0274 Spam
Three to four more inches,
greater powers
to keep hard at it
for hours and hours,
wake the neighbours
with her moans,
buy now or she could
leave you for Mr Jones
think I'll wait,
see if she goes,
I much prefer
a night's repose
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The End of the Day
The night darkens fast & the shadows darken,
Clouds & the rain gather about mine house,
Only the wood-dove moans, hearken, O hearken!
The moan of the wood-dove in the rain-wet boughs.
Loneliness & the night! The night is lonely
Star-covered the night takes to a tender breast
Wrapping them in her veil these dark hours only
The weary, the bereaved, the dispossessed.
When will it lighten? Once the night was kindly
Nor all her hours went by leaden & long.
Now in mine house the hours go groping blindly.
After the shiver of dawn, the first bird's song.
Sleep now! The night with wings of splendour swept
Hides heavy eyes from light that they may sleep
Soft & secure, under her gaze so tender
Lest they should wake to weep, should wake to weep.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Cant It Wait Until Tomorrow
(nickolas ashford/valerie simpson)
I know youre standing there
Trying to say the words
You took so long to prepare
But I laugh, pretending I dont see
Cause I dont wanna hear
What you got to say to me
Cant it wait until tomorrow
Before you bring me the showers
Cant it wait until tomorrow
Give me 24 more hours
I ve seen it coming for quite sometime now
Dont you know Ive tried to stop it
In every way I know how
And I know its hard for you
As it is for me
So listen to my heart
Begging desperately
Cant it wait until tomorrow
Before you bring me the showers
Oh wait until tomorrow
Give me 24 more hours
Baby please give me 24 more hours
Cant it wait until tomorrow
Before you bring me the showers
Cant it wait until tomorrow
Give me 24 more hours
Cant it wait until tomorrow
Before you bring me the showers
Oh wait until tomorrow
Give me 24 more hours
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A May Night on the Mountains
’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,
These long ‘small hours’ of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.
There is something wrong with this star of ours,
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.
Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far
Are better than we, or worse?
Are they exempted from deaths and births,
And have they greater powers,
And greater heavens, and greater earths,
And greater Gods than ours?
Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth,
Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake,
Do they make their hells in their reckless youth
Ere they know what hells they make?
And do they toil through each weary hour
Till the tedious day is o’er,
For food that gives but the fleeting power
To toil and strive for more?
poem by Henry Lawson
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Is All About You
1 hour unity,
2 hours peace,
3 hours playing,
4 hours sleeping,
5 hours smiling,
6 hours living,
7 hours trusting in your muse!
For this river is mine and yours foeevers;
And, i want to be close to you always.
1 hour smiling,
2 hours learning,
3 hours thinking,
4 hours with your muse,
5 hours teaching,
6 hours working,
But, the 7th hour comes for me to sleep with you;
Because, this love is all about you! !
And, i want to be with you always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Last Dance
Wake up! its a monday morning
No time left to say goodbye
Cant breathe and the lights are changing.
You can live your own life
Making it happen
Working on your own time
Laid back and laughin
Oh no, oh no.
Headlights, make it home by sundown
Feeling that the day is through
Return back to where you come from
You can live your own life
Making it happen
Working on your own time
Laid back and laughin
Oh no, oh no.
You wake up in the mornin
And the suns comin up.
Its been up for hours and hours and hours
And hours and hours and hours
Its been up for hours and hours and hours
And you light up the stove
And the coffee cup, its hot.
And the orange juice is cold, cold, cold
Monday morning,
Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up
Its time to go,
Time to go to work.
You can live your own life
Making it happen
Working on your own time
Laid back and laughin
Oh no, oh no.
No, no, no.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Four hours of makeup, and then an hour to take it off. It's tiring. I go in, I get picked up at two-thirty in the morning, I get there at three. I wait four hours, go through it, ready to work at seven, work all day long for twelve hours, and get it taken off for an hours, go home and go to sleep, and do the same thing again.
quote by Peter Sarsgaard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Men find it difficult because I've got so much energy and hardly sleep at night, only four or five hours. I wake up in the early hours and potter around.
quote by Susannah York
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No, and I never, ever eat in between the meals. I control it well enough and with no pills, and I sleep seven hours a night. I go to bed. I fall asleep, and I wake up seven hours later, and this is the most important.
quote by Karl Lagerfeld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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21
Daylight you bring me
hours of repose; nighttime,
hours of wakefulness.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Hurtful Hours
So many hurtful hours
until I'll hear your voice.
Just seconds, just seconds
that would be my choice.
The wait is long. The wait is hard.
It's so very tough.
And when I finally hear from you
the minutes are not enough.
I sit on pins and needles
and let the time go by.
Sometimes I get weepy.
I try hard not to cry.
'Cause crying is a hurtful thing
and is no help to me.
So I dry my tears and wait for the phone
to bring sweet peace to me.
Speak to me. Speak to me.
Tell me what I want to hear,
that those hurtful, hurtful hours
are the same for you, my dear.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The two hours onstage is great. But I can only play a show and then take a night off. I have to sing for two hours, and then I've gotta rest it for a night. So it's the other 46 hours that are just boring as heck.
Flight Delays (Life Poem)
Sympathyless disbelief when I complain again,
Delays are the balance for the glamour of flying.
