Madness Or Faithfulness
Every evening in front the mirror,
She sits to adorn herself
With faith and light of hope in the eyes.
A strange happiness spreads over her face,
She combs, braids her hair in the latest fashion,
Powders her face and neck, applies Kajal to the eyes,
Pastes a thin layer of lipstick with faint rosy colour,
Then her sober beauty begins to shine.
She often stands engrossed in the open door,
And listens to the footsteps of each passerby,
Looking into the vacancy she waits for her husband
Who went long ago in the second eve of the wedding
To defend boundaries of the country,
And laid down his life with all colourful hopes.
It is madness or too faithfulness,
She has cherished a belief that he will return,
That is why she reiterates, rehearses the same activity,
And every evening adorns herself
Waits long, and goes to the bed with a new burn,
But her parted, lost companion does not return.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Table
This table is reserved an invitation for two,
only one sits alone and the other chair is bare.
He waits and waits as the hours creep through.
Stares at the empty space and wonders where are you.
He looks at his watch as another hour ticks by,
looks at the door to see who is coming through.
He feels eyes staring, probably wondering whom
he is waiting for as the minutes turn to hours.
The empty chair remains bare
as outside the sun sets as night begins to call.
This table is reserved for two, but where are you?
He thinks of all the reasons why you could be late
for this most important date.
He has rehearsed his lines of what he purposed to say.
The box with the ring within his pocket stays.
Where are you he wonders, do you love him anymore?
The negative thoughts invaded his mind
as he waits looking at the door, just waiting for you.
Finally the waiter comes along and tells him they are about to close.
He gives one last look at the door, then gets up and goes.
The reserved table for two stands empty and bare.
Those who should have sat there are gone never to return,
and as the light go out the table stands alone and forlorn.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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As One Listens To The Rain
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
poem by Octavio Paz
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After our Likeness.
Before me now a little picture lies—
A little shadow of a childish face,
Childishly sweet, yet with the dawning grace
Of thought and wisdom on her lips and eyes.
Fair, oval, broad-brow'd face—small, delicate head—
Transparent skin, with blue veins shining through—
All the soft outlines, beautiful and true,
Bring me the echo of the words “God said.”
Made “in our image”—sure 'tis that we see,
God's likeness, in the fair face of a child,
By the world's sin and passion undefiled—
Ay, as I look, it seems quite plain to me.
The light wherein the little features shine,
Strange, mystic light, so undefined and faint,
So far too pure for any words to paint—
'Tis a reflection of the Face divine.
Some day the earthly shadows will be cast
Across that sunshine—it may be to dim
A while the visible countenance of Him;
But 'twill be there—the likeness—to the last.
Some day the lucid waters, in which lie
Pictured those glorious lineaments, will be
Stirred up and troubled like a stormy sea;—
But they will yet re-settle—by-and-by.
They will re-settle when the soul is still'd,
Its passions, its wild longings, and its pain;
The pure reflection will shine out again
When earth's hopes are relinquish'd, unfulfill'd.
They will re-settle in those after-years
When life's hard lessons have been conned and learn'd;
Then this child's beauty will have all return'd,
More lovely for the trouble and the tears.
They will re-settle in the calm of death,
When the sweet eyes are laid asleep, and when
The heart is hush'd. Truly God's likeness then—
The mirror clear, unsullied by a breath.
Ah! while I look, and trace each tender line,
I think most of the day when I shall see
The dear face in that perfect purity,
Its mortal features clothed with the divine.
This self-same face, but with the image bright,
Nevermore undefined, and faint, and dim;
This self-same face, yet like the face of Him,
In glory and in beauty infinite.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Where Beauty Lives In Memory
She stands before the mirror
Smiles at her reflection
Striking sexy poses in the glass
She paints her lips a brilliant red
Piles her hair high on her head
Struggles to replace a false eyelash
She powders up her face
Paints her cheeks to match her lips
She wears a dress cut low in the front
Fittin? tight around her hips
And there inside her room
She stands and gazes at herself
Where beauty lives in memory
She lives in fairy tales
Chorus:
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Whos the fairest of them all
She sings as she goes waltzing? cross the floor
She keeps a candle burning
And she waits for his returning
When beauty lives in memory
It lives forevermore
She was a fairy princess once
And was by all adored
They say she was the fairest of them all
They called her cinderella
And they say that every fella
Would gladly answer to her beck and call
So the story went
They tell of how this handsome prince
Stole her heart and wandered far away
He took her heart and took her mind
Now she has lost all track of time
Forty years has passed and still she waits singing
Repeat chorus
Meanwhile back inside her room
The shads are pulled its half past noon
But in her mind why its forty years ago
She recalls the beauty of their love
She remembers he was beautiful
And of course she always knew she was
And so the past unfolds
And all at once inside her mind
She sees him at the door
And as hes leading her away
She feels the room begin to sway
Where beauty lives in memory
She falls dead upon the floor
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eat Your Heart Out
I've come by, she says, to tell you
that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange
her long red hair before my bedroom
mirror.
she pulls her hair up and
piles it on top of her head-
she lets her eyes look at
my eyes-
then she drops her hair and
lets it fall down in front of her face.
we go to bed and I hold her
speechlessly from the back
my arm around her neck
I touch her wrists and hands
feel up to
her elbows
no further.
she gets up.
this is it, she says,
this will do. well,
I'm going.
