Museum Of The City Of...II
Behind their frozen forms, behind
the ribbed webs of their flipper-slippers,
in the distance dim
a stern-to-bow-with-garbage-laden scow
calmly plows the current-riven stream.
One unseaworthy old ark, 'way off-
(an obvious ancestor of the Circle Line)
triple-tiered and crammed with fun-seekers-
over whose rail a few vigilants hang
frozen in open-mouthed surprise-
(bringing to mind Auden's 'Musee des Beaux Arts',
but that's neither here nor there)
-to see three wet-suited men dropp from the skies:
eternally expecting a splash that never comes;
and wouldn't a bully pleasure yacht
cruising nearby reveal itself whole, but for that
misadventurous plunge into the frame,
cropping it in halves.
Up in the sky a twin-engine out of La Guardia,
props awhirl,
merrily shreds the clouds.
Then, there is the light shuttlecock of the chopper, itself-
compact, bird-like, blades atop stilled to stilettos,
it's saw mill tail a churning blur,
generating fanfares of light,
to a certain span the water beneath,
whipped to a low boil, a pockmark, an eschar,
like the maelstrom, seen from afar, a gameboard,
into which they imminently plunge.
What were they....
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Related quotes
We will survive
Our bantam scow drifts aimlessly
And clouds rise up before her bow
We hold our course tenaciously
Not knowing how
A scow she is and scow she’ll be
Her cargo is our very soul
Our tiny vessel on the sea
Has lost control
The sea of life is filled with pain
And rages as the storm appears
A cancer we cannot restrain
Confirms our fears
The tendrils of the sea seep in
And wraps its self about our helm
Destroying flesh and rotting skin
It’s cancer’s realm
We stand together in our fight
And choke the sea to stay alive
Beyond the storm there is a light
We will survive
_________________________________
Author Notes:
A Sapphic ode (Alexander Pope style) . Ode form means repeating stanzas of the same rhyme and meter, Sapphic relate to three long and one half length line.
poem by Amera Andersen
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Bunny Slippers (TM) (For Will)
Bunny slippers,
Bunny slippers,
Pitter patter feet,
Running down the hallway,
Seeing who they meet.
Bunny slippers,
Bunny slippers,
Running all night long,
Curious feet,
Can really do no wrong.
poem by Aisha Sherazi
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The Wreck of the "Julie Plante": A Legend of Lac St. Pierre
1 On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
2 De win' she blow, blow, blow,
3 An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
4 Got scar't an' run below—
5 For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
6 Bimeby she blow some more,
7 An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
8 Wan arpent from de shore.
9 De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
10 An' walk de hin' deck too—
11 He call de crew from up de hole,
12 He call de cook also.
13 De cook she 's name was Rosie,
14 She come from Montreal,
15 Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
16 On de Grande Lachine Canal.
17 De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',--
18 De sout' win' she blow too,
19 W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
20 Mon cher, w'at I shall do ?"
21 Den de captinne t'row de beeg ankerre,
22 But still de scow she dreef,
23 De crew he can't pass on de shore,
24 Becos' he los' hees skeef.
25 De night was dark lak wan black cat,
26 De wave run high an' fas',
27 W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
28 An' tie her to de mas'.
29 Den he also tak' de life preserve,
30 An' jomp off on de lak',
31 An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
32 I go drown for your sak'."
33 Nex' morning very early
34 'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
35 De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
36 Was corpses on de shore,
37 For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
38 Bimeby she blow some more,
39 An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
40 Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
41 Now all good wood scow sailor man
42 Tak' warning by dat storm
43 An' go an' marry some nice French girl
44 An' leev on wan beeg farm.
45 De win' can blow lak hurricane
46 An' s'pose she blow some more,
47 You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
48 So long you stay on shore.
poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Brook Rhine
SMALL current of the wilds afar from men,
Changing and sudden as a baby's mood;
Now a green babbling rivulet in the wood,
Now loitering broad and shallow through the glen,
Or threading 'mid the naked shoals, and then
Brattling against the stones, half mist, half flood,
Between the mountains where the storm-clouds brood;
And each change but to wake or sleep again;
Pass on, young stream, the world has need of thee;
Far hence a mighty river on its breast
Bears the deep-laden vessels to the sea;
Far hence wide waters feed the vines and corn.
