Washed Animals
After ablutions and breakfast, the cattle are raised
To be fine helpers in the family farm so to speak.
Turning the radio to a desirable station our keeping
Is alerted by the frowning of a gentlemanly farmer.
From the supermarket a produce is used for excellence
To remain in the morning of salutations and remembrance.
The cattle grow everyday to enlighten and disburden,
This pouring out of wine into the jug of the golden variety
Is stale action, stale thought and stale wording.
We as cleanliness must reach a proper income
By instigating and stating the sum of money.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The caged lust
A stale wife is not a stale woman.
A stale husband is not a stale man.
Woman is a magnet to a stranger.
Man is a bullet to a stranger.
12.03.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bullets And Kisses
My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.
Heat seeking missile are only sent destroy.
Man less drones are deployed.
Books to a religion burned.
Peace will be destroyed.
It is impossible to avoid.
Unrest on steroids.
My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.
You want to trust and be trusted.
But you have no understanding of a culture.
You disrespect it everyday.
You create martyrs by your mistakes.
With every action you make it just escalates.
Fear spreads like fire in a very drought ridden forest.
Let me ask you how do you plan on exactly putting out?
My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.
You must get out.
It was never your responsibility.
We are not the divinity.
We are not here to save you.
With so much blood on our hands how can we still be wearing that cape?
Do we not understand what is at stake?
We just continue to create pure hate.
My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.
Greed is why we are sending our soldiers away from home.
Controlling chaos.
A symphony of stealing while their not looking.
If we are their long enough soon or later we will corrupt.
And that´s just little messed up.
My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.
Slavery can be bought and sold.
Back door deals.
A fake government at least thats the way the people feel.
And are they really that off target?
After all they are the are people.
A pulse beating, breathing life into their own country.
My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten...,
Yes they are already dead, stale, and rotten.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Let
To Let
(Xavier Rudd)
The sun is peaking
The sun is peering across the bay
I am walking
Sucking stale air on this fine day
Lady squeaking
Lady she shuffles ten feet in front
Her pants are squeaking
Her pants are squeaking as she does
I'll sit him down
I'll sit him down
The sun is peering across the bay
I am walking
Sucking stale air on this fine day
I'll sit him down
I'll sit him down
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Here don't fly away now
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Here don't fly away now
song performed by by Xavier Rudd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Let
To Let
(Xavier Rudd)
The sun is peaking
The sun is peering across the bay
I am walking
Sucking stale air on this fine day
Lady squeaking
Lady she shuffles ten feet in front
Her pants are squeaking
Her pants are squeaking as she does
I'll sit him down
I'll sit him down
The sun is peering across the bay
I am walking
Sucking stale air on this fine day
I'll sit him down
I'll sit him down
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Here don't fly away now
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Would you let me know
Would you let me go
Here don't fly away now
song performed by by Xavier Rudd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Enobarbus: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.
line from Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, Scene 2, script by William Shakespeare (1606)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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A Winter Morning In Gippsland
The wattle wears her cloak of flowers so lovely bright and yellow
But in the paddocks there's no grass and for hay the cattle bellow
It has been frosty over night and the ground with frost is hoary
And the only beauty I can see is the wattle in her glory.
The farmer says too cold and dry as dry as he remember
The Spring will come in late this year and no grass in September
The hereford cow hunched with the cold and she as tough as leather
For two months it's been cold and dry we need a change of weather.
The trainer on the trotting track watch his trotters exercising
And near ten o clock the sun comes out and the temperature starts rising
And across the paddock's uneven ground the old farm tractor rattle
As the farmer brings big bale of hay to feed his hungry cattle.
A Winter morning in Gippsland and for hay the cattle bellow
And the wattle wears her cloak of flowers so lovely, bright and yellow
And the farmer says too cold and dry as dry as he remember
And we need a week or two of rain for grass growth in September.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heart Of Man
Enter the hearts of the men-in-charge,
Cosy feelings defy the oblique shapes;
My opposition wants my death and life,
May we enter the beliefs that endanger.
Willing to surrender, this woe inside
Sticks in the throat, stale and mostly stale.
Then dangers of a dragon are at best in the air,
Mighty winds cross the heads and hearts.
Many weep tonight on the sea-edges,
The coast has changed now, just changed.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Nut-Brown Ale
THE nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger
Will make a sighing man a singer.
