En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Fragment

The metal black stove
Cooled by nights decay
Forever dads first task
This cottage day reanaiscance
He rakes away yesterday
Now dust as detritus
Quickens the new hearth
Momentum for the wheel

I remembered the room
With its sloping floor
The table the chairs
In place watching listening
By lifes narrative tide
Positioned scraped moved wove
The present silly child
Growing then naming chaos

Where is my mum
Not here in memory
Handing me a plate
Walking through the gate
A flash of material
A face calling me
To order my sense
In making this formality

I laid and listened
My mind quite inert
daylight is about again
The day is finite
The green papered wall
Stared at thought on
From here there now
Alive in my Eden

poem by Michael Oliver
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Learning To Love All The Mess

three plates remain unwashed
last night the cockroaches feast on the remains
of pork oil and morsels of rice
and bread
the dining chairs are not in place
looking like twigs in the park
after a storm

the table is littered with spilled sauce
the table cloth is stained
alcoholic
and the spoons and forks are still
having catchup on their tongues
and tails

the floor is foul with your dog's urine
and socks and shoes are roaming on the
living room

you guess it right
the universe is a big chaos

and so is this house
which is out of order
like a sink with leaking faucets

you want all your life to be in order
you wish a smooth and tidy place
vested with its own system

name-tagged and cabinetized
pieces

but it simply is not just
the way things work out

your dreams are silly

chaos and pandemonium are the orders of the
days of our lives
and so here i am with this firm resolve
to the flexibility of adaptability
for my survival

since disorder is the law
so must i obey it

to perfect my life and to put order
to my dreams and
properly accept this world's disposition
so must i
love chaos as well

go with the random flow of pandemonium
enjoy the errors
love the mistakes

and i swear to myself
beginning this ruinous day
that i,
wholeheartedly
must love all these mess

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pictures

Whoa oh yeah
I've seen pictures
Well i saw you just the other day
And i could not help but look your way
I say you've just got this special look
That has got me completely hooked
Ow
Pictures on the wall
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room
And i cannot find the door
Will this feeling ever go away?
Or will this feeling stay?
Will this feeling ever go away?
'cause i can't live the rest of my life this way
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon]
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon c'mon]
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon c'mon]
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room and i cannot find the door
I see your face in the clouds in the sky
I see your face before my eyes, yeah
I see your face everywhere
And now i don't know what to do
Oh oh
Pictures on the wall
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room
And i cannot find the door
Whoa pictures...

song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pleading

I'm knocking at your gate again
Open up
Won't you let me in?
I'm standing
Waiting
Watching to see some recognition please.
Yes
It really is me.
Open up.
Won't you let me in?
I waited for you
Let the years pass by
I listened to hear
The
'It's all right.'
I'm knocking at your gate again
Bloody knuckles
Scraped skin.
Panic is gaining hold on me
Please
I whisper
Let me in.
I taste tears..
Who is crying and why?
My vision is blurred
There is stinging in my eyes.
I'm knocking at your gate again.
Waiting
For the gusty wind to carry me away
From this lonesome place.
I'm knocking at your gate again.
Why won't you answer?
Why won't you let me in?
I'm walking down the path again
Away from you,
Away from this thing..
Whatever binds us
Will eventually break.
The threads will give way
Perhaps then
I will have found my escape.
No shelter here
Nothing secure
you don't even bother to peak
Through the curtains anymore.
I'm leaving you,
battered and bruised,
To a new place
A better home
Somewhere safe.

poem by Rabia Minhas
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Beach Chairs

Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the setting sun
holding hands and reminiscing
how it all begun

Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the ships out on the sea
holding hands and smiling
together we're meant to be

Sitting on the beach chairs
watching people walking past
holding hands and knowing
that our love will always last

Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the waves along the shore
holding hands we realize
our love is stronger than before

Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the changing tide
holding hands with happiness
to be by each others side

Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the sunrise
holding hands with tears of joy
there are no more good-byes

poem by Joyce Ebrecht
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Ratfinks, Suicide Tanks And Cannibal Girls

