En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Sleight of Hand

I put my handkerchief into your holey pocket
And take out a Pigeon,
Again I put the Pigeon into your pocket
And take out my handkerchief.
A middle aged woman with a singsong
Winked at me among the crowd at the roundabout
And it says willing to come with me.
What a real gimmick?
She took my fragile heart
Through the broken ribs
Without my knowledge.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Dilettante And The Critic

A BOY a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
He loved it well, and in boyish sport
Its food to take from his mouth he taught,
And in his pigeon he took such pride,
That his joy to others he needs must confide.

An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell,
Talkative, clever, and learned as well;
The boy his society used to prize,
Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.

"My friend the fox my pigeon must see
He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he
"Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!
His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"

"Let's see!"--The boy gave it.--"'Tis really not bad;
And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.
The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"
So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.

The boy screamed.--"Thou must now stronger pinions supply,
Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly."--
Soon 'twas stripp'd--oh, the villain!--and torn all to pieces.
The boy was heart-broken,--and so my tale ceases.

He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case,
Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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That Pigeon

Tony just brought
a pigeon
in his house
put it in a cage and
feed it
some grains
beside a bowl of
water

Every night since then
i cannot sleep
hearing always the sound
of a sobbing woman
grieving

i keep telling myself
that it is just
a pigeon temporarily
adopting to a momentary loss
of her freedom

Horrible nights
lots of horrible nights
the sounds of groaning griefs
are penetrating the walls of my mind

until one day
the pigeon died and Tony buried it
beside his house
now the pebbles are giving me
the silence of the dead
the air is so quiet
looking at an empty cage

somehow i feel guilty
not about the pigeon but about Tony
well, the story is quite long
what business do i have there?
last night i was thinking
what if it was Tony who died
and the pigeon went out of that cage
and buried him there
beside that lonely house?
shall i not hear the grieving sounds of
that pigeon again?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Confused Birds

Sometimes things happen the way you don't want them to,
There was a Pigeon and a Dove to guide the life through,
Together they ate, Together they flew,
The pigeon was ready to wait a life long,
But the Dove had a rough stance that you move on,
The Dove always wanted the Pigeon to be comfortable,
But always thrash think that she didn't deserve such awesome individual,
The matter was closely watched by a gardener,
He called them...
The Confused Birds.

poem by Vikrant Jog
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Poem In My Pocket!

I have a poem in my pocket for this very day,
a poem in my packet you might even say,
i have a poem in my pocket for all of you to hear,
this is the poem in my pocket,
the one you've just heard me peirs,
so a poem in my pocket is to my heart
but i have to say sorry it's time for us to part!

poem by Raven Fulford
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The only difference between a pigeon and the American farmer today is that a pigeon can still make a deposit on a John Deere.

quote by Jim Hightower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Money In My Pocket

Money in my pocket but I just can't get no love
Money in my pocket but I just can't get no love
I'm praying for
A girl to be my own
Soon you said she coming but I don't believe a word she say
Cause she run away and left me one rainy day
She made me had in mind
That her love would never die
And now I'm alone, so alone
So alone, yeah, yeah
Money in my pocket but I just can't get no love
Money in my pocket but I just can't get no love
The love I had in mind
Was very, very hard to find
It's hard for a man to live without a woman
And a woman needs a man to cling to
You'll see what love can do
After making me feel blue
Ain't that a shame, whoa baby
Ain't that a shame
To make me feel blue
Ive got money in my pocket

song performed by by Simply Red
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Money In My Pocket (Plan B Mix)

Money in my pocket but I just cant get no love
Money in my pocket but I just cant get no love
Im praying for
A girl to be my own
Soon you said she coming but I dont believe a word she say
Cause she run away and left me one rainy day
She made me had in mind
That her love would never die
And now Im alone, so alone
So alone, yeah, yeah
Money in my pocket but I just cant get no love
Money in my pocket but I just cant get no love
The love I had in mind
Was very, very hard to find
Its hard for a man to live without a woman
And a woman needs a man to cling to
Youll see what love can do
After making me feel blue
Aint that a shame, whoa baby
Aint that a shame
To make me feel blue
Ive got money in my pocket

song performed by by Simply Red
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Linen Hankerchief

Does anyone still make use of the linen handkerchief?
Does anyone still take the time to starch and iron,
Fold and press into triangle or square?