I get up and walk her
to the door
just as she leaves
she says,
I want you to buy me
some high-heeled shoes
with tall thin spikes,
black high-heeled shoes.
no, I want them
red.
I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees
she walks all right and
as the pointsettas drip in the sun
I close the door.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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She Touches A Sad String Of Soft Recall
Return, return! all night my lamp is burning,
All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;
Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning
Bears witness that the absent can return,
Return, return.
Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,
Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,
Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness
To feed the sorrowy signal for return,
Return, return.
Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings,
I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,
When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings,
Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn-
Burn in the watchfire of return,
Return, return.
Like it, the very flame whereby I pine
Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn
My soul becomes a better soul than mine,
And from its brightening beacon I discern
My starry love go forth from me, and shine
Across the seas a path for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! all night I see it burn,
All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin
Of palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn-
Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.
Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,
And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn
As warmly still for thy return;
Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin
Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn
Nought but that votive sign for thy return-
That single suppliant sign for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er
Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,
And thou, who thro' the window didst discern
The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair
To find no wide eyes watching there,
No withered welcome waiting thy return!
A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air,
The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,
Warm with the famished fire that lived to burn-
Burn out its lingering life for thy return,
Its last of lingering life for thy return,
Its last of lingering life to light thy late return,
Return, return.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Return!
RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning,
All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;
Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning
Bears witness that the absent can return,
Return, return.
Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,
Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,
Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness
To feed the sorrowy signal for return,
Return, return.
Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings,
I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,
When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings,
Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn--
Burn in the watchfire of return,
Return, return.
Like it, the very flame whereby I pine
Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn
My soul becomes a better soul than mine,
And from its brightening beacon I discern
My starry love go forth from me, and shine
Across the seas a path for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! all night I see it burn,
All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin
Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn--
Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.
Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,
And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn
As warmly still for thy return;
Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin
Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn
Naught but that votive sign for thy return--
That single suppliant sign for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er
Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,
And thou, who thro' the window didst discern
The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair
To find no wide eyes watching there,
No wither'd welcome waiting thy return!
A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air,
The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,
Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn--
Burn out its lingering life for thy return,
Its last of lingering life for thy return,
Its last of lingering life to light thy late return,
Return, return.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Makeup
When you wake up in the morning
And you put the makeup upon your face
Do you try to cover up the age and lines
Or only the sins and deceptions and the disgrace.
Do you try to place on a happy smile
By putting bright lipstick upon your lips
Or do you try to cover up your own hard life
Something that someone like you never forgets.
And as you look into your mirror
Do you powder the many lines upon your face
The lines that has stretched from years ago
Unto the present days of your life and waste.
Do you try to cover up the bags under your eyes
From all the many restless and sleepless nights
The nights when you cared not where you went
As long as you went and held on to someone tight.
Do you place the powder upon your cheeks
To make you look so cheerful and so very nice
But as they say you cant judge a book by its cover
And if they knew you, they need only to think twice.
And as you are preparing yourself for the day
With your makeup in front of you and on the shelf
Does it take you a little longer to put it on each day
As you try to cover yourself up and become someone else.
The makeup you have will you pass it along one day
And then show someone else how to cover up their lines
Maybe your sisters or even maybe your daughters
That is though if they need to cover up their lying.
And do you ever step back away from your mirror
Do you ever try to look at yourself as a whole
Does it ever bring tears into your heart and eyes
Do you ever wish that you still had a soul.
So as your prepare to start your brand new morning
With your lipstick and powders and so much more
Do you ever wish that you could just wash your face clean
And never have to cover up your ways and lies from the nights before.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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In The Beginning
In the beginning was the WORD,
And the WORD was with YAWEH ALMIGHTY;
The power of Yahweh created the Universe with,
The Light to shine upon the Universe;
'Let there be Light' and, there was Light.
Then HE created man out of the soil of the ground,
A living man who needed a suitable companion;
Out of man came woman as the companion.
Oh mankind! You were made from the soil and,
You will return to it one day;
Yahweh joined then together as Husband and Wife.
Creation has a very long way but,
Time after time we do go against the laid down rules.
