in the cold (out in the cold)
Well I woke up
My brain was stunned
I could come around
I reached out to grab my keys
Tumbled to the ground
I thought of you
Starry eyed
I wondered where we stand
Did I just fall from your arms
Down into your hands
Im out in the cold (out in the cold)
Body and soul (out in the cold)
Theres nowhere to go (out in the cold)
Im out in the cold (out in the cold)
Im out
Standin in a doorway
Im out
Walkin around
Hands in my pockets
Im out in the cold (out in the cold)
Body and soul (out in the cold)
Theres nowhere to go (out in the cold)
Im out in the cold (o ut in the cold)

song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Waiting For You (Sestina)

The tangled wood reminds me of your hair -
dark like the night and falling in whispers.
Kneeling underneath the sheltering pines,
I sip silence and stroke the memories.
You have long been gone, and I miss your hands,
slipping through the long sleeves of languid love.

Time is a leaf on the branch of our love,
curled in the corners of your chestnut hair
and falling like sand through hourglass hands.
Wind strokes my back and quietly whispers.
Stars float down a dark sky of memories,
their bright pulse like beacons above the pines.

Thus hangs the moon, suspended among pines,
promising brighter days showered with love;
but for now, I live in the memories.
I braid a blue blossom into my hair,
its fragrance wafting like weary whispers,
spider-spun silk in the palm of my hands.

I remember how you captured my hands,
held them within the shadow of the pines,
and kissed them soft as butterfly whispers.
It was then that I knew I was in love,
when you gently stroked the length of my hair,
now curled within the moonlight memories.

Moonlight makes magic of the memories,
within the palms of her shimmering hands,
and she sprinkles starlight throughout my hair.
Initials are carved in one of the pines
within a whimsical heart made with love
and sanctified with undying whispers.

The past unfolds in wandering whispers,
ushered through the gate of my memories.
I write a letter of undying love,
hold it like seeds in the palm of my hands,
and plant it with a kiss beneath the pines
as the wind looses a wisp of my hair.

The pale wings of my love move like whispers,
tangling in your hair like memories
captured within your hands beneath the pines.

poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Take Away My Single Life

I need a commitment
Because I'm tired of moving around
From this woman to that woman
With no reason to settle down
Some people say that I'm too particular
And that I carry too much pride
But I'm only looking for a real woman
That's going to make me satisfied
I need the type of woman
That takes pride in her real hair
And when we lay down at night
Her pretty eyes will still be there
I don't need the type of woman
that's always holding out her hands
With payday being the only day
That she claims me as her man
I want a woman that's in my arms
This day well so as the next
So that I can have positive feelings
At any time when we have sex
There's no need for a woman to be my girlfriend
If she's not fit to be my wife
And until a woman takes me that serious
I will remain living a single life

poem by Lamar Griffin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Over The Darkened City

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea,
And dreams in white at the city's feet;
On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills.
Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it.
Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat.

The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves;
Rain thrills over the roofs again;
Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city;
The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain;
And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves,
And among whirled leaves
The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower,
From wall to remoter wall,
Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound
And close grey wings and fall . . .

. . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember
A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes:
Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered.
Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . .
Voices about me rise . . .

Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-
'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down.
We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . '
A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled,
Thinking your face so strangely young . . . '
'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.'
'I am the one you followed through crowded streets,
The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.'

'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell
Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell:
A bell that broke great memories in my brain.'
'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you,
Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.'

'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding
The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen.
They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago.
I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing,
And returned to see it again. And it was so.'

Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain!
I am dissolved and woven again . . .
Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me.
Thousands of voices weave in the rain.

'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking
At a dazzle of golden lights.
Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking
Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights:
Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day,
Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way,
And turned, as she reached the door,
To smile once more . . .
Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water.
Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter,
Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon
On a night in June . . .
She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after;
She dances in dreams over white-waved water;
Her body is white and fragrant and cool,
Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . .
I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights
Of a broken music and golden lights,
Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling
Between my hands and their white desire:
And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance,
Dipping to screen a fire . . .
I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees,
But as I lean to kiss her face,
She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves,
And run in a moonless place;
And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down,
And shattering trees and cracking walls,
And a net of intense white flame roars over the town,
And someone cries; and darkness falls . . .
But now she has leaned and smiled at me,
My veins are afire with music,
Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light;
I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . '

He rises and moves away, he says no word,
He folds his evening paper and turns away;
I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces;
Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen,
And some sit motionless in their accustomed places.

Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts,
Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre;
The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange.
Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns.
One peers out in the night for the place to change.

Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain,
It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water,
Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street.
The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops.
Remote and hurried the great bells beat.

'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed,
Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down.
And to-day the woman I love lies dead.
I gave her roses, a ring with opals;
These hands have touched her head.

'I bound her to me in all soft ways,
I bound her to me in a net of days,
Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word.
How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you?
There is no use: we cry: and are not heard.

'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . .
Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city
Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . '
His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together.
Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire.

'No, do not stare so-he is weak with grief,
He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside;
He is confused with pain.
I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . .
He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.'

The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows,
The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls.
We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying;
And at last a silence falls.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Hands.... (That Dared To Speak!)

the hands....
that cleaned the old man
lying on urine stained sheets,
that planted the bulbs
in the old woman's flower bed.
that washed the dishes
for forty years....
the hands...
that built the old barn,
that plowed the fields,
that harvested the crops....
the hands...
that stroked desire's body,
that found each secret treasure,
that closed the window.
that held the baby,
that taught the child to write,
that buttoned his suit
on the day he was married.
the hands....
that buried the body,
that brushed leaves from the grave,
that packed away pictures.
the hands....
that picked up the pen,
that turned bloodstained pages,
that dared to speak!
the hands...
now old and withered,
painfully bruised,
often clasped in prayer,
that open to take the small child's hand;
that unlock the door,
and beckon to those in need...
the hands...

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The House Of Dust: Part 01: 06: Over the darkened city, the city of towers

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea,
And dreams in white at the city's feet;
On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills.
Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it.
Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat.

The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves;
Rain thrills over the roofs again;
Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city;
The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain;
And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves,
And among whirled leaves
The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower,
From wall to remoter wall,
Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound
And close grey wings and fall . . .

. . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember
A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes:
Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered.
Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . .
Voices about me rise . . .

Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,—
'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down.
We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . '
A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.