Many and varied the role of this flimsy accessory!
To dab one’s eyes, or nose; or after rain, I suppose –
To dab discreetly at one’s hair.

Then there’s the dapper suit with its lively pocket adornment;
A love token waved, or given away –
A Cinderella’s slipper found by a favoured gent.

Man and woman and child alike for reasons unbeknownst
May stash one on their person quite unbidden.
A lot of fuss over nothing much: this strangest piece of linen.

poem by Jean Renwick
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Dadi

oh she was miserable
she is always crying

her handkerchief is dirty
with her tears
and make up

i told her there is no reason to panic
everything here
is temporary

i assured her
her woes are much milder than the woes of those
who are here
and listening to her

and i let the other four who were with us
speak about their mess

they tell their own sad stories
how they escaped from hell

and then Dadi starts to smile
her handkerchief is dry

and she leaves us with a happy heart
to comfort her

we have to concoct miseries much
greater than hers

and then we start all over again
back to chapter 1

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After The Great Flood

after the great flood
it was the black crow which was first
allowed to fly,
Moses had confidence on its
aggression,
it did not come back you know that well,
it puked on dead flesh and
flew away
deciding on its own now
charting its own
destiny,

then it was the pigeon's turn to serve
coy and shy and yet obedient
it came back with a twig and a leaf

whether this is all symbolism or not
an interplay and contrast between black and white
crow and pigeon, good or evil
disobedience or impunity, i don't
go into a hairsplitting
or argument with you

but i have to admit, i like to be that black crow.
i never want to be the pigeon that you believe i am.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cataract Operation

The sun comes like a head
through last night's turtleneck.
A pigeon in the yard turns tail
and offers me a card. Any card.

From pillar to post, a pantomime
of damp, forgotten washing

on the washing line.
So, in the breeze:

the olé of a crimson towel.
the cancan of a ra ra skirt,

the monkey business of a shirt
pegged only by its sleeve,

the cheerio
of a handkerchief.

I drop the blind
but not before a company

of half a dozen hens
struts through the gate,

looks round the courtyard
for a contact lens.

poem by Simon Armitage
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A Pocket Handkerchief To Hem

A pocket handkerchief to hem -
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
How many stitches it will take
Before it's done, I fear.
Yet set a stitch and then a stitch,
And stitch and stitch away,
Till stitch by stitch the hem is done -
And after work is play!

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Zip-lock

I've been stealing
Time where I can get it from
I've been losing
Grip on what I used to hold
If I could get another chance
I'd put it in a zip-loc bag
And keep it in my pocket
Keep it in my pocket
Keep it in my pocket
Tell me
When I start to blow it would you
Show me
What I need to do before you
Hate me
I could never live with that so
Tell me
Before you're better off without me
Before you're better off without me
I've been watching you
Sleeping with a troubled look
I'm sure your bad dreams
Are probably all about me
And better off without me
If I could get another chance
I'd put it in a ziploc bag
And keep it in my pocket
Keep it in my pocket
Keep it in my pocket
Tell me
When I start to blow it would you
Show me
What I need to do before you
Hate me
I could never live with that so
Tell me
Before you're better off without me
Before you're better off without me
Well I've been losing
Grip on what I used to hold
I don't want you
To be better off without me
If I could get another chance
I'd put it in a ziploc bag
And keep it in my pocket
Keep it in my pocket
Keep it in my pocket
Tell me
When I start to blow it would you
Show me
Tell me
What I need to do before you
Hate me
Tell me
Cuz I could never live with that so
Help me
Before you're better off without me

song performed by by Lit from A Place In The Sun
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Real

I know the sun's around
To wake the dead
You've got if anything
A bigger head
Most likely to perform
Was who I knew
But now it's you that I have to know
Silly who ya know
Has got away
Sweet little who ya know
Lives in L.A.
Most likely to conceive
Was who I knew
But now it's you that I have to know
Only the real world
Is so unreal
Only the real is real

Pocket the business card
Be on your way
Pocket the smiling face
And save the day

Most likely to perform
Was who I knew
But now it's you that I have to know
Only the real world is so unreal
Only the real is real

song performed by by Tracy Bonham from The Burdens Of Being Upright
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man With The Golden Gun