Nine hours in Sao Paulo while the ATC strike,
Eight hours in Vienna while new wheel flies in,
Seven sins would be justified by this purgatory,
Six times six hours from CBB to DUB last week,
Five hours sweating in Port au Prince plastic chair,
Four hours for rain in Miami seems not so bad,
Three hours in Shannon for bomb threat search,
Two hours sitting in Seattle with mad dash in Kennedy.
One would be happier walking, swimming or driving.
poem by Ian Beckett
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The Coloured Hours
GRAY hours have cities,
Green hours have rhymes
Of hearts grown loving
In old summertimes,
But the white hours have only
A cloud in the sky
And a star, bright and lonely,
To remember them by.
Gold hours have laughter,
Red hours have song
Drawn from lost fountains
Of beauty and wrong.
But the white hours,–O, tender
As rose-flakes they lie,
With youth's fallen splendour
To remember them by.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Hours Continuing Long
HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and unfrequented
spot, seating myself, leaning my face in my hands;
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth, speeding swiftly
the country roads, or through the city streets, or pacing miles
and miles, stifling plaintive cries;
Hours discouraged, distracted--for the one I cannot content myself
without, soon I saw him content himself without me;
Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are passing, but I
believe I am never to forget!)
Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed--but it is useless--I am
what I am;)
Hours of my torment--I wonder if other men ever have the like, out of
the like feelings?
Is there even one other like me--distracted--his friend, his lover,
lost to him?
Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning, dejected,
thinking who is lost to him? and at night, awaking, think who
is lost?
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless? harbor his
anguish and passion? 10
Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name, bring the
fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours, does he see the
face of his hours reflected?
poem by Walt Whitman
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You're Gone
(HogarthKellyMosleyRotheryTrewavas)
You're gone. As suddenly as you came to me
Like nightfall followed dawn without a day between
You're gone and suddenly I can't see
I'm in the shadow of you
I'm in the shadow of you
I can see you in my minds rose-tinted eye..
Somewhere you're drifting by
Your heels rolling sparks on the lucky street
While here am I, left behind
Stunned and blind
But I can see you from here
I can see you so clear
You are the light
You are the light
You have the day
I have the night
But we have the early hours together
You're gone, and heaven cries.
A thunderstorm breaks from the northern sky
Chasing you back to the daily grind
You're gone. And where am I?
A haunted life
The ghost of your laughter
The half-empty glass
The half-empty glass
And I wait
'til midnight tolls
Two souls almost touching in the dark
I'll be allright
You are the light
You are the light
You have the day
I have the night
But we have the early hours
We have the early hours
We have the early hours together
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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2 Weeks
14 Days left
336 hours
Until the end of this chapter
The chapter of hell in my life
2 weeks until I leave
8 hours a day
8 hours of hell in this school
Dealing with ignorance driven by people
Pushing back judgmental walls
After all 8 years in this prison
All I have is 2 weeks,14 days,336 hours left inside this hellhole
Now I can’t figure out what to do
Skip graduation, or stand on the stage and face the music?
That answer has left me then came back
In just 2 week I’ll be gone never to set foot inside again
In just 14 days I’ll leave and never turn back
In just 336 hours, my face will be erased from this place
2 weeks until I graduate from 8th grade
Why now, it must end sooner
In just 2 months I’ll be in high school
2 weeks…
14 days… 336 hours…
The memory of me will be gone
poem by Marcellus Watts
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The impatient hours
The impatient hours
~
The drumming of fingers
The ticking of the clock
Loudly fill the impatient hours
Wasteful in their emptiness
Surely there must be something better
But the wait continues anyway
Waiting on a promise to come good
Hoping its not like past promises
Which all became just lies
Paranoia stalks the mind
Reminding of the past disappointments
Why should this one be any different
Why wait in stale confines
When you could leave, walk away
Forget the promise in an instant
The drumming of fingers
The ticking of the clock
Grow ever louder
Counting each possible outcome
The promise bares fruit
Or becomes another lie
Still waiting on the realisation
In the impatient hours
Wasting the day into nothing
poem by Matthew Holloway
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In my day, at 12 years old, which was 38 years ago, we worked out in summer months for two and a half hours. Today someone in that age group might work out for four hours, two hours in the morning and two at night.
quote by Mark Spitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Hours
Three hours from sundown
Jeremy flies
Hoping to keep
The sun from his eyes
East from the city
And down to the cave
In search of a master
In search of a slave.
Three hours from london
Jacomos free
Taking his woes
Down to the sea
In search of a lifetime
To tell when hes home
In search of a story
Thats never been known.
Three hours from speaking
Everyones flown
Not wanting to be
Seen on their own
Three hours is needed
To leave from them all
Three hours to wonder
And three hours to fall.
Three hours from sundown
Jeremy flies
Hoping to keep
The sun from his eyes
East from the city
And down to the cave
In search of a master
In search of a slave.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Poem This Afternoon
this poem
has nothing much to give you
some words
discarded that i
keep again
on this monitor
perhaps garbage
or dust or pieces of
scratch papers,
but somehow
i go on writing,
without any purpose
at all
in mind, just
to let the hours pass
by
the minutes wasted
for having to wait
on something else,
the next scene
another event
of my life
a meeting in
another room
a riding of
a vehicle to the city
and then
wait again for the
students in the
university
i talk much
and write too
little
for hours and hours
until it gets so dark
at the late hour
of the night
and then i go home
drive my car
no talking now
just paying attention
to the road
meeting my face
and the faint sound
of the aircon
of the car until i
arrive on the side
of the house
the gate opens
i turn on the light
and go inside the room
to sleep
on this chilly evening.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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