Typhoon Signal No. 1
This is where the typhoon starts—
inside the fourth paragraph,
ten city blocks away,
where the neurosurgeon halfs
La Celestina, where you occupy
the spot under that Tiffany lamp,
where Edgar Rice Burroughs laughs,
where sugar cane is thigh
high, where you apply lipstick,
where the address numbers
are transposed, where hearts
take on airs of Parisian avenues,
where Mexican silver coins
are exchanged for salt, where
there is no fine line between art
and pornography, where the big
gingerbread boy answers
to the name of Alfredo, where you
take that moment to adjust
to my poem, where the metaphor
escapes from your throat.
poem by Nick Carbo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Harvest Time
O! beautiful black queen…
You are as sweet as sugar cane….
I can’t control my craving of you…
Sweetness!
Right from the harvest to me…
You, you sweet sugar cane…
My fever has reach an all time high…
Inside I cry and cry…
Why do I let you down?
My sweet, sweet brown sugar…
Are you to sweet for me?
Or am I to weak for you?
Ahhhhh! I’ve love on my mind…
I reach inside my soul…
And feel your sugar…
Stuck to my bones…
That says…
I am not alone…
O! beautiful black and sweet …
Sugar cane…
It’s harvest time…Wake up!
I’m coming for you…
My brown sugar…
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Liar, liar...
when the sweet sap of
the sugar cane is gone
when the salt does not
taste salt at all
when the vinegar loses
its prized acidity
the raw mango its sourness
the pork its oil and
the rice its gluten
when essence is gone
when you say that it is this
essence that precedes
existence
then tell me what happens next?
i know what to do.I know.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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New York
New York, New York
A city that breathes endlessly
Dollars are spent carelessly
New York, New York
A city of squares and blocks
And the Stars roll and rock
While tourist flock
Like sheep cornered in squares
Entertainment, clubs and theatres
Is all that seems to matter
Twenty four seven
Alive in heaven
New York
A taxi takes you round and round the blocks
I end up in Madison Square
Where I started out twenty minutes before
But who cares?
This is New York
Every where there are open doors
New York, New York
A city that never sleeps
Everywhere you must leave a tip
But this city is worth the trip
New York, New York
A city of numbers and avenues
And elongated queues
It is true
I see now, I know now
About what they say about New York!
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rice
Rice.
This time,
Spare us the gravy.
Eliminate the salt and pepper.
No butter or sweetened brown sugar to add!
Serve it up to nourish.
That's all we ask.
No need for the silver placements...
Or impressive china.
Nor the water goblets or crystal glass.
It is just rice!
What else to us has been passed?
We are here to get it plain and simple.
Direct and upfront.
And without the seasoned meat,
Promised and teased.
The rice we all once thought we liked...
Had been too disguised!
And this time...
We demand to know why,
The preparation took as long as it did.
Afterall,
Hasn't it been just rice?
And if not...
What was it?
Taking too long to surprise.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blow Your House Down
She did go
She got my jokes
Sit why we win
Go by the sin
Get high, get quick
Get bopping on a stick
Hollywood
Shake by go
Get barking in sin
Get high with the folks
Get down in the swim
Don't you walk away
I want you baby
How does it feel
When you're meet her in your home
How does it feel
When you feel her, let it go
Bono: "break."
Bono: "turn that guitar up there."
Sugar sugar sugar sugar sugar
Sugar sugar sugar sugar sugar
Sugar sugar sugar sugar sugar
Ah, it ain't over child
Your racing car
Raised by the boldness
You know you are
Your lips like cherries
And they call to me
I wasn't in the bottle
Next to me
I'm down by the call
Maybe the sun
Where nobody feels
They gotta give it and go
She's...gonna take her chances
Gonna take her chances
And you don't
Jump...you're gonna be the tele'
Is there anybody calling
Is anybody home
Anybody home
'body home
Anybody home
Bono: "just drums."
