But for a woodpecker
But for a woodpecker
tapping at a post, no sound
at all in the house
poem by Matsuo Basho
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A Annoying Woodpecker
The woodpecker pecks gracefully
On the side of the house.
It's bothersome raps
wake me from a sound sleep.
I stumble out of bed in a
Sleepy fog, and walk outside
To somehow quiet the loud clatter.
I walk up to the house
The small woodpecker is startled
And hastily flies away.
He perches on a small branch
And looks at me
I leave the woodpecker
To his business
In hopes that he would get
Bored and leave
For my house's sake.
poem by Melanie Dickie
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First 4 Stanzas of MY VERSION of 'The Raven' by E. A. Poe
Once upon a bright spring morning, while I pondered about the heat,
Over many a splendid and soothing volume of forgotten sound,
While I nodded, nearly speechless, suddenly there came a knocking.
As of someone gently tapping, tapping at my house all around.
' 'Tis some visitor, ' I whispered, 'tapping at my house all around-
Only this, 'twas all I found.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the sparkling April,
And each separate blooming flower circled the room round.
Eagerly, I wished for more- I had to try to find
A dog of some sort that could hunt- maybe something like a hound-
For the rare and radiant maiden so she could have a hound-
Nothing else that I had found.
And the vibrant, vibrating uncertain rustling of each blue curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic elation never felt before;
So that now, to still the fast beats of my heart, I stood saying
' 'Tis some visitor trying to come in at my door weighing a pound-
Some late visitor trying to come on at my door weighing a pound-
This it is, it was all I found.'
Presently my soul grew in strength; hesitating for a short time,
'Sir, ' said I, 'or Madam, truly you have great reason for being profound;
But the fact that you are here, and so gently you came knocking
And so faintly did I hear you, tapping at my house all around.
That I knew you would be here' - here I opened the door weighing a pound-
An angel there, with beautiful seraph sound.
poem by Rebecca Ryan
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The Monument Of All Our Wrongs
i build a house
no one likes it.
the house is empty
i put some chairs.
someone comes and
says, this house is
lonely, it needs
a sound
it is boring and needs
a paint
i put a tree beside
its stairs
i grow another
fence
i put a lone bulb
on a post
and leave the house
for good
that is what the
house is made
there is always
missing
something is
always wrong
this is the house
of regret
it is the monument
of all our wrongs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The House Beside The Road
The house beside the road,
Where people lived
And children played,
Is empty now
And falling down.
The echos of happy feet
Are heard now,
Tapping to the sound
Of Poppy's fiddle,
But the house beside the road
Is empty.
When a gentle voice
Is heard in the house,
It's only a singing breeze
Sifting itself through
The cracks in the roof of
The house beside the road.
poem by Scarlett Treat
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Do Not Post Your Poem Here
Do not post your poem here
Unless you've something worth a say!
You must not waste a space like this,
For space can waste away!
Do not post your poem here
With words which make no sense!
Be careful when you post it here
That you use the proper tense!
Do not post your poem here
Just to fill a space with words!
A poem should be well thought out,
Was it meant to be absurd?
Do not post your poem here
If in cliches you would write.
A poem should be fresh, yes sharp -
You'll know when it's just right!
Do not post your poem here
Just to see yourself in print.
You're wasting others time you know
With such, self centred stints!
I wil not post my poem here,
This one does not exist,
But did I tell you at the start
That I'm a nihilist?
poem by Joe Hughes
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Not A Dry Eye In The House
Not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
I can still see you standing there
Midnight wind blowing through your hair
Kisses sweet in the salty air
When love was forever
Turn the page and we fade to blue
The scene has changed now Im without you
Walked away when the act was through
And the dream was over
It was almost like a movie - the way you said goodbye
You must have a lot of time rehearsing each and every line
Now theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
The greatest story was you and me
Had it all we had everything, but now the
Storys done its just history
The last act is over
You every line had the sweetest sound
Your every touch turned my world around
But the light came up and my world crashed down
End of show - its over
It was almost like a movie
Those nights we touched the stars
Time stood still for you and i
Now its sad enough to make you cry
Now theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
Act one - the storys just begun
Act two - I fell in love with you
Act three - knew it was meant to be
Act four - you dont love me no more
And theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a dry eye in the house (3x)
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Day Will Not Come Again
'A sweet summer afternoon. Cool breezes and a clear sky. This day will not come again.
The young bulls lie under a tree in the corner of their field. Quiet afternoon. Blue hills.
Day lilies nod in the wind. This day will not come again. '
Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
I expected the slight rise
in the east, the sky
growing slate, then
blushing pink and
suddenly blue.
The winter tree
is often
bathed in gold,
and the familiar song
of thrush and jay,
woodpecker's rapid tapping
brash geese
shouting,
are often the same
from one to another day.
But this sudden breeze,
freshening breath
of the butterfly,
the warmth
the joyful cry!
