For My Maker
Salty as fire and bland as ice
I stroke my hand on the wood
This wood talks to me with narrow heart.
Homeless tables spring to the exit
After my hands and feet are gone
From me
Obedient limbs stroke the glass
Of the window, of this grateful object
Inside is home and house for all.
I am high for my body immensely forgets
Its chance to stay alive
For I am obeying my Maker.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Through The Wood
THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.
Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?
Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The House In The Woods
At the back of the houses there is the wood.
While there is a leaf of summer left, the wood
Makes sounds I can put somewhere in my song,
Has paths I can walk, when I wake, to good
Or evil: to the cage, to the oven, to the House
In the Wood. It is a part of life, or of the story
We make of life. But after the last leaf,
The last light--for each year is leafless,
Each day lightless, at the last--the wood begins
Its serious existence: it has no path,
No house, no story; it resists comparison...
One clear, repeated, lapping gurgle, like a spoon
Or a glass breathing, is the brook,
The wood's fouled midnight water. If I walk into the wood
As far as I can walk, I come to my own door,
The door of the House in the Wood. It opens silently:
On the bed is something covered, something humped
Asleep there, awake there--but what? I do not know.
I look, I lie there, and yet I do not know.
How far out my great echoing clumsy limbs
Stretch, surrounded only by space! For time has struck,
All the clocks are stuck now, for how many lives,
On the same second. Numbed, wooden, motionless,
We are far under the surface of the night.
Nothing comes down so deep but sound: a car, freight cars,
A high soft droning, drawn out like a wire
Forever and ever--is this the sound that Bunyan heard
So that he thought his bowels would burst within him?--
Drift on, on, into nothing. Then someone screams
A scream like an old knife sharpened into nothing.
It is only a nightmare. No one wakes up, nothing happens,
Except there is gooseflesh over my whole body--
And that too, after a little while, is gone.
I lie here like a cut-off limb, the stump the limb has left...
Here at the bottom of the world, what was before the world
And will be after, holds me to its back
Breasts and rocks me: the oven is cold, the cage is empty,
In the House in the Wood, the witch and her child sleep.
poem by Randall Jarrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stroke One
Head throbbing
Heart pumping
Neck stiffens hard
Cannot move forward
Vision now doubles
Hearing inaudible
Everything's white
Something wrong with sight
What can be done
When it's Stroke One...
Beep beep the monitor
Out goes the doctor
'She will survive'
(I'm still alive!)
Bless this good child
The stroke was mild
Of symptoms, none
Sneaky Stroke One
So if I misspell
It's my eyes, they aren't well.
(How are the two of you?)
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 129
Submission and deliverance; or, Abraham offering up his son.
Gen. 22:6, etc.
Saints, at your heav'nly Father's word
Give up your comforts to the Lord;
He shall restore what you resign,
Or grant you blessings more divine.
So Abram with obedient hand
Led forth his son at God's command;
The wood, the fire, the knife, he took,
His arm prepared the dreadful stroke.
"Abram, forbear!" the angel cried,
Thy faith is known, thy love is tried
Thy son shall live, and in thy seed
Shall the whole earth be blest indeed."
Just in the last distressing hour
Tie Lord displays deliv'ring power;
The mount of dauger is the place
Where we shall see surprising grace.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
They Are Tearing Down My Grandfather's House
(An NLP Editor's Choice Award Winner in Verdant Lands of Spring) They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
The windows they've removed. To them it's real
estate, to me it's my heart being ripped in two.
The realtors, the bankers, the moneymen don't understand.
A house is more than made of wood, a house is made of man. My Grandfather's house is a memory that will
endure after it's torn down.
He's been gone for near thirty years, but his
house had lived on.
I know the world is made of change, and change
is all that's real. But one thing I cannot change,
that is the way I feel. I wipe a tear in the falling rain,
because they are tearing down my Grandfather's
house, and it gives me pain.
I love him as if it were yesteryear,
his wit and smile as warm as the sun.
The house once stood to remind me, but that too
is gone. They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
Yet a house if more than made of wood,
a house is made of love.
poem by David A. Webb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Variations on a Theme by Joyce
The war is in words and the wood is the world
That turns beneath our rootless feet;
the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night. The light lies flat.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.
The rain is ruin and our ruin rides
The swiftest winds; the wood is whorled
And turned and smoothed by the turning tides.
--There is rain in the woods, slow rain that breeds
The war in the words. The wood is the world.
