The Beau's Hunting
The sun seared the fine fringes
Of their shadows, a smoke transpired
They were burning an inferno
To thaw the thinning ice below
The swaying of their wobbly soles
The frost bit and sense was bereaved
Behind the intoxicated blear
They fell, but to where?
In the carnage of ephemeral Sundays?
Or in the concealed demons to lambaste?
Should I alert the armory?
Or should I pry harder?
Into the nights of the hunters
And learn the hunger game they play
And eloquently morph into an answer
For holes and questions
In the chest of veracity.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Souls and Holes
Value some their souls whole
And wear with pride soles with holes,
Others pierce their souls with holes
And flaunt their fancy soles whole.
Blessed those with souls whole
Wearing with pride soles whole,
Lucky those with holes in souls
Suffering bites of holes in soles.
poem by Vinod Sharma
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evasive (EDITED FOR one letter only)
the answers are shy
they have not matured
they always are not
confronting the questions
which keep on roaming like
Nazi soldiers looking
for the kill of the innocent
ones
the answers are arrows
with blunt tips
the questions are the black holes
of our universe
who dares to answer all of them
not me
i see all the questions
and i am but a little boy stupid on the street
looking for mother
and afraid of what a father can do
to defend the senselessness of
my posture
the questions are alive
the answers need a redemption
i take the side step
write a poem and then sleep
who knows?
the answer is nothing but a dream
yes, a dream
something ephemeral
yes, an illusion
something like a mirror
yes, a moment,
something that must pass like the shadow of the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Evasive
the answers are shy
they have not matured
they always are not
confronting the questions
which keep on roaming like
Nazi soldiers looking
for the kill of the innocent
ones
the answers are arrows
with blunt tips
the questions are the black holes
of our universe
who dares to answer all of them
not me
i see all the questions
and i am but a little boy stupid on the street
looking for mother
and afraid of what a father can do
to defend the senselessness of
my posture
the questions are alive
the answers need a redemption
i take the side step
write a poem and then sleep
who know?
the answer is nothing but a dream
yes, a dream
something ephemeral
yes, an illusion
something like a mirror
yes, a moment,
something that must pass like the shadow of the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Or, Is It?
it's easy...
to say a lot of nothing
with a lot of words!
easy to preach by day
and whore by night.
easy to have a lot of answers,
when you dont even
know the questions...
easy to say:
'i'd never do that...'
it's a lot harder
to speak the truth
in a few simple words.
harder to admit your mistakes,
and be honest about yourself.
harder to listen for the questions,
knowing that often listening
is the best answer.
harder to admit:
'i've been there before...'
or, is it?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Skin Game
Oh
See you, you in there dancin,
And Im in here needing questions and answers
(ha!, ha!), hey!, (ha!, ha!)
Ha!, hoo!, ha!, hoo!, ha!, hoo!, ha!
The dance is in
When theyre mine
Try to learn the rules
Dont mind showin
Equal chances (taught)
For our amuses
Not much can beat the odds
No excuses, lets play the skin game
(ha!, ha!, ha!), hoo!, (ha!, ha!, ha!), ooh!,(ha!, ha!)
Sing it!, ha!, hoo!, ha!, (sing it!), sing it!, ha!, hoo!, (your choice), ha!
You say your set
So lets get started
Try to be the best
But dont be that smart
You know what your brother gets
No need to complain
Just figure out, that theres a way to play,
To play the skin game
Chorus:
The skin game is still around, sing it!,
But you cant keep a good man down
(play the skin game)
(ha!, ha!, ha!), hoo!, ha!, (ha!, ha!), hoo!, (ha!, ha!) ha!, ( ha!), hoo!
Repeat chorus
Cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant
Keep a good man down
And Im in here needing questions and answers
(ha!)
Hoo!
Repeat chorus
(and Im in here needing questions and answers)
Outside lookin in, in, in
The door is open, but you cant get in
Somethings in the way
Its a skin game (oh, just a skin game)
Just a skin game
Lets play the skin game (game)
Hoo!, hoo!
(sing it for the people yall)
Repeat chorus
The skin game is still around, sing it!,
But you cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant, cant
Keep a good man down,
Cant, cant, cant, cant, sing it!, cant, cant, cant, cant, sing it!
Repeat chorus
Hoo!
Break it down, sing it!
Hoo!
Sing it!
(sing it for the people yall)
Sing it!
(sing it!, sing it!, sing it, sing it again!)
(sing it again, sing it again, and again, and again, and again, and again)
Repeat chorus
The skin game is still around
See you in there dancin,
And Im in here needing questions and answers
song performed by by Janet Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What about those who don’t play by the rules
Who neither know them nor want to know them
They’ve got this play which never turns them into a game
Of midnight hunters chasing the tail of their own ego
They play the play of colourful fibers
Knit the rainbows in their head
They are the last to judge and the first to lift their eyes
Awe struck before the possibility of sight
Don’t hang your words on the eyes of a child
Growing into the Child
The way you put patches
Onto the holes of your own emptiness
The Future will laugh at you
©М iroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Butterfly Rests on A Cannon in The War Zone
Hey! My little creature
It's not a tree trunk
And not the perfect game.