I black the temper, yeah
Never seen the face of truth
Sweet Mr. Jesus, yeah
Infected on my skin
Deep mist around you, yeah
I'm crawling on the side
Sheep for another, yeah
Another taste of life
It's alive, yeah everybody
It's alive, who will stop me?
It's alive, yeah everybody
It's alive, who will stop me?
Dead barks around you, yeah
Crawl in a river black
I creep and crawl here, yeah
He's falling on the floor
Out with another, yeah
A killing wall of sound
Say that you love it, yeah
Don't make me turn it down
It's alive, yeah everybody
It's alive, who will stop me?
It's alive, yeah everybody
It's alive, who will stop me?
Born to kill, yeah
Black, blue and bloody fingers
Hong Kong head, yeah
Who's gonna face this wheel
Now tell me smooth, yeah
I'll tell the pussycats
An ultra-pain, yeah
I'll blow it all away
It's alive, yeah everybody
It's alive, who will stop me?
It's alive, yeah everybody
It's alive, who will stop me?

song performed by by White Zombie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That was yesterday

That was yesterday
Someone asked me
If I had fallen astray in any particular way
I replied, ’ That was yesterday, not today’

Yesterday
I took the sunshine without making any hay
Yesterday
I allowed all my silver white teeth to decay
Yesterday
I partied and played each and every other day
Yesterday
I made friends and became the traitor who betrayed
Yesterday
I worked hard without getting my rightful pay
Yesterday
I only listened to whatever others had to say
Yesterday
I was always sad and never wore a face jubilantly gay

That was yesterday
Today is today

Yesterday I fell astray
I think it was almost every other day
But that changed in the month of May
As I got down on my knees to pray

Yesterday, Yesterday is gone
I’m free
I’m free
From yesterdays race
I’m back home in my rightful place

Life is work and not just play
Those answers came without delay
Yes but! That was yesterday, not today

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Life Is A Long Song

When youre falling awake and you take stock of the new day,
And you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say,
Well, dont you fret, dont you fear,
I will give you good cheer.
Lifes a long song.
Lifes a long song.
Lifes a long song.
If you wait then your plate I will fill.
As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day,
And the twelve oclock gloom spins the room,
You struggle on your way.
Well, dont you sigh, dont you cry,
Lick the dust from your eye.
Lifes a long song.
Lifes a long song.
Lifes a long song.
We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.
As the baker street train spills your pain all over your new dress,
And the symphony sounds underground put you under duress,
Well dont you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel.
Lifes a long song.
Lifes a long song.
Lifes a long song.
But the tune ends too soon for us all.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hole in the Bathroom Wall

The cottage was old, it needed some work
The walls were of crumbling stone,
The windows, like eyes in a tumbledown Kirk
Were staring, like sockets of bone;
I hadn't much money, I hadn't much choice,
'I'll take it, ' I said to the man,
If only I'd known what the future would bring
I would never have shaken his hand.

My marriage had failed, I had my young son
Just three and a half in the spring,
We bought an old bed and a table, two chairs,
Drove up there and went to move in;
The floorboards were creaky, the walls were damp,
The place was as filthy as hell,
I sat the young lad on the floor by a lamp
And I cleaned, until darkness fell.

The rooms were all empty, they echoed and stirred,
I thought I heard whispers and moans,
The ghosts of the past tried to warn me, I guess,
I couldn't interpret their groans;
I tucked up the lad after dinner, in bed,
And I wandered the house overall,
Then checked out the water, and turning my head
Saw a hole in the bathroom wall.

It wasn't that big, but was over the bath,
I could see through the damp and the rot,
It wouldn't take that much to fill it, I thought,
Then I took a long walk, and forgot;
For days I was painting, cementing and fixing
The cracks were all over the place,
But never a thought of that hole in the wall -
To my ultimate shame, and disgrace.

Outside the cottage, a paddock ran back,
All burnt up and brown in the sun,
There wasn't a leaf or a stick that was green
The summer had barely begun;
Old pieces of iron lay thick on the ground
And lizards lay under their shade,
I should have been warned, but it just didn’t dawn
On me then, to my utter dismay.

A month had gone by, the weather was dry,
So hot that we suffered like hell,
I drew a warm bath, only tepid and low
So the lad could cool off for a spell,
I reached for a towel, but nothing was there,
I remembered it out on the line,
Then ran out the back to retrieve it, and saw
What has ever since haunted my mind.