This rain is ruin and our ruin rides.
The war is in words and the wood is the world,
Sourceless and seized and forever filled
With green vine twisting on wood more gnarled
Than dead men's hands. The vines are curled
Around these branches, crushed and killed.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.
poem by Weldon Kees
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Madonna portrait
I saw you painting,
not a sideways glance
of a elephant head
with deep creases showing,
or the neck of a giraffe,
not a Tuscan scene
with tables with white table clothes,
neither an abstract scene
in blue, green and gold.
A portrait unfolded before my eyes,
not a half naked nymph,
or wood fairy
but a Madonna without child
pregnant and serene
looking utterly holy
with olive skin
and great big innocent eyes
against dark colours
in a ruby red cloak.
Your fingers mixed colours expertly
on the palette
to the right exact hue
and blazing lights
lit the canvas
on the easel
and the painting
became an old world masterpiece
with stroke after little stroke
adding depth and meaning
and somewhere in the distance
a midnight-black dragon appeared
with a open mouth
as if drawing nearer
truly alive
detailed to the smallest respect
and evil in every way.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fire Of Spring
Spring: What do you see like this?
Fire: To you
Spring: Please I entreat you
Fire: What to do? I can’t bear darkness
Spring: Naughty, not to utter thus. Come here.
Fire: May I set fire to wax candle?
Spring: Put on spectacles, other wise
No surplus will remain.
Fire: Oh! You are very miserly.
Spring: OK Think- you are lying under a tree in hard sun light-in this moment what will be your temperament?
Fire: You are upon a hand; our child is upon another, crystal blue sky in front.
Spring: I see! Have you ever seen that fair of children darken the blue sky?
Fire: Yes, I saw that in your eye, on your lip, inside the rib bone.
Spring: OK
Fire: Oh! No, do not talk; close your eyes, why so sweat scent in your hair?
Spring: At your chest too...
Fire: Surging fire on my body
Always, couldn’t you see that?
Spring: How could I see? The thunder-the flood reside on my body too.
Fire: You are carrying so much thunder and flood why did not you tell me before?
Spring: How could I say? Did I know that so much?
Fire at your heart!
Fire: Leave it. Now you have come to know.
Spring: Hey-I entreat you, do not touch my hub. Earth quake sleeps there.
Fire: Oh! Really you are very beautiful and natural, A very exciting eminent on your thigh looks.
Spring: Entreat, I entreat you, do not touch there. Earth Quake sleeps there also.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Return
The grass was gray with the moonlit dew,
The stones were white as I came through;
I came down the path by the thirteen yews,
Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.
And when I came to the high lych-gate
I waited awhile where the corpses wait;
Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay
Like the fallen ghost of the light of day.
The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight,
The owls' spread wings were quiet and white,
The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,
And all about were the rustling shy
Little live creatures that love the night -
Little wild creatures timid and free.
I passed, and they were not afraid of me.
It was over the meadow and down the lane
The way to come to my house again:
Through the wood where the lovers talk,
And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.
I wore the clothes that we all must wear,
And no one saw me walking there,
No one saw my pale feet pass
By my garden path to my garden grass.
My garden was hung with the veil of spring -
Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;
It lay in the moon's cold sheet of light
In garlands and silence, wondrous and white
As a dead bride decked for her burying.
Then I saw the face of my house
Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:
I leaned my face to the window bright
To feel if the heart of my house beat right.
The firelight hung it with fitful gold;
It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.
I saw the settles, the candles tall,
The black-faced presses against the wall,
Polished beechwood and shining brass,
The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,
All the little things that were home to me -
Everything as it used to be.
Then I said, 'The fire of life still burns,
And I have returned whence none returns:
I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,
I will warm my heart in the heart of it!'
So I called aloud to the one within:
'Open, open, and let me in!
Let me in to the fire and the light -
It is very cold out here in the night!'
There was never a stir or an answering breath -
Only a silence as deep as death.
Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried.
No one heard me, and none replied.
The golden silence lay warm and deep,
And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep;
And there was no one to hear or see -
To comfort me, to have pity on me.
But deep in the silence something stirred -
Something that had not seen or heard -
And two drew near to the window-pane,
Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again,
And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread
Over the garlanded garden bed;
And--'How ghostly the moonlight is!' she said.
Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,
I came to mine own place again.
I wore the garments we all must wear,
And no one saw me walking there.
