En.Citatepedia^®.ro

I take the mountain road

It's so risky and hard
As you said,
That I knew my friend!
But I cannot postpone the matter
For the next year,
Probably they select my name
To the Graveyard list
As a new comer!
Yes, I tell them it should be your bithplace
Amherst!
A quiet village in the Connecticut valley of Massachusetts!

*'I was intoxicated by your poems & letters.
For Emily Dickinson in gratitude!

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Ms.Emily's Song

She n'er laiughed at much
I've heard
While her smile filled the air
Giggling only at the Butterfly and Bird
And for the Bee a heartfelt prayer

She n'er romanced in her life
I've been told
The Amherst moon divulged the news
Her soul wrapped 'round the yellow gold
The Galaxy 'twas her Muse

The 'Northern Lights' they beckoned
Her away from sod and the Bee
And took her heart in tender grasp
And filled it: 'with promise of eternity'

Dedicated to my favorite poet:
Miss Emily Dickinson
Born: Amherst Mass
December 10,1830
Died May 15,1886

Also Dedicated To:
David J. Peretti
Washington State Patrol
My first love

poem by Theodora Onken
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(The Lights Went Out In) Massachusettes

Feel I'm goin' back to Massachusetts,
Something's telling me I must go home.
And the lights all went out in Massachusetts
The day I left her standing on her own.
Tried to hitch a ride to San Francisco,
Gotta do the things I wanna do.
And the lights all went out in Massachusetts
They brought me back to see my way with you.
Talk about the life in Massachusetts,
Speak about the people I have seen,
And the lights all went out in Massachusetts
And Massachusetts is one place I have seen.
I will remember Massachusetts...

song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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~ Ms.Emily's Gift's~

The night n'er knew her face-
She would retire afore the sun set-
In the early twiglight hours-
Wrapped herself tightly in velvet coverlet-

Beauty sleep was her aim-
A resting of her most beautiful soul-
And a deep withdrawl from-
The Ebon's sometimes too cold-

She had not one mean thought-
Her character honest and true-
A vision with her beloved God-
'Twas all that she ever knew-

Daylight hours she embraced-
The Butterfly and Bee-
Caressed- she- the garden Lillies-
Natures keeping 'twas her ability-

She ne'r knew a person-
That she did not revere-
An honor bestowed upon each one-
Always in her heart held near-

Amherst-it was truly blessed-
Though at the time so unaware-
That they had such a gifted poet-
Living and loving the sod-right there!

In Honor of: Emily Dickinson

poem by Theodora Onken
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What Is The Next Step?

told my cousin Chris
i was going to out write
every past classical poet
this year (that was in 2011)

put an average of 100 poems
a month on line...
Chris replied with one word BS

that was April 16th 2011
needed to write 600 new poems
that year alone...

in truth i had already out written
almost all past classical poets
these great artists had often written

novels essays plays short stories
i write none of these marvels
i was merely writing my poems

next to catch on my shrinking list
final last magnificent seven
were on 534 Aussie Henry Lawson

master of plays on 550 William Shakespeare
master of lyric on 561 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
popular poetess on 571 Ella Wheeler Wilcox

all sing lines of fascinating allure siren calls
Nobel Prize Literature on 593 Rudyard Kipling
then months long lonely haul to cloud heights

Bard of the Yukon on 832 Robert William Service
crafted persona on then 1123 Emily Dickinson
all i esteemed in awe delight their literary heights

i kept my rare masterpiece best posted the worst the rest
ah sheer delight to think in verse to write to write at last
crazy never worked so hard later often worked all night

i had a focus a standard a bar a goal a philosophy of poetry
i never said what i would write would be good or what
i thought of what i wrote i wasted little time on interaction

comment was all locked self contained in verse writ
race was on half run those who can do love every bit
of creation imagination muse who calls cannot be caught

awesome to have time for that kind of inspiration
"but you did it? " "yes i did it, i believed"
although before i started it was impossible to believe?