She likes it
Little bit of sky
Locked in the ocean
Bitty bitty sky
On a crutch rate
Country
Some scratch for it
Others snatch for it
Can't scrape for it
Can't escape for it
Check it out for it
Turn a sip for it
Some slip from it
Others strip for it
Any grip for it
What is it
What is it
What is it
Some preach for it
Even teach for it
Like a leash to it
Can't be teaching them
All crawl for it
Still stall for it
All fall for it
When you jump for it
Some slash for it
Others stash for it
Some cash into it
Others smash for it
Do lines for it
Break rhymes for it
Do crimes for it
Do time for it
Sugar cane, sugar cane
Sugar cane, sugar cane
Sugar cane, sugar cane
Sure...we're gonna take our chances
To turn and seek you
Couldn't go
Bono: "and again."
Sure...we're without a reason
I'm calling out for love
Is there anybody home
Bono: "nice."
Ray got caught
Her fingers in the till
Sent us home
Money came to will
Frank came home
With a black and blue
Working at the station
Where he can't break through
Was working on the coin
On the union stand
With a digital aid
And a union band
Saw a moving statue
Saw the bullet train
And a sheltered city
Where clowns scream
Our move ruined it
Saw the money god
Brothers say by a ring
Others sat by the brim
Tonight high-q site
Want these inocent
Bing-bang
And the big bang
Big bang, big bang
Die...like a butterfly
Die...like a butterfly
Die...like i'm gonna die
Die...like a moon in charge
Die...
Midnight...is where the day begins
Midnight...
Bono: "edge.
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sugar
Sugar, Sugar
How I wanna be your baby boy
Sugar, Sugar
How I wanna be your play toy
Got no time for every woman
Thinking that shes looking fine
Got no pockets full of money no no no
A fox would just be wasting her time
All I got is good good loving
And good loving doesnt have to find
Hey!
Sugar, Sugar
How I wanna be your baby boy
Sugar, Sugar
How I wanna be your play toy
Get it baby!
Ehhhhhhh
Mmmmmmmmhmmmm yeah
Got no need for fancy places
Got no need for cannon and wine
Got no need to move to the city no no no
Got no need to walk the line
All i need is good home cooking
And some sugar after supper time
Heeyy hey
Sugar, Sugar
How I wanna be your baby boy
Sugar, Sugar
How I wanna be your play toy
Ohh sugar
Ohh sugar
Ooohhhooohhhooohhh sugar
Ohh sugar
Ohh sugar ...
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem Is A Metaphor
THE POEM IS A METAPHOR
The Poem is a Metaphor
It means ‘the world’
It means ‘all that there is’
It means ‘the soul’
It means ‘our deepest feeling’.
The Poem is a Metaphor
It is more than what it just appears to be
It takes on a life of its own
It says more than it can define itself as
The Poem is a Metaphor
And it itself does not understand
Where it began and how it will end
And whether or not
It should always be rewritten.
The Poem is a Metaphor
And we too are metaphors
That will vanish one day
When all the real Poems
Pretend to still be here.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Land Of Dispute
Throughout the years, this fertile ground of all time
produce an abundant rice harvest
but when Cane and Nila had to be planted
with the laws and promises
a bundle of money
measure of welfare change
everything is measured by the amount of money in the bag
in the bank, and the stock trading
Money in the hands of farmers flows like spring water
Their time out to plant sugar cane and Nila
Time to be a little rice,
rice plants were molt
abundant harvest changed complaints
Their well-being such as inhaled
West wind,
disappeared
poem by Prasetya Utama
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I write to escape; to escape poverty.
quote by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dans Paris
The beauty of a city
the breathtaking
awe-inspiring
captivating
somewhat magical Parisian charm
Paris captures the hearts of those who step into its glossy boutiques and cafes
Just as a beautiful and sensuous seductress ensnares her defenceless prey
The star-studded Eiffel Tower in all its glory
shining like a beacon of fire across the Parisian night sky
Taking a walk along the breezy boulevard of the Champs Elysees
The romantic artists painting their subjects on Montmartres's quaint streets and alleys
The sun sets over the Seine and the City of Lights comes to life
poem by Salwa Nuseiba
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Long Twin Silver Line
Words and music by bob seger
Well the big train keeps on rolling
Rolling on down the track
And the way shes moving buddy
I dont believe shes a-coming back
The firemans smoking a big cigar
Sipping lafite rothschild bordeaux
And the engineers so happy
Hes just a-letting that whistle blow
She keeps a-rolling
She keeps a-rolling
She keeps a-rolling on proud and fine
She keeps a-rolling
She keeps a-rolling
Down that long twin silver line
Well she just blazed through chicago
Nonstop to l.a.