For over behind the old cottage, there slid
A brown skinned, and hideous snake,
Six foot in length it ignored me and went
For the hole where the wall was baked,
Slowly its body slid into the hole
As I stood there just shaking in fear,
My beautiful baby was sat in the bath
As his deadly opponent drew near.

I ran through the door and I screamed as I ran,
I made for the bathroom door,
Everything seemed to go suddenly slow
As I slid on the muddy, wet floor,
I finally got to the bathroom door,
Reached out, as I started to fall,
The snake had reared up, preparing to strike
From the hole in the bathroom wall.

We often remember 'the day of the snake'
Since my son has grown taller than me,
He has this aversion to lizards and snakes,
And goanna's and skinks in the tree,
We regularly walk round the cottage and fix
Any cracks, any holes, overall;
I lost my right arm from the snake as it struck
From the hole in the bathroom wall.

12 March 2008

poem by David Lewis Paget
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No Sign Of Yesterday

Pull out the stop plugs, drain all the waste
Who needs it anyway
Fill all the big holes, leave no trace
No sign of yesterday
I was all the dishes and I clean up my place
No sign of yesterday
I stare at the photographs of your dark face
No sign of yesterday
Out in the yard, was such a lovely place
Its where we used to play
Inside, outside you can feel and taste.
No sign of yesterday
And I cant hear you calling
I cant hear you calling
I cant hear you anymore
Metal ships are falling
This old car keeps stalling
Always seems to be the way
Pick up the pieces, and go dig out the dead
Then you can go to bed
Night is the stealer and time is the test
No sign of yesterday
Pull out the stop plugs, drain all the waste
Who needs it anyway
Fill all the big holes, leave no trace
No sign of yesterday
And I cant hear you calling
I cant hear you calling
I cant hear you anymore
Metal ships are falling
This old car keeps stalling
Always seems to be the way

song performed by by Men At Work
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Judy and You and Chagall

What did you think
of the Chagall postcard print
I bought you?
Judy asked as you both sat

outside the Fox Inn
I pinned it on my wall
you replied
and stared at it every time

I entered the room
thinking of you
she sipped her drink
her eyes searching you

her hair tied behind
in a ponytail
so I gathered
by your letters

she said
putting her glass
on the small wooden table
I missed you

you said
I went to London
while you were away
and saw you

in every girl I saw
even at the ballet
at the opera house
she looked at her glass

I was only away for a week
she said
it seemed a year
you said

you inhaled the cigarette
you were holding
taking in her hair
and eyes and how

her lips moved
as she spoke
Florence was fantastic
she said

I picked out
that Chagall print for you
in one of the art galleries
who did you go with?

you asked
friends
she replied
male or female?

both
she said
you inhaled the cigarette again
and thought of the first time

you kissed her
how the moonlight
shone on her face
as you moved her around

you mustn't be so jealous
she said
I have to see others
who was the guy?

Henrik
she said
you imagined her
and this Henrik

making out
in some Florence hotel
his hands touching her
I thought of you

every moment
you said
that's sad
she said

why?
you said
because no one
should think of another

that often
she sipped her drink
and looked around
at the evening sky

how was Florence?
beautiful
she said
like you

you said
I am like Shakespeare's' lily
she said
as it withers

she added
I see
you said
and you studied

her hands as they lifted
the glass to her lips
the fingers
the skin

the way they held
the glass
did you read my letters
when you got home?

you asked
yes
she said
every single one

my mother said
I must have besotted
some poor soul
and you thought

of the Chagall print
and how you had sniffed it
for traces of her scent
and remembered

your mother's words
nothing is given forever
things in this world
are only lent.

poem by Terry Collett
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The library of memory

and then in between remarks,
you fall silent, still, the eyes
not far away but rather,
seeing the faraway right here
and those who know you
or who know the feeling of themselves,
know where you are

how describe that place
where a lifetime’s memories are stored,
clean, precise, waiting, neglected, seemingly forgotten?
is it a castle; a linen closet; a box room, that place in the inner mind?
rather, it seems a library, of the books that life writes

and there comes a moment in between remarks
when the present offers nothing, so it seems;
and your mind leaves the assembled company,
walks into that quiet room, its shelves so carefully arranged
by someone unknown to you, a librarian
who knows you better than you know yourself;

I sit down in that green leather armchair, quietly;
but such the power of the memory of you
the pure essence of the memory of memory itself
that I need not reach to take that well-read book down again
but simply glance towards that place; on that shelf; where it rests;
sit, for a minute of eternity; rediscover myself;
then rise; walk, the back erect, dignified;
the stature taller for the memory of whom I am;

turning the smooth handle of the door as it closes, and
beyond all love, the watching;
freedom that makes the whole world live anew

poem by Michael Shepherd
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A sonnet on the wind's promises.