The essence of Marriage is lost today and,
Where are the ethics of the Creator?
We cannot even see to our mistakes.
To err is human but, to know is better;
Where is the integrity of our marriages?
Where is the beauty of the Creator's rule?
We have lost the true meaning of marriage.
'Let there be Light'! But, our lights no longer shine.
HE created man out of the soil and,
Woman out of man;
But, we have used the man-made laws to change the rules.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Poem Of The Evening Is A Quiet Poem
THE POEM OF THE EVENING IS A QUIET POEM
The poem of the evening is a quiet poem
It comes in gentleness with tired eyes
It does not know how long it will last
It believes a fresh breeze
And a simple song
Are all its needs
To feel happiness.
The poem of the evening this evening
Believes in life
Believes in Goodness of God
Believes it will somehow be alright.
The poem of the evening this evening
May be a foolish one
But it is a quietly happy one.
We need such poems sometimes
For life is hard in the long working days
And in the times of difficult idleness
When no dreams come.
Quiet and quiet
Soft as sleep
The poem of the evening this evening
Is a gentle one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Time And Its Daughter
Time and its Daughter
I love your face and your face loves itself
For its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure.
The way you walk pavements adore you
rain shies away as not to make your hair wet
I love your face and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street car horn blears
All by themselves and white cars turn pink
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure
Sun doesn´t burn your skin, makes it golden.
Till, one day, the mirror tells of a wrinkle, and
you know years are ganging up on you.
You only enemy is time it waits in the wings.
As furrows settle on your forehead.
I love you face, your face doesn´t love itself
Car horn doesn´t blare anymore, get off
The road you lazy old woman, they honker
Your fragrance of youth has lost its allure
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Casualty
The old man sits
On top of a brown
Battered suitcase
This now contains
All his belongings
I remember him
He was the toymaker
In our village
He was always a happy man
Now I see him
As we flee
The light has gone
From his eyes
There is fear there
That stops me cold
What does he know?
What has he seen?
He sits there
Waiting for his family
People pass by
Asking him
If he needs help
He says no
He is waiting for
His daughter to come
She went into the fields
To pick some sugar canes
That's when the soldiers
Set the fields on fire
Burning sugar
Caramel
Now pungent
But the first whiff was sweet
That's when the village
Began to burn
The old man sits
And waits for her
I wonder how long
He's been sitting there?
He looks to every face
And says her name
Every girl he stops
And examines to see
If it might be her
The old man sits
All alone.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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Wait
Sitting in the hill top hut
near the window night and day
her lustrous hair toying with breeze
clouds competing every day
to catch her glimpse
opportunity there to seize
to be her companion
as she waits for the union.
Waits.
salutations, the first rays of the sun offer
her red shot eyes pretend to be sober
tears roll down and wail
when she feels the shadow of her beloved, sail
and creeping behind her back
racing heartbeats force her, to turn
only to find caressing, her
His.. favourite window curtain.
Waits.
Cooing of doves and their necking
On that old banyan tree
not dropping her gaze
she feels for her neck
and flash came the night of her wedding phase
‘When he held her tight and kissed on her lips
then begged to leave with a sigh
On duty to border, with a smile, he bade her good-bye.’
Waits.
Serpentine roads juggling her mind
as a dot appears to tease her kind
rush of blood banish her gloom
in nearby pond, a lotus blooms
doves hover, flapping their wings
stream behind the hut, wants to sing
she looks into the mirror and rushes outside
wait gets over as he stands beside.
Wait has ended, for the fortunate one
most of her likes are brought to funeral
coffins draped in national honour
shedding tears, their only succour
no blooming lotus but booming of guns
no morning amber but setting sun
hovering doves not to be seen
hawks snatching all the sheen
Souls of departed now awaits them.
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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One Face
One face in a crowd is hard to find.
One face in that crowd is on my mind.
How can I find the face of one,
The face that to me is like the sun?
Shiny and bright with a radiant glow,
The face that picks me up when I'm low,
Eyes that light up wherever they are
Just like the splendor of an evening star,
Lips that break into the sweetest smile
That lingers for me for the longest while,
Hair that surrounds that face like a frame
That always sets my heart aflame.
I search all the faces but cannot see
The one that means the world to me.
I'm lost. I'm wretched. This should not be.
There are too many faces. I'm lost at sea.
One last glance and to my surprise
There's your face, your smile, your eyes.
The crowd's still there but not for me.
For the face I love is all I see.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The First Deadly Sin
There once was a women who happened to be graced with beauty. She was adorable from the moment she was born. This wholesomeness lasted throughout most of her life. Her eyes were her greatest asset. They could mesmerize almost any man and hold him captive for as long as she wished.