Emily Dickinson published less than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems during her lifetime.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Am Quiet In Gratitude To God

I am quiet in gratitude to God
Saved again
Near tears in tears
Grateful to God
And trying within
To let the Gratitude be everything
And forget for a time
The fear that will return again-
Quiet in Gratitude to God
And wanting that Gratitude to be everything.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Risky

Ripop/sakamoto/laswell
Born in a corporate dungeon
Where people are cheated of life
I knew I could never stay home no
As you lie in the dark
With your pink dress on
You look risky lovely risky lovely
Child of the whispering skies
Risky thats your name
Risky unashamed
Risky show your style
Risky loves on trial
You make me feel that this heart is real
When you hold me love me hold me love me
Girl with the scream in her eyes
Risky thats your name
Risky unashamed
Risky show your style
Risky loves on trial
People fall apart all the time
Ive been hit enough to know why
Climb to this point move on
Climb to this point move on
Career, career acquire, acquire
But what is life whithout a heart
Theres standing room only
Somebody better tell the truth
Proceed at your own risk
Risky thats your name
Risky unashamed
Risky show your style
Risky loves on trial
Why feel so sad
Let your heart be glad
Love is risky lovely risky lovely
Child of the whispering skies
Born in a corporate dungeon
Where people are cheated of life
I knew I could never stay home
Risky love, risky love, risky love, sweet love
Risky love, risky love, give me love, sweet love, risky love, risky love

song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hand Wielding the Pen and Gun

I write poems by this hand
which helped my mother
to crush the grains in a stone mortar
by raising and hitting down with the pestle
before the grinding mills came to a nearby town.

I write poems by this hand
which got wounds swinging the hammer
to hit hard on rods to make holes into the rock
in our deep well, and filled them, with explosives
to blow off and find the burst of water.

I write poems by this hand
which drove the bulls cracking the whip
while ploughing and moving the cart
and drawing water from the well in leather sacks,
before the electrons flew through the wires to my village.

I write poems by this hand
which uprooted for wages the groundnut plants
beside the ghats from morn till dark on school holidays,
when the lack of rains shrivelled
our crops at our village.
I write poems by this hand
which made the eyes of professors wet
by scribbling short stories in my classical tongue.

I write poems by this hand
which quenched my thirst and of the kin
fetching waters from the falls in the hills
where herbs with healing powers grow.

I write poems by this hand
which feels restless to wield the gun
on seeing the coffins of our soldiers
taken to the graveyard in silence `
overwhelming with rage and fire.
---------

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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A Fate of Top Poems!

Past poets were remarkable by their poems only;
But present poets are made remarkable by others!

Poetry of the past are no doubt top poems ever;
But poetry of the top are not listed in top poems!

Becoming top poets how can theirs have no place
Among the top poems of the poetry list? I wonder!

Touch stone of the top poems depends on merit
But not by the supports of friends for fun ever!

Poems of lasting value only can become classic;
But poems of no merit also have become classic!

Poetry of the past are romantic and also classic
But poetry of the present are neither but modern!

What is the yardstick to select poems as top ones -
Just support of some but not merit and meaning?

poem by Ramesh T A
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Gratitude—is not the mention

989

Gratitude—is not the mention
Of a Tenderness,
But its still appreciation
Out of Plumb of Speech.

When the Sea return no Answer
By the Line and Lead
Proves it there's no Sea, or rather
A remoter Bed?

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Mantra of Gratitude

If girls stop smiling
At the malls on Saturday,
If beautiful cats on porches
And window sills
Suddenly disappear,
If orchestral music is never heard again
In concert halls among special friends,
If someone removes
My lovely Emily Dickinson;
Then I’ll sit down quite calmly
And peacefully meditate a mantra of gratitude
For the amount of time I knew these things.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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The old friends met in a quiet starlit night

He hums his unwritten song
Who's a famous drunkard in the village.
It's a quiet starlit night
And stars twinkle to his sad rhythm.
Passing the isolated graveyard nearby a stable
He stopped for a while.
And his old friend speaks from a broken tomb;
'Hey! There October Moon peeps like your innocent Auschwitz fiancee
And how the crawling life goes on chum! '
Could you please pass me a non-filter cigarette
If you have any spare one? '
He thinks on his way to the lonely Inn
That his dumb friend never smoked before.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Love your enemies!