And the way shes steaming buddy
You better not get in her way
Shes got the finest fastest pulling twin diesels
Shes got ninety three cars in tow
Shes gonna be on time
All the way down the line
Come the rain hail sleet or snow
She keeps a-rolling
She keeps a-rolling
She keeps a-rolling on right on time
She keeps a-rolling
She keeps a-rolling
Down that long twin silver line
Rolling on down the line
And she just passed in chicago
Rolling into kansas too
Rolling into denver
Doing all shell do
And she hangs a big left in salt lake city
Southwest to the nevada line
Rolling into california
Right on time
Rolling on down the line
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bad Writing
the sentence & the paragraph had agreed upon meeting at dawn
out in the middle of the page
as the reflection off the fine silver pen being lifted by the human hand in the sky
shone off the bright white recycled paper
there stood one strong paragraph,
which
was armed with clever words, quirky verbs & quiet frankly,
a whole slew of other sentences
who may or may not be brought into the fray
with this
vigilante,
who stood a good distance away from the paragraph
with its shadow blotting out part of the page-
the sentence was tight
knit
&
written in a language that the paragraph had never heard of
before-
the paragraph tilted it’s font a bit, to stave off the human shifting the paper,
causing a bit of a breeze across the soft plane,
but the sentence hadn’t come here today
to waste its time flashing its
fashion sense, and in
standard
new times roman,
it spoke out in italics
“we gonna do this or not? ”
& the paragraph,
without a moment’s hesitation,
nodded, saying, in some bold n’ fancy variation of
book antiqua,
“i been ready since i saw the punctuation at the end of your
babbling jumble of foreign words”-
at that point,
the title of the page & the
header
walked in tandem to the place in between both the paragraph
and the sentence-
now equidistant apart from both,
they talked of what had brought both these forms of writing
to the page
this brisk & early morning in
june-
to make a story short,
the foreign language sentence & the
english (current language of commerce) paragraph
had come to this duel over a
beautiful
metaphor-
and while both the title & the header could understand,
having fallen for beautiful metaphors once or twice in their own
multiple drafts, themselves,
it was still a sad sight to see two
strong forms of writing,
battling over one
metaphor,
when there were so many
phrases in the
sea of literature-
the title & the header opened up the utterance
& from that utterance, they pulled two perfect
pistols full of wit
(the weapon of choice for both the paragraph & the sentence) ,
and after handing both of the forms of writing their
prospective pistol,
they stood back and off to the side of the page,
frightened of what was to happen next-
back to back,
the paragraph & the sentence marched away from each other
space by space by space,
to the traditional margins,
and when they both reached them
they turned round quick,
firing their wit at will-
the paragraph,
hefty & edited well,
was able to fire its wit faster,
as it had already gone through so many drafts, and had
honed its skill
whereby each word within it, had its own place
(it was a “ripped” paragraph, if you can picture it-lean & not very wordy at all) ,
however,
though the sentence wasn’t as well formed as the paragraph,
it was sleek & stealthy-
its words rolled off a human’s tongue when they read it
aloud,
and in this, the sentence was able to
wiggle itself around,
missing the mass spray of wit that had been fired by the
paragraph’s pistol-
as in every fight,
there is a winner & a loser,
this one was no different,
and the hefty, well edited paragraph,
had too much to move
and too little time to do so,
when the sentence wielded its wit towards it-
the sentence, relentlessly, kept firing,
not satisfied & not feeling safe,
until the paragraph, with all of its fellow sentences within,
crumbled to the page,
now,
a mere pile of
sentence fragments & misplaced
words & punctuation.
the sentence,
victorious,
nodded to the title & the header, who nodded back,
and walked out of the lamplight & into the shadow
to embrace the sweet warmth of its
beautiful metaphor
which had been watching the wit-fight
behind the margin.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who Knows Where The Poem Begins?