Pass on, small stream, to so great purpose born,
On to the distant toil, the distant rest.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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In The Distance
On a lonely hillside,
there stands a cabin
with a lamp in the window
to show someone is there.
In the distance it is a beacon
that points to my cosy home.
When my working day is through
and I walk back along the miles,
I can see that lamp burning.
That welcoming beacon
beckoning to me there in the distance.
My love waits for me there
after my work is done
with my slippers near the fire.
The miles never seem that long
with that beacon in the distance
waiting to welcome me home.
1 March 2011
poem by David Harris
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I Had A Box of Poems
I had a box of poems
It must have been a thousand strong
Written by me to me
It was all my sincerity
Over an age of thirty strong
It contained my verse of right and wrong
Then there was this great, a rift
And adamant, divorce she insist
I packed my things, I was gone
No place to be but in my song
For safe keeping, I knew I could trust
Left my box that spilled my guts
Like an orphanage, they, my children safe
Until I could collect them, another place
It was like my personal Dachau
When I found out they've been placed in the garbage scow
June 21,2012
poem by Midnights Voice
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If you put garbage in a computer nothing comes out but garbage. But this garbage, having passed through a very expensive machine, is somehow ennobled and none dare criticize it.
quote by Rory Bremner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dirty Brown Leaves And Windy Dreams by Talile Ali
kick up your feet and smell the air
full of moisture, fungus, and dust
take off your shoes and reflect
as the air washes out the must
pretty women walking in the distance
chatting about this and eating sprat
old people resting in the shadows
children laughing at being rats
sip of water, hint of melon
garbage floating in the stream
remarkable blessings flow around
dirty brown leaves and windy dreams
Copyright © 2009
poem by Talile Ali
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Against Current
I like to move against current
I want to play more around
I don’t like to just follow order
I like to place myself against current
I want to challenge how far I could go on
I don’t like to be lead without having any power
I like to be against current
I want to see the faces who passing me by
Even I should turn so far, even I should wait a little more time
I want to be free to do what I want, to follow my heart’s tell
Maybe I’m not always against current
Maybe it’s good and the right one
But I will never know what’s outside the flow
If I only let myself swept by current
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The poet's other readers are the ancient poets, who look upon the freshly written pages from an incorruptible distance. Their poetic forms are permanent, and it is difficult to create new forms which can approach them.
quote by Salvatore Quasimodo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Παντα ρει· ουδεν μενει
Upon the water, in the boat,
I sit and sketch as down I float:
The stream is wide, the view is fair,
I sketch it looking backward there.
The stream is strong, and as I sit
And view the picture that we quit,
It flows and flows, and bears the boat,
And I sit sketching as we float.
Each pointed height, each wavy line,
To new and other forms combine;
Proportions vary, colours fade,
And all the landscape is remade.
Depicted neither far nor near,
And larger there and smaller here,
And varying down from old to new,
E’en I can hardly think it true.
Yet still I look, and still I sit,
Adjusting, shaping, altering it;
And still the current bears the boat
And me, still sketching as I float.
Still as I sit, with something new
The foreground intercepts my view;
Even the distant mountain range
From the first moment suffers change.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pink Slippers
She always wore pink slippers
They were her signature footwear
When one pair wore out completely
She quietly produced another
The neighbours thought it strange
But no one dared comment on them
If pink slippers were what she wanted
Then who were they to question her
Then one day realisation dawned
She had made it her goal in life
To make women aware of their rights
Pink slippers were the right reminder
When she died the female population
Of the town was seen sporting them
They believed that it was the only way
To pay tribute to her who had just died
She had used a simple but colourful way
To teach them that if they wanted success
They needed to display sisterly togetherness
And sporting pink slippers was just one method
poem by Sandra Martyres
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Y... Garbage Man
Become a garbage man
Every day, just for a minute
Search for some litter
Pick up some garbage
Where ever you can
Don't stoop down.