My God is here!
I breathe,
I sigh.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Last Post.
The last post sounds and echoes round.
The neat and well kept burial ground.
Head stones in rows beneath the sky
to mark where our dead heroes lie.
Standing as if still on parade.
Each headstone looking newly made.
It is one way we show respect.
No more no less than I expect
Head stones don’t only signify
that battle weary soldiers die
They also serve who wait for men
who will not see their home again.
The last post makes us realise
That war destroys their families.
Each time I hear the last post sound
I’m filled with sadness so profound.
Tears spring unbidden from my eyes,
they always take me by surprise.
I’m not ashamed to let them flow
Because I’m old enough to know.
That real men aren’t afraid to cry
Despite the ancient common lie.
That men don’t let emotions show
and should not let their tear drops flow.
When I hear the last post sound
I can recall the battle ground.
Where so many comrades still lie
in foreign fields beneath the sky.
The last post serves to honour all
brave soldiers who sadly fall.
Not only friends but enemies.
Death selects quite randomly.
Young widows weep and mothers cry.
They have the right and so do I.
Tuesday,31 August 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Astonishing Forest
Where the house filled with living
The house continuously giving
Where the house filled with nature
The house filled with adventure
Anything can survive
With the nature it provides
Where the house filled with grass
The house filled with hedges, bushes and plants
Canopy trees be it rain or shine
Will be there for you at any time
Where the green house filled with fresh air
Will shelter you in the heavy rain
O the house of beauty
O the house of sound
So much variety is yet to be found
poem by Sehar Zaman
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Richard Feynman's Woodpecker
Under a cloudy sky
A hammering woodpecker
Drilled and drummed
On a tree branch
With her chisel-like bill tip.
Then a physicist stepped out
Of his house into the haze
Billowing over the street.
He scratched his bald head
And brooded and pondered
Contemplated and thought
Of the opaque secret of light.
Well, he said, nowadays
Of course we already know
That light can be
Both a particle and a wave,
A stream of arcane photons
Or a recondite river of rays:
Electromagnetic radiation.
But I still
Do not understand it,
He muttered,
For this whole damned thing
Remains elusive and mysterious.
The problem is, he said,
That while sound waves
Propagate through the air
And surface waves in lakes
Or oceans travel in water,
Light can traverse through
Intergalactic nothing
Moving in straight lines
In the vacuum
Of empty space
Without a medium
As electromagnetic waves.
Now, how does this
Silly light do it?
How can it propagate
Without a medium?
And how does it know
Which way is straight?
And why is it a constant?
He asked, and nothing
Can travel faster
Than the speed of light,
That is to say almost
300,000 km per second.
And he suddenly
Remembered that once
Richard Feynman said:
Physicists do not
Really understand physics,
They just get used to it.
And so the physicist just kept
Wondering and scratching
His bald head
Under a cloudy sky.
A dense gray mist
Billowed then over the street
And a hammering woodpecker
Drilled and drummed
On a tree branch
With her chisel-like bill tip.
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Abandoned House And The Man Who Drags His Shoes To Make The Necessary Sound
when you arrive in the house
(the house that both of you built 17 years ago)
no one is there
not even the three white dogs
you have accepted this face of loneliness
without a mouth
it is its nature now
gentle in silence
there is nothing to talk about with someone else
when someone else is far away and seemingly taking all the hearts out
the door and the hinges have to keep things for themselves
for in truth, those who left the stairs
they still love
you have the key to the door of the kitchen
and that is where you start the journey towards the living room
you scurry on some little memories
it is like putting some words in your notes
in here and there beyond the margins
but it is not that endless really
for whatever it be
joy or death there's got to be an end
that is the truth of the meaning of
this word
it could be a dead-end
a street of walls
& then actually you are caught
in flagrante
where your only choice
is to go back,
retrace,
remember,
refresh
refrains, refrains
of a
love song
you go back to the room look longingly at the bed
the blankets are dusty and the pillows are stained with so much emptiness
or guilt
scruples
Freudian analysis
Carl Jung's other possibilities
of reconciliation
this is a very soundless world and
every part here is keeping its mouth shut
their layers of concealment are thick
and their canopies of
self-defenses are hard
you feel like this is one kind of a giant shell
and you are inside it
its flesh
all blistering
flesh
you decide to wear your shoes all throughout this scrutiny
this journey into marriage
into childlessness
into what if's
you drag your feet with your shoes on
as though someone is suffering and wanting to die
and you hold the collar
and you hurt the backbone
and in that open window
you imagine that someone may finally
jump like a scared cat
nine lives
thirty-six softest feet
you purposely make a sound with your shoes
tapping and tapping
and tapping
to create those sounds
of the past dances
just to fill an empty room
some thoughts jump out of the window
dressed in euphemisms
as the ceiling creates its own crankiness
its cloudiness
nine cats in you jump out that window
falling softly on the grass below
all thirty-six
dreams
it is nice to see of course
nine unharmed cats like fluffy cotton blown by the wind and gently
softly land on the grass
it is no wonder
why men sometimes invoke the sound of their whistling
indeed it is by this time
very relaxing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Dog And Me
When life goes a stray and your poor old dog can’t sing the blues any more. You just have to start tapping with your left foot to the old southern tune. Life is like a road country road winding among the mountains. We want to get there but where never in hurry and when get there its most amazing thing you ever see. So you sit atop a mountain you and your dog a foot a tapping to the old songs of the south. You dog and your dog just look at each other with joy. There is nothing great than life, a man and his dog. So you sit upon a millions of stars gazing at life greatest wonders. I started to my play fiddle and you look at your dog. Your dog looks back and starts tapping his left foot again. A man his dog and life down past the mason Dixie line. So that old dog started howling and at the mid night train. It came rolling around the bend at a quarter to four. The sound of the whistle made my dog start doing the 2 step with old mis.jhonson. The dog and mis.jhonson danced all night to the whistle of southern train bound for Kentucky. I and mis.jhonson got married. So they live happy with their dog in the hills of the appalachaims. every time the train comes rolling around they smile and enbrance there love.