WHO KNOWS WHERE THE POEM BEGINS/
Who knows where the poem begins
And where the inner singing starts?
Who knows when the words are lost inside
And can never be what they really mean?
The questions of our lives we live with
Are greater than the answers we can give
Time will not tell us everything
But only deepen the mysteries
We will take to the grave with us.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tarzan: It is a long story, but it was I who wrote what I could not speak — and now D'Arnot has made matters worse by teaching me to speak French instead of English.
line from Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs (1912)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Because pornography is a tool of Satan that exploits and distorts our God-given sexuality, women - especially Christian women - need to understand the increasing threat of online pornography.
quote by Donna Rice
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jackie Cane
Jackie cane was everybodys sugar
She gave it all wherever it took her
They used her up before the sell-by date
To be so sweet was her only mistake
The only flower in a concrete garden
Destined to be the rock that wouldnt harden
Jackie cane was everybodys sugar
Shed melt away if only she could of
Taken for granted
Abused and drained
They ran her dry and
Then it never rained
She was the queen
Of the 25th hour
They looked so sweet
But the after-taste was sour
Salty days for jackie cane
song performed by by Hooverphonic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mexicans
Mexicans are brown
That’s my race
So don’t mess around
Mexican Pride
I will not disagree
My Mexican blood flows with ease
Through thick and thin til the day I die.
Our Mexican flag up in the sky
I yell this poem louder than the rest
Cuz everyone knows Mexicans are G’s
Mexican Pride is on my mind
Mexican blood in my veins
So step aside and let us through
Cuz it’s the Mexican Crew
Lifes messed up and you die alone
But if your one of us you die with pride.
poem by Jessica Hernandez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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High In The City
I got the time, I got my feet
Lets go hit the street
High in the city
High in the city
I got my mace and you got your knife
You gotta protect your own life
High in the city
High in the city
I wanna get high in the city
I wanna stay alive here in the city
I wanna stay high in the city
High in the city
High in the city
Lets not walk down sutton place
You know everybody there got an akitas
High in the city
High in the city
Dont wanna talk politics today
I feel too good let me have my way
High in the city
High in the city
Watch out for that guy on your right
Seen him on the news last saturday night
He was high in the city
High in the city
Hey, look theyre setting fire to that jeep
Theres not much you can keep
High in the city
High in the city
I wanna get high in the city
I wanna stay alive in the city
I wanna stay high in the city
High in the city
High in the city
So many people feeling low
And theres only one way to go to
Get high in the city
High in the city
Lets grap a pie, lets hit the park
Ill kiss and hug you till it gets dark
Here in the city
Getting high in the city
(high in the city)
(high in the city and youre looking so pretty)
(feelin pretty witty, gettin high off of the city)
(hi-ai-ai-ai, high in the city)
(high in the city)
(high in the city and youre looking so pretty)
(feelin pretty witty, gettin high off of the city)
(hi-ai-ai-ai, high in the city)
(high in the city)
(high in the city and youre looking so pretty)
(feelin pretty witty, gettin high off of the city)
(hi-ai-ai-ai, high in the city)
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem Is A Metaphor/ For Whatever The Poet Needs It To Be
THE POEM IS A METAPHOR / FOR WHATEVER THE POET NEEDS IT TO BE
The Poem is a Metaphor
For whatever the poet needs it to be-
It need not know its own name
Or its destination-
It simply may suddenly appear
And take us to a place we’ve never been,
To a connection we never would have found on our own.
The Metaphor is a vehicle of transport for the Soul
And he who spells it out literally
Grounds it.
Why then oh why is this where we all be?
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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