Should an enemy be in the friend's list?
Should an enemy be in the ban's list?
When the enemy is in the friend's list,
Either the enemy is dubious or a friend,
When the friend is in the Ban's list,
Either the friend is dubious or a foe,
When that famous enemy of someone,
Was listed in the friend's list of the same,
How many of you shocked and never asked?
As a vocal person, I never raise my voice against abuse,
As I am still confused with the traits of the artists,
Who are good at acting as predators and victims.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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My friend must be a Bird

92

My friend must be a Bird—
Because it flies!
Mortal, my friend must be,
Because it dies!
Barbs has it, like a Bee!
Ah, curious friend!
Thou puzzlest me!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I reckon—when I count it all

569

I reckon—when I count it all—
First—Poets—Then the Sun—
Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God—
And then—the List is done—

But, looking back—the First so seems
To Comprehend the Whole—
The Others look a needless Show—
So I write—Poets—All—

Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year—
They can afford a Sun
The East—would deem extravagant—
And if the Further Heaven—

Be Beautiful as they prepare
For Those who worship Them—
It is too difficult a Grace—
To justify the Dream—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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On a Theme by Frost

Amherst never had a witch
O Coos or of Grafton

But once upon a time
There were three old women.

One wore a small beard
And carried a big umbrella.

One stood in the middle
Of the road hailing cars.

One drove an old cart
All over the town collecting junk.

They were not weird sisters,
No relation to one another.

A duly accredited witch I
Never heard Amherst ever had

But as I say there
Were these three old women.

One was prone to appear
At the door (not mine!):

"I've got my nightgown on,
I can stay all night."

One went to a party
At the president's house once

Locked herself in the bathroom
And gave herself a bath.

One had taught Latin, having
Learned it at Mount Holyoke.

Of course Amherst may have
Had witches I never knew.

poem by Robert Francis
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Went up a year this evening!

93

Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful—as to the village—
Tranquil—as to repose—
Chastened—as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious—
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life's diverse bouquet—
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew—
Hands bustled at the moorings—
The crown respectful grew—
Ascended from our vision
To Countenances new!
A Difference—A Daisy—
Is all the rest I knew!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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From Us She wandered now a Year

890

From Us She wandered now a Year,
Her tarrying, unknown,
If Wilderness prevent her feet
Or that Ethereal Zone

No eye hath seen and lived
We ignorant must be—
We only know what time of Year
We took the Mystery.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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What is—

215

What is—"Paradise"—
Who live there—
Are they "Farmers"—
Do they "hoe"—
Do they know that this is "Amherst"—
And that I—am coming—too—

Do they wear "new shoes"—in "Eden"—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won't they scold us—when we're homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—

You are sure there's such a person
As "a Father"—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls "die"—
I shan't walk the "Jasper"—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won't laugh at me—
Maybe—"Eden" a'n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Sun kept setting—setting—still

692

The Sun kept setting—setting—still
No Hue of Afternoon—
Upon the Village I perceived
From House to House 'twas Noon—

The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—still
No Dew upon the Grass—
But only on my Forehead stopped—
And wandered in my Face—

My Feet kept drowsing—drowsing—still
My fingers were awake—
Yet why so little sound—Myself
Unto my Seeming—make?

How well I knew the Light before—
I could see it now—
'Tis Dying—I am doing—but
I'm not afraid to know—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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She bore it till the simple veins

144

She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand—
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it—
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet—
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street—

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers—
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy—immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?

poem by Emily Dickinson
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