No one heard my thin feet pass
Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass,
Along the path where the moonlight hews
Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.
In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep
It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep:
But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,
And I cannot sleep as I used to do.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rain comes again
Rain comes again
My coat is wet
With winks willing
To be a mystery
On the other day
Of rain shakes
The glass and I’m
Caught between
The mirror till
Now is now
Let it rain
Rain rain
Come back again
Till I put my
Wet booths on
And rain all
Over you rain
Rain comes end wise
Stay come and stay
Rain rain
The sky is gone
Cleaning rain
Insane with game
In town silence
Your name as
If you own me
Owing only to pace
Of our love
I drag you
Into tomorrow
Into rain rain
Silence your name
Across my chest
We missed the
Wood where
The dust hangs
High and far
Into the rain
Your feet
The darkness
Simplified the soul
That kills the rain
Rain and I
Have not been
A man who man me
Shall I tell
The rain the
Name of the game
My right to be
Is haunting bound
And this steel
Bound steel is
Bending under
The rain and
The wishes is blown
Again this year
And I will
Return to me
My homeland
No grave holds me
No grave can
Hold my body
Down this body
Is still my home of bones
And with it
I am strong
To return to
Me my homeland
A grace of home my
Body down.
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
She Is No Longer Innocent About The Ways Of The World
you think she is as fragile as a thin glass of cherry wine
that when you touch the tip with your finger
she blushes and the glass gets warmer with your thumb
its bottom at the mercy of your palm
you like to think that she is a flower blooming on the month of May
where the dews are as careful as the sap of the red melon
nothing that stains the skin and dirties the white linen
then you discover a lot of things
first, the way she uses the pillow putting it just bellow her buttocks
then the way she calls your name like the hush of the break of day's breeze
from the distant sea
mournful and yet so awakening to your senses
the way she puts her legs and spreads her arms to hold your body
she is like the full moon peeping over the window that you open
you let her in and she sleeps like a fantasy dream on your bed
every sense of you wakes up like there is a fire in the house
adrenalin rushes inside your thighs
you are undressed and in the naked truth you come to her
something unspeakable
unfathomed
giving you the freedom to plunge in the paradise
long denied by them for you
you found the map to her labyrinth of pleasure
and once there
you do not want to leave
this is your home
your niche where your hands thrive like the needles of grass
where you mind glows like the stars
alive and singing
this is pleasure immeasurable
her lips her breasts her arms her abdomen her eyes
her hands gripping your hands
her feet entwined like the vine to the pillar of your house
her soft voice her moans
the cock is crowing and by all means say hello to a very
nice morning
a new day to the first day of your life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
House of fire (Lyrics)
House of fire
House of fire, yeah
Let's build a house of fire, baby
Not one of wood or stone
Walk thru my door of desire, baby
Come on in and make it your home
Don't need a window to watch you, baby
Don't need no roof overhead
Don't need no key to unlock ya, baby
I'll use my lovin'instead
I won't tire
Take me higher
Building a house of fire, baby
Buildin'it with our love
We are buildin'a house of fire every time we touch
House of fire
House of fire
We ain't gotta pay rent now, baby
No landlord to throw us out
I want to play in your garden, baby
When you want it give me a shout
I won't tire
Take me higher
Building a house of fire, baby
Buildin'it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
We are building this house together, baby
Standing on solid ground
We are building a house of fire
That you can't tear down
Brick by brick the flames get higher
Build it strong with our desire
Building a house of fire, baby
Building it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
We are building this house together, baby
Standing on solid ground
We are building a house of fire
That you can't tear down
Building a house of fire, baby
Building it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
poem by Satan's Sibling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Our House With The Rotary Phone
I sit in a room that no longer exists
On a chair long since splintered and gone
While I pick at a meal I once would devour
in our house with the rotary phone.
I sit in the room that doesn’t exist
Enjoying my choice of ice creams
Recalling the window in Tiffany glass
Forgive an old man his daydreams
A simple “A” frame with three beds and a bath,
obsolete, yes, but our home.
It stood with its’ sisters on Queens borough Hill,
where the L.I.E. jams are well known.
I had known for some time that her best days were gone
A plywood fence circled our home
Title had passed to a contractor’s hands
Neglected, our house looked forlorn
My past like a picture ripped from its frame
They left not a stone on a stone
Not even the numbers on wood painted green
of our house with the rotary phone.