The wind brought me a present yesterday,
a scent it carried for three hundred miles.
It brought the ozone's hue from Sanna Bay
and stirred a pot of thought that so beguiles

and conjures up the past with abject ease,
as if time skipped upon the childhood rope.
Atlantic salt and sand so surely please
each blessed visitor they filled with hope.

The wind blew from the North in Summertime
and though it cooled the ardour on the ground,
It brought that thought that some would call sublime
a memory of love that few have found.

The wind brought me a present yesterday
a timeless beauty, trapped in its bouquet.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Fanny's China Garden

Shards of pottery and china
remembered patterns
decorated the small garden
within her garden
underneath the apple tree

Tucking them in
beside her little flowers
she kept her memories
not quite intact

Saving careful pennies in a tin
Putting-by the six place tea-set
Paying it off Bringing it home

His comments on her silliness
Wet's tha want wi that?
Pleasure as she set the table
Polished them admiringly

Prized for Christmas and on Boxing Day
their Anniversary Anxious
watching as clumsy sons left them

on the table edge or
sideways on the saucer
Tears when a cup handle pulled
away as she washed up

clattering the cup to chip
two others and a saucer
For years she used them for herself

Her cross a tracery of flower
round the smooth translucent china
Handleless

Pain stabbing as he dropped
two plates on quarry tiles
in the scullery
Making a point

Quarter plate - part cup -
just a deckle-edge bouquet
Tucking-in the pretty bits

sharp side down
to cheer the flower border
Loss and memory growing

01May1996 CPR

poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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The Artists.....

the role of a true artist
is to put order to the messy state of things
chopped lines are interconnected again
colors are categorized to a harmonious blending
a room of scattered old and dirty clothes
bedsheets in disarray
pillows on the floor
paper scratches and pens and ink spilled
the artist picks them all up
and puts them properly back to the places
where they must be

for at the beginning there was an order of perfection
but then this universe bangs itself against a black space of a wall
and goes into an accelerated entropy
a scattering, a chaos pursuing upon another chaos
expanding litters of planets and stars

and God the Artist gathers them all into One
Harmony, the Silenced Storm, the Wellness and Wholeness
of These All

We are all these Artists, God's Children looking for Peace.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Ladies Relax

The Tea Room,
with the chatter, and the clatter
of crockery
as each lady
sips her tea
with gentility.

Scones and jam,
sandwiches with ham,
cream and cakes,
which the tea room bakes.

Open at three
close at six o'clock.

Waitress in black frock,
serves with a smile
moving down the aisle
between the tables and chairs,
handing out the eclairs.

The ladies relax
discussing the facts,
gossiping away,
passing the day,
over a cup of tea
and some strawberry
conserve,
and one can observe
the scene,
watching them all,
having a ball.

Another pot of tea for two,
and a strong brew
if you please,
Thank you!

poem by Ernestine Northover
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0016 Orpheus - or his lute?

It was his listening; he listened
to himself; he listened to himself
listening to his lute; his lute perforce
listened to itself; listened to itself
listening to him..listened to
the measures of all things, even
the measures of mankind..

space, air, listened to his listening;
listened as the eagle made a silent,
perfect circle around a centre in its mind
high above Delphi that clear morning;
listened to the silent cliffs across the gorge,
silently ominous in their listening;
the stream which trickles down past the carved theatre,
cool and clear enough to wash your face;
look up the mountain and hope it sacred, holy; it
plashes like curiosity pursued, down towards the river
which is a mere pencil line at the bottom of the gorge
in this so unexpected place;
the sea barely visible in the distance,
misty with its myths unspoken;

space listened and loved his music, allowed this scene;
a cool air, this morning elsewhere hot, descends gently
down the mountain to the gorge, curves past these rocks
where a dark shadow here or there
could be where the Sibyl listened too.

we thought, boarding the hot bus,
that we were tourists; then we looked,
became pilgrims; then something more,
more like worshippers of the unknown god
whose altar we left behind in Athens,
silent beyond questions,
listening to the space
as if the space itself
listened to some instrument well tuned,
a voice perhaps, silent, powerful.

the sun, the sunlight, moved from rock to rock
this cool, clear morning, waking
clumps of sparse bright flowers, woken
again by morning bees
who may be unaware – or born to know—
they forage at a world heritage site as do we visitors,
at Delphi, where still truth speaks in silence;
bees who listen to each other,
dance their satnav trails,
listen inwardly to flowers,
to honey, and what else

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love's Young...