poem by Joe Hirsch
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Musical Feet
My shuffling feet, shuffle forward,
Tapping out a rhythm of a beat.
Taking time to get it right.
Hand tapping thigh,
The pace not a race.
Body vibrates, booming Bass,
Hairs prickle the neck,
Touches roots of the soul.
© 2012
poem by Nick Strong
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Whipping Post
I been run down, I been lied to,
I dont know why I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecked my new car.
Now shes with one of my goodtime buddies,
Theyre drinkin in some crosstown bar.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
My friends tell me, that Ive been such a fool,
And I have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and I look at what youve down.
But nothin seems to change, the bad times stay the same,
And I cant run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
Transcribed by rich kulawiec, [email protected]
song performed by by Allman Brothers Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Whipping Post
I been run down, i been lied to,
I don't know why i let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecked my new car.
Now she's with one of my goodtime buddies,
They're drinkin' in some crosstown bar.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
My friends tell me, that i've been such a fool,
And i have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and i look at what you've down.
But nothin' seems to change, the bad times stay the same,
And i can't run.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
Transcribed by rich kulawiec, [email protected]
song performed by by Allman Brothers Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Pesky Pecker
Each morning I'm awakened
by my annoying little friend.
As long as he has wood
he will be at it once again.
'Woody' has been with me now
for days beyond recall.
A Persistent little Pecker,
the little bugger gives his all.
For a month now he's been tapping
on the tree outside my den.
On weekends its annoying
cause I like to sleep till Ten.
I so wish someone would eat him,
perhaps the neighbor's cat,
and end his constant tapping
by putting paid to that.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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A woodpecker pecked wood.
A woodpecker pecked wood.
Pointed in dismay
arranged to be sharp,
my sword moves
a plain battlefield
of bloodspotted ink
which will stay.
Stained by fools
who never learned
to break the
walls of prejudices down,
i frown in surprise.
How can I start
a life that's never begun,
were can i put
my big little toe?
Shocked by my
clodded
tabula rasa,
i break down
and cry.
The field is grained
and dotted
with grey, black
and reds,
on a sunny
display.
A woodpecker
pecked wood,
misunderstood
and then stopped
to learn.....
to be good. Madrason 30-09-2010
poem by Madrason writer
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Let's Talk About War
Let’s talk about war
We’ll discuss Tennyson
And Brooke
Owen
And Sassoon
How simple life seems
When the sun blazes
The girls are wearing skirts and sunglasses
The scent of summer in the air
We’ll talk about the different wars
And the poets who fought with pens
A distraction occurs in the form
Of a woodpecker
Beating away at a drainpipe
April names it Woodpecker
April names it Pecky
It’s hard to think, miles away,
Men and boys are cut down
In their prime
Blown to bits
As they stand, straight and tall.
How ironic
That we’re talking about war
While outside
A tiny feathered machine gun patters away.
poem by Rebecca Kate Summers
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The Woodpecker
What is that knock-knock sound?
I hear it when it's quiet.
I look and listen for the source.
It's the woodpecker looking for its diet.
I found him upright on the bark
of a tall and lanky pine
making a hole as he taps repeatedly
with his beak that's pointy and fine.
It seems he's making a nest today
pecking away with his beak.
And in between he takes some time
to eat insects as I try to catch a peek.
But the sight that I catch as he pecks away
is not as interesting to me
as his knock-knock sound that I listen to
on my tall and barky tree.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Idealism that makes no distinction between areas where our national interest lies and those from which it is remote does no good for America. The weariness of the post-Versailles, post-Korea, post-Vietnam eras is never far from the national mood.
quote by Dick Morris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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