Not good for the back
Just sit on your heels
Stay squatted and look up
It gives you a special perspective
Pick up a hand full
Walk to the bin
Not the nearest
The walking is exercise
Good for your body
So, become a garbage man
It can give you perspective
It is good for your body
It is good for the world
Just a hand full per day.
-
Note:
Garbage men really deserve ou full respect.
I got the idea to write this piece when I was picking up a handful of garbage from the beach. I thought if there more people picking up garbage than people throwing garbage, littering would no longer be a problem.
I hope in this poem there is nothing disrespectful of garbage men. They really do a great job en deserve our respect as much as doctors and lawyers deserve our respect (as indicated in the comments by unwritten soul below)
poem by Aufie Zophy
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Horses and Men in Rain
Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches--and talk about mail carriers and
messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the
Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping
the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and
Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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People see my current success but don't realize I've worked hard to get where I am. I used to clean garbage off the Philadelphia docks and put a lot of time into developing my music.
quote by Kevin Eubanks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don't Drop Your Garbage
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away...
And when you step,
Kiss the wind!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away,
And step!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away...
And when you step,
Kiss the wind!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away,
And step!
Don't dropp your garbage at my front door.
Get to steppin' take it back.
No one seeks to hear your preaching.
Or your point of view described while you teach'.
With self righteous sighs.
Too many sitting on the edge are jumpy.
And twice as many want to fight.
Don't dropp your garbage.
Get from my door and get to steppin'.
Don't want to regret what I do.
I wish to keep that evil sleepin'.
Don't wake it up,
I ask of you!
Don't dropp your garbage at my front door.
Get to steppin' take it back.
No one seeks to hear your preaching.
Or your point of view described while you 'teach'.
With your self righteous sighs.
Too many sitting with an edge are jumpy.
And twice as many look to fight.
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away...
And when you step,
Kiss the wind!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away,
And step!
Don't dropp your garbage!
I'd like to keep myself polite.
Get away!
I don't want to get those demons screaming.
Or stir a yelling to disturb my peaceful night.
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away...
And when you step,
Kiss the wind!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away,
And step!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away...
And when you step,
Kiss the wind!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away,
And step!
Don't dropp your garbage!
Get away,
And step!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Way
THERE is a magic pathway through the wood,
There is a current in the troubled stream,
A happy course to steer, if one but could,
A meaning to the dream.
And some in love and some in dogma find
The hint eternal as they kiss or pray;
Some through the crystal circle of the mind
Discern the way.
And some no hint, no pattern of the whole,
Nor star, nor path, nor channel can perceive -
Attempt no answer to the questing soul,
And yet believe
There is a magic pathway through the wood,
There is a current in the troubled stream,
A happy course to steer, if one but could,
A meaning to the dream.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Here's a good thing to do if you go to a party and you don't know anybody First, take out the garbage. Then go around and collect any extra garbage that people might have, like a crumpled-up napkin, and take that out too. Pretty soon people will want to meet the busy garbage guy.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thebez
The rubber-slippers is for summer and,
The wooden-slippers is for winter;
But learn from my muse and try to overcome the electric shock! !
For, i am Thebez from the thick black forest.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Season for Pastels
Looking out the window I can see
vistas unlimited that stretch beyond
mu neighbor's backyard. All winter
he and I have barely glimpsed one
another in the falling snow...
Andre my neighbor behind his machine,
goggles on and snow flying as he plows
through windrows of lake effect snow
tidying up driveways and sidewalks
so our postman can fulfill his oath
and deliver the stuff we glance at
and deposit in the garbage.
Then I think of angels that descend
with gasoline powered machines
to make his way clear!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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