The man
With the golden gun
Is waiting
Somewhere
Out there
For you
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
Demand
For the golden gun
It's high priced
Precise
And true
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket, Oh, oh
The man with the golden
Gun in his case, Oh, oh
The man with the golden
Gun in your face
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
You better believe
He'll be looking for you
He-e-e-e-e-e's, The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in his case
The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in your face
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
You better believe
He'll be looking for yo-ou
He-e-e-e-e-e's, The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in his case
The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in your face
The man with the go-o-olden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the go-o-lden
Gun in his case
The man who gave you the golden gun

song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pedlar

FLY, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly!
And see if you can find him;
He has blue eyes--you'll know him by,--
He wears a pack behind him.
He's gone away--ah! many a mile
Because he could not please me,
And, oh! 'twill be a weary while
Ere next he comes to tease me.

He carries wares of every kind,
Fine ribbons, silks, and laces,
Bargains to rhyme with every mind,
And hues to suit all faces.
He has gold rings and pretty things
That other maids will throng for,
Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings,
And fly to him I long for.

Tell him to turn and come again,
For once I sent him packing;
He offered me a bargain then,
But wit and price were lacking.
I have the price he asked of me,
The wit that will not weigh it;
Ah! bid him come again and see
How gladly I will pay it.

A heart of gold he offered me
As 'twere a penny fairing,
And only asked a worthless fee,
This heavy heart I'm wearing.
I would not then--now long and drear
The white way winds behind him;
Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear,
But you will never find him!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Honey-Do List (This is my attempt at a Sestina)

I wrote a long honey-do list
and handed it to my husband.
With a smile he read it and with a fold
he stuffed it in his pocket.
I'll get to this as soon as I can,
but can't you hear the cry from the dogs.

Who can't hear the cry of the dogs?
Did you not read my list?
If you won't do it I can,
I said to my loving husband
I took the list from his pocket.
And opened it at the fold.

It was closed with a fold,
because I want to hunt my dogs.
Now return it to my pocket.
I will get to the list,
Said my loving husband.
I'll get to it when I can.

I'm doing the best I can,
and he creased it at the fold.
Cried out my loving husband,
you know I love my dogs.
I'll get around to this list
and returned it to his pocket.

With my fingers I tapped the pocket,
maybe you can't but I can,
dropp you from my list.
Grabbing me he did fold
me in his arms like he does his dogs.
I am your loving husband.

I promise you said my loving husband,
with a hand on his heart across his pocket
I love you more than my dogs
I'll get to you when I can
Please return me to your fold
Because you know you head my list

Thirty-two dogs and one husband
added to my list and stuffed in a pocket
Enjoy it while I can and iron out our differences at the fold.

poem by Victoria Dame
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We are Transmitters

As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.

That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.

And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.

Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.

Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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You've Got Her In Your Pocket

You've got her in your pocket
And there's no way out now
Put it in the safe and lock it
'cause it's at home sweet home
Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way
And you'll be there if she ever feels blue
And you'll be there when she FINDS someone new
What to do
Well you know
You keep her in your pocket
Where there's no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
'cause it's home sweet home
The smile on your face made her think she had the right one
Then she thought she was sure
By the way you two could have fun
But now she might leave
like she's threatened before
grab hold of her fast
before her feet leave the floor
and she's out the door
Cause you want,
To keep you in my pocket
Where there's no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
'cause it's home sweet home
And in your own mind
You know you're lucky just to know her
And in the beginning all you wanted was to show her
But now your scared
You think she's running away
You're searching your head for something clever to say
Dont go away
Cause i want,
To keep you in my pocket
where there's no way out
put it in the safe and lock it
cos' it's home sweet home
Home sweet home

song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alone

He put the gum in his right
lower pocket, where it belonged;
The Certs in this heat melted, staining his right
upper pocket, a crying shame.
The green stone went in his left
upper pocket along with the key to nothing;
the robin's egg nestled in his left
lower pocket but never hatched.

He crisscrossed the flats between
the two rocky spires and, every day,
wished he had a compass
or to find anything that could control
his life's motion.

But he never found that thing,
except for thre head-bones of a cow,
and he could not contrive a place
for them, so he buried them and mourned:
Later on he died alone.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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