They were young lovers, and seated at the table in the window;
where in Paris they'd be watching
the passers-by watching them...
but no.
He was silent, unyielding; but uncomfortable;
she with her head buried in his shoulder,
and pale as a damsel
in some stress.
I thought at first, they've had a long night
and she tired first...
but no.
They looked at me as I took the table across from them
as if I were a threat to their lovers' bubble
of unhappiness
not quite fully demonstrated...
Their order came.
He'd ordered a huge steak platter each;
and with his male priorities,
tucked in with vigour
eating with his elbows
which made it difficult for her
to maintain her body code
so leant her head behind his shoulder blade
uncomfortably
and left her meal untouched;
he undaunted;
one sensed a sympathy held sternly
by a sense of moral support;
it was not unbecoming
to another male...
but she was getting nowhere
and his was a large and satisfying steak.

Finally, she pushed her plate away.
I must say, she played the lovers' code
just right; not overdone,
not underdone, just medium please.

Minutes later
he went off to the Gents.
And then she gave the game away.
Sat up, mind clear, looked out the window
and very, very nearly
did all those feminine things
done at such a time.

O lady, lady, in thy orisons
be all thy sins remembered.

But they left together;
as if with a common purpose.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Coming to Terms

Peeking through the yellowed drape
A ray of hope shines in.

Outside the world awaits
While inside, my mind, it spins.

Listening to the Nature
The Pride of the Bumble Bee
Or the Aristocrat Of The Song Bird
Truly, it does entice me.

SO long,
Locked inside
This prison of Doom and Gloom

Where feelings of physical pain
And mental misery
Fill up my wailing room.

A room where too many tears are shed
A room where despondence grows

A place where sheer despair
Knows no bounds
A place that true suffering knows.

I walk SO close to the door
The key held tightly in my hand

Apprehensive to open up to the OutSide
Afraid of Mother natures Green Growing land.

For too many years a prisoner
Of all of my lifes regrets

The pains of dealing with ones ownself
'Tis a Ghost, that must be met!

(Dedicated to Ms. J. M. Davis)

poem by Theodora Onken
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How Grey The World Was

How grey the world was with its memories,
How dark even this gay room where the motes run!
How black these curtains, thick with murder cries,
These chairs, this floor with things slain in the sun!
'Twas here I strangled love, a year ago,
And hid it 'neath these pillows drenched in blood,
As a mad mother her sweet babe of woe,
Too strong to die, too fair, which shrieks aloud.
How black and bare and bitter the world was
Just yesterday! To--day, this room, dear Heaven,
What laughters fill it! what light footsteps pass!
See, the white chairs dance round me pleasure--driven,
And these sad pillows, where I wept, blab out
The news that you are here, in psalm and shout!

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Bounce Right Back

I was walking down the street
With my old friend luke
And the strangest thing we saw
There was a flash like dynamite
And we fell down to the floor
And as we looked up this weird dude stood
I guess he was standing about four feet five
With a nonchalance and a joie de vivre
His face was grinning from side to side
Chorus
Well he said button up and tighten your lip
Keep a check on what you say
Those crazy words you fling from your mouth
Are going to bounce back on you some day
Now several years pass
I thought nothing more
It was down to a nine to five grind
I was shuffling round to my old friends house
I had party on my mind
While chatting this chick
A guerilla muscled in
A brace of henchmen right behind
My blood boiled hard
Ill give you a piece of my mind
And this guy appeared by my side
Dont you know what he said
Chorus
I was walking down the street with my old friend luke
We were getting into a bit of a heavy scene
He say yes and I say no
He say what do you mean
I pulled my piece and he pulled his
We stared each other right in the eye
There was a flash like dynamite
And this guy appeared by our side
Chorus

song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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