Our house and its twin have been wrecked and removed
And replaced with a modern brick “home”
So pardon my tear as I stand at the bier
Of our house with the rotary phone
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Flame Is Finally Gone
there was this old flame inside the house made of wood
it is alive supported by a wick and a bowl of oil
it is a comfort for blackouts and we all look at it with wonder
we keep it from the wind and the rain and it stands still
one day we find ourselves in great grief
the bowl of glass is shattered and the oil is spilled on the ground
the wick is gone and we searched for it for days
someone so cruel destroyed what we looked up to
then the night comes in without electricity we grappled
the house is silent under a sky without stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Keep Your Faith Placed Safe
Fortunes meant for you,
Are not for anyone else to keep.
Unless they are holding it,
To be released to you.
And you are within reach.
People numbed from their surroundings,
Sleep.
Intoxicated by medications,
To ensure they stay away...
From wishes to be on top of the heap.
And lay under burdens tolerated,
With a sharing of addictions...
That has convinced them not to leave.
Don't dropp a tear or weep for them.
Stretched to the max,
With their pockets getting thin...
They are
And this they confirm,
Enclosed in minds suffering within.
With a slow burn inside they earn.
Afraid to relax their grasp that holds,
Onto old routines...
From them they can't let go.
As most routines on some bestow.
But a fortune meant for you,
Will come...
And that is true.
If your faith is placed,
In the hands of The Maker.
If your faith is placed,
In the hands of the Maker.
Yes a fortune meant for you,
Will come...
And that is true.
If your faith is placed,
In the hands of The Maker.
If your faith is placed,
In the hands of The Maker.
Whatever you need The Master will feed,
If your faith is placed,
In the hands of The Maker.
Refuse to brood like so many do,
And keep your faith placed safe...
In the hands of The Maker.
Whatever you need The Master will feed,
If your faith is placed,
In the hands of The Maker.
Refuse to brood like so many do,
And keep your faith placed safe...
In the hands of The Maker.
Keep your faith placed safe,
In the hands of The Maker.
Keep your faith placed safe,
In the hands of The Maker.
Keep your faith placed safe,
In the hands of The Maker.
Keep your faith placed safe,
In the hands of The Maker.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Footfalls
It was in you,
the beast.
Reading your private thoughts:
tribal instinct-
to gather tools.
Dwindling belief.
You are left high and dry
after the deluge receded.
A big fire
erupted in your house
to burn you alive.
Footfalls of disquieting roar
breaks the empty silence.
So thin was the salty air,
it spewed the fire.
Death of the moment.
You sit down on the rocks
outside your body
and start counting
the winks.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wings In The Night
Now in the soft spring midnight
There's rush of wings and whirr,
Birds flying softly, swiftly;
The night's a-flutter, a-stir.
Home by the bitter seas,
They have sped home together.
So glad to be coming home
To the grey hills, the grey weather.
Calling and calling softly
One lights by the window-pane:
The rook, weary with building,
Turns to his sleep again.
Ere ever the moor-hens wake
And the wild duck come in,
The birds are about the house
With a long call and thin.
They have wakened the wood-pigeon
To make her plaintive moan,
The wood-pigeon lamenting
For sorrows not her own.
Oh, they are never birds,
But souls of men on the wind,
Seeking the mother's breast,
The heart that is soft and kind.
Souls of the Irish dead,
Flown from the fields of slaughter,
Home to the mother's arms
Over the wild grey water.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The House of Christmas
There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.
A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost - how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.
This world is wild as an old wives' tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.
To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Hill slope
Down on the hill slope a tree was there with flowers on it,
Season came and season goes,
it remain there with shade and fruits to give,
Small wood pecker or big owl,
all were there as it was there home to live,
One day a wood cutter found it useful to him,
he thought it to cut and takes its wood to sell in city,
birds and squirrel on tree helplessly saw the tree,
they tried to make noise,
but it didn't affected the woodcutter in the need
he cut down the tree to take the wood,
the tree on hiill slope became log of wood,
weak protest of bird and animals,
on it was not enough,
to save the tree.
tree full of life became silent as saying what was my fault,
is it only there right to live,
but yes its true only humans here,
are powerfull and can do anything to live and win,
hill slope became barren and dry like desert
poor tree however it was home for many
didn't found the place on to live on earth.
the reason it don't understand
why it is weak and meek.not able to
survive and get its right to stay alive to give shade and life to others.
poem by Hemu Gupta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!