Ale gives a buffet in the head,
But ginger under-props the brain;
When ale would strike a strong man dead
Then nutmeg tempers it again.
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
poem by John Marston
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And I Thank You...
A young soldier takes a deep breath before battle,
Now millions of miles away from the golden plains and the cattle,
Fearing for his life, and another battle loss,
He closes his eyes, and grips tight on his golden cross.
The sergeant yells, and he gets into line,
The troop marches to the battlefield, early morning, about nine,
With sweat running down their faces, and dirt in their hair,
The men look to the sky, and say a silent prayer.
A grenade explodes and the troop scurries on the run,
The young soldier hides in a foxhole, griping onto his gun,
He pops up, but too much smoke he can’t see,
Squinting as hard as he can to find the enemy.
The day is gone, and the young soldier still holds his gun to his shoulder,
Bruised and battered, he feels the night become colder,
As he looks to his left, he wants to break down and cry,
Because he had to watch his best friend get shot, and then he died.
The stale scent of tragedy in the air hovers,
Because this young soldier lost many of his band of brothers,
And now the enemy has fallen back with a retreat,
Because they now know that they have been beat.
You fought for the red, white, and blue,
And for this I greatly thank you,
You fought to allow me to speak my mind freely behind this ballpoint pen,
So once again I thank you, my hero, my dear veteran.
poem by Ryan McNicholas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reluctant Traveler
Reluctant traveler
Morning driving through the vast plateau of Spain, cowboys in their sheep skin coats
are ready to ride out to Inspect the heard, It is cold the horses are rearing to gallop.
On a hillock the outline of a big black bull, underneath is written “Sandman’s sherry.”
The sign is held by wires and looks like a malapropos in morning light. Cattle’s grazing
did they spend the night standing up resting, listening out for wolves or other
predatory animals? The driver tells us we are going to stop in a town too irrelevant to
remember. The breakfast is an insult I ask for fried eggs and bacon by the time they
are ready the coach is ready to leave. Hasty breakfast but I managed to have a pee.
A flask of rum and coke, I have made some notes, taken a few picture, I drink fall
asleep, when I wake up we are in France and a new morning has arrived. I have never
been to France before, only at airports passing trough, this is a dreary little border
town and it surprise me that their inhabitances have not fled. The café is lousy, stale
bread with jam. I get into an argument with the rude staff, my wife comes and saves
the day. I Paris we are met by a Jewish gentleman who wants me to read my poems,
In defense of Palestine, In Norwegian and I’m the only Scandinavian in the room. I do
the readings, hate Paris, and take the first bus back home to Portugal.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jack-ass
I've been drifting along with the same stale shoes
Loose ends tying the noose in the back of my mind
If you thought that you were making your way
To where the puzzles and pagans lay
I'll put it together: it's a strange invitation
When I wake up someone will sweep up my lazy bones
And we will rise in the cool of the evening
I remember the way that she smiled
When the gravity shackles were wild
And something is vacant when I think it's all beginning
I been drifting along with the same stale shoes
Loose ends tying the noose in the back of my mind
If you thought that you were making your way
To where the puzzles and pagans lay
I'll put it together: it's a strange invitation
song performed by by Beck from Odelay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Joe The Black Cattle Dog
Old Joe the black cattle dog has known a better day
Around his jaws he is looking rather gray
He still works cattle but at a much slower pace
A young dog is being trained to take his place,
Old Joe a great cattle dog from a great working line
Is getting old for working cattle at nine
Though still keen to work nowadays he easily tire
The old legs tiring though he still has the desire
To work at cattle but his owner Jimmy say
That Joe is nearing his final working day
He will retire him he has done enough
At his age working cattle for him is too tough
He was a renowned working dog in his prime
But dog and master must bow to father time.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cubicle
Through the window of my cubicle
I see the day graying into night
And a world I can’t reach.
I yearn to come out
If only to see the corpses of the day
That passed by me unnoticed
Turning my world old
Unlived, stale and cold!
I see the birds fossilized
The trees bare and wizened
Songs are stifled moans
People as aloof and distant as dead!