Unfortunately, this beauty was the only thing she had to offer anyone. Her life was great for as long as this skin-deep gift lasted.
Then came a time, as happens to all of us at some point, where this youthful beauty begins to wane. The lovely face and eyes that she was so popular for had changed. Her image in the mirror was now a face of a unappealing spinster. The beauty gone, so were all the suitors.Then......
In youth her comely grace and eyes entranced
So many suitors. Men accompanied
Her every place she went. A few but glanced
Until they saw her eyes, then joined the stampede.
She enjoyed this charming situation.
It never dawned on her that beauty fades
In time. A slightest of inclination,
the queen of hearts became a queen of spades.
And now the throng of men that used to greet
Her, doesn't bother calling anymore.
Her lengthy lonely nights are not as sweet.
She sits alone and dreams of times before.
So now her mind has gone in seclusion
Loneliness is a foregone conclusion.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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My Love and I
My love and I live by the sea
Where the sea breeze flows in your face
Where the the fish dance
In there mind with thee
And the crabs go flamenco with there clicks
I know somtimes my love waits for me
I know that she waits for me by the sea
My love somtimes goes cold on me
but i warm her up with a bit of sauce
I know my love waits for me
I know that she waits for me by the sea
My love and I often sit
Comfortably in are seats
In the front room
watching TV
Documentries gulore
And game shows in
I know that my love waits for me
I know that she waits for me by the sea
My love who waits for me by the sea
She is Fish and Chips
YOU SEE! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
poem by Joe Sissens
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What Do You Do I Ask
(5/4/12)
What do you do when you feel all hope is gone
And hanging by a thread you linger on.
What do you do when you take three steps forward
And eight steps back, and in life you're always under attack.
What do you do when you have door after door
Slam in your face, and to hide - there is no place.
What do you do when your loved ones have lost faith in you
And you don't know what to do.
What do you do when you pray every day
And the answers don't come your way.
Is this really the time to give up hope
When all your life you learned to cope.
Your dreams don't come when you want
And may never come at all
And to the ground they may fall.
Your dreams may not be what GOD has intended
But in your life, your dreams may be ended.
There may be another path that he wants you to travel
And his answers will all unravel.
Your life is not lived just for yourself
You must touch everyone else.
We are surrounded by millions of people
And each life touching another
And giving hope to so many others.
We can not see what he has in store
But we live with faith as we open the new door.
The door may be something that we don't expect
And it will make our lives better yet.
So open the door and let that radiating light shine through
For this is the light and path that belongs to you.
poem by Louis Rams
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My Death
My death waits like an old roue
So confident, Ill go his way
Whistle to him
And the passing time...
My death waits like a Bible truth
At the funeral of my youth
We drank for that -
The passing time..
My death waits like
A witch at night
As surely as our love is right
Lets not think of that or the passing time
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do...
Angel or devil, I dont care
For in front of that door...
There is you.
My death waits like a beggar blind
Who sees the world through an unlit mind
Throw him a dime
For the passing time...
My death waits to allow my friends
A few good times
Before it ends
Lets not think about
And the passing time..
My death waits there, between your thighs,
Your cool fingers will close my eyes,
Lets not think about the passing time.
For whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do...
Angel or devil, I dont care
For in front of that door...
There is you.
My death waits there among the leaves
In magicians mysterious sleeves,
Rabbits and dogs, and the passing time...
My death waits there, among the flowers
Where the blackest shadows cowers
So lets pick lilacs
The passing time..
My death waits there, in a double bed
Sails of oblivion and my head
Lets not think about
The passing time.
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do...
Angel or devil, I dont care
For, in front of that door...
There is you.
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clothes Of Sand
Who has dressed you in strange clothes of sand
Who has taken you far from my land
Who has said that my sayings were wrong
And who will say that I stayed much too long?
Clothes of sand have covered yor face
Given you meaning but taken my place
So make your way on down to the sea
Something has taken you so far from me.
Does it now seem worth all the colour of skies
To see the earth through painted eyes
To look through panes of shaded glass
See the stains of winters grass.
Can you now return to from where you came
Try to burn your changing name
Or with silver spoons and coloured light
Will you worship moons in winters night.
Clothes of sand have covered your face
Given you meaning but taken my place
So make your way on down to the sea
Something has taken you so far from me.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Night Begins
Lying is sweet repose behind the bedroom door
she waits for her lover at the appointed hour.
His footsteps are silent
as he creeps along the hall,
knocks upon the door and waits
for her voice to say softly come in.
Opening the door with care, he walks quietly in.
She rises to embrace him
as now for them the night begins.
The murmur of raised passions
echo from them both
as they float along on a cloud of ecstasy
into a long night of passion
that ends so abruptly
as the dawning sun awakes.
26 November 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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