I was born in a warm cubicle
And destined for a life in it
To dream of day from the dark
And long for a world I can’t reach!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Time Of The Turning
In the big house
Where the sun lives
With the walls so white and blue
In the red soil
All the green grows
And the winds blow across your face
They blow across your heart
It's the time of the turning and there's something stirring outside
It's the time of turning and we'd better learn to say our goodbyes
All the earth breaks
Like a stale bread
And the seeds are folded in the soil
Oh the sun pours
Then the rains fall
While the roots reach out right through the ground
They reach out through the ground
It's the time of turning and there's something stirring outside
It's the time of turning and the old world's falling
Nothing you can do can stop the next emerging
Time of the turning and we'd better learn to say our goodbyes
If we can stand up
When all else falls down
We'll last through the winter
We'll last through the storms
We'll last through the north winds
That bring down the ice and snow
We'll last through the long nights
Till the green field's growing again
Growing again
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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About The Nightingale
From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale:
In stale blank verse a subject stale
I send per post my Nightingale;
And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth,
You'll tell me what you think, my Bird's worth.
My own opinion's briefly this--
His bill he opens not amiss;
And when he has sung a stave or so,
His breast, & some small space below,
So throbs & swells, that you might swear
No vulgar music's working there.
So far, so good; but then, 'od rot him!
There's something falls off at his bottom.
Yet, sure, no wonder it should breed,
That my Bird's Tail's a tail indeed
And makes it's own inglorious harmony
Æolio crepitû, non carmine.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cattle Call
(tex owens)
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Woo - hoo - ooo - oop - I - de - de
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Yod-el - od-el- lo - ti - de.
The cattle are prowlin the coyotes are howlin
Way out where the dogies bawl
Where spurs are a-jinglin, a cowboy is singin
This lonesome cattle call.
He rides in the sun til his days work is done
And he rounds up the cattle each fall
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Singin his cattle call.
For hours he will ride on the range far and wide
When the night winds blow up a squall
His heart is a feather in all kinds of weather
He sings his cattle call.
Hes brown as a berry from ridin the prairie
And he sings with an ol western drawl
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Singin his cattle call.
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cattle Call
Cattle Call
(sung by Elvis in concerts of the 1950s)
[In der mir vorliegenden Version summt er nur die Melodie.]
(Tex Owens)
The cattle are prowlin' and the coyotes are howlin'
Way out where the dogies bawl
Where spurs are a-jinglin' a cowboy is singin'
This lonesome cattle call
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo
He rides in the sun, till his days work is done
And he rounds up the cattle each fall
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Singin' his cattle call.
For hours he will ride on the range far and wide
When the night wind blows up a squall
His heart is a feather in all kinds of weather
He sings his cattle call
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo
He's brown as a berry from ridin' the prairie
And sings with an ol' western drawl
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Singin' his cattle call
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The aging love
Men grow cold as woman grow old,
Men losing teeth and women, meat.
Men starve while women turn stale.
Both are in decay. The love is lost.
03.07.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Isaura
Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play?
'What play?' Why, this old play of winning hearts!
Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way:
'Tis all in vain—I know thee and thine arts.
Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made
A study of thee; and while I admire
The practised skill with which thy plans are laid,
I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.
Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth!
When overlong the season runs, I find
Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death,
After a time do pall upon my mind.
Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes
To read the story thou hast read so oft—
Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs,
Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?
Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee,
The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same;
The loves of men but vary in degree—
They find no new expressions for the flame.
Thou must know all they utter ere they speak,
As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays.
Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak?
I think thou must grow weary of their ways.
I pity thee, Isaura! I would be
The humblest maiden with her dream untold
Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee,
And find life's rarest treasures stale and old.
I pity thee; for now, let come what may,
Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all.
Wherewith can salt be salted? And what way
Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gone Are Their Treasures
From which one of your stale placements,
Do you believe you can rate...
My taste for staying updated?
No powdered wigged out judgements,
Of colonialistic restricted mentalists...
On the pursuit of political correctness,
Can exam with blinded minds...
These times that now exist!
Gone are their treasures.
And documented claims made in print!
Pomp and circumstance pulchritudes...
Appear rather silly!
And exposes their foolishness.
With a laughable return of such seriousness.
That should be burned and left in dusting urns!
From which one of your stale placements,
Do you believe you can rate...
My taste for staying updated?
With methods to attempt,
To make your nonsense permanent.
And there is evidence everywhere...
Your beliefs are vanishing in thin air!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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