(Hitting of two balls in one shot in billiards.)
Please go away and rest somewhere.
Be alert! When handsome Man operates the Toy!
You hear the nasty sound
And the fire ball flies and hit on the other side.
Do not get misunderstand
That inferno isn't a New Dawn!
* Merry Christmas to our brother soldiers who play with Human conspicuously!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Not Into Game Play
Not into game play.
Not even 'if' I sense it with,
A new arrival.
Someone who elects to question,
From hidden places.
To play hide and seek.
Not me.
I am not into game play.
Not today when times are the way they are.
Not with adults who like to keep their lives,
Disguised while they decide to moralize and criticize.
Not when my peace of mind is at stake.
Not into game play.
Not at all.
Even 'if' I should sense it beginning.
With someone fresh.
But choosing to have me jump through hoops.
To see how far they can get.
Before they notice it...
I have left!
I am not into game play.
Not me.
Not today!
Not that way.
Not for me anyway.
At least not like that.
Not to sit and listen to tit for tat tales.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Shadows within Shadows
Come with me in the shadows, come
Way beyond the caravan way
Drum out the fear and hear the drum
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
Burn the candles ‘n smell 'em burn
Daylight is gone, this is your day
Learn the music that shadows learn
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
Romance in shadows sweet romance
Sway to music, let your heart sway
Dance with dancers, join in their dance
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
Come with me in the shadows, come
Play minstrel play; play minstrel play
__________________________________
Shadow Sonnet
Giudelines found here:
http: //www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/types.html
poem by Amera Andersen
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His Answer To My Question Was A Question
His answer to my question
Was a question
My answer to his reply
Was returned
With another question
The game of
Answering and asking
Questions
Did not end
Till I questioned
The very motive
Of our conversation
We came to the conclusion
How to pass time?
Was the biggest question
Asking questions
And creating confusion
Was the answer
So we passed our time
Asking and answering questions
The question now is
Whether we did right or wrong?
The answer is
Why ask a useless question?
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Are You All Right?
They keep asking me this question
I don't know how to answer
They say it again
And I still don't have an answer
Really, what do you say to that
I could say I'm fine, but that would be a lie
I could say everything, but then they would keep asking me questions
Questions i couldn't answer
That's when I simply smile and walk away
The question that's always asked, but never answered
Are you all right?
That's for you to decide
(2-21-05)
poem by Brandi Young
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The Crow And The Doe
Again and again the wise ol’ crow said to the sweet, young doe,
“Don’t play by the winding brook since that’s where hunters go.”
But sweet, young doe said, “I love to play by this gentle stream.
As I drink its cool water, I see how pretty that I seem.
While I’m there, I’ll be watchful and be careful as I can.
Besides, the many times I’ve played there I’ve never seen a man.”
Wise ‘ol crow frowned, pointing his wing as he quickly said,
“Innocent, sweet young doe, you won’t see hunters; just feel their lead.
You may drink the water and watch yourself while you’re having fun
Though from my perch I can see hunters and each one has a gun.
Please stay deep in the forest where no man or gun will go.
Play with your friends and have fun, but always let your mother know.”
Well, sweet, young doe had other ideas of what would be fun to do.
She thought, “Since I’m now two year old, I’ll try something new.”
There was fun and lots food for the taking at a farm far down stream.
To play with calves, piglets and chicks was almost too much to dream.
So off went young doe and her friends, laughing and singing at will,
“With our new buddies we’ll eat farm food till we’ve all had our fill.”
As they headed toward the creek, young doe recalled what ‘ol crow said
About telling her mother where she was going and feeling hunters lead.
But she knew if she asked her mother, the answer would sure be “No”.
So why ask because she was big now and had already decided to go.
Ol’ crow’s warning about those hunters just didn’t make sense.
As they went farther than before, the forest suddenly became dense.
They came to a fork in the stream; one was right and the other wrong.
Smiles changed to tears as a whimper replaced sweet young doe’s song.
“We’re lost deep in the forest. Oh, how I wish my mother were here.
She’d know what to do so that we’d be safe with nothing to fear.”
A sharp noise, then another, cracked in the forest as does started to cry.
“Please protect us from hunter’s lead. We’re much too young to die.”
As luck would have it, the wise ol’ crow was keeping watch from above.
As the does trembled and cried, he swooped in with his message of love.
“I’ve watched you learn from the good things and errors you’ve made.
So again learn from these mistakes and never be afraid to
Seek advice from family and friends, especially experiences of another,
Like the one who just arrived. I believe that’s your loving mother! ”
poem by Gregory Huyette
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A Poem That Morphed Me
Charcoal black the sky
Tickling the breeze.
I morph into
A fragile rain-drop
I morph into
A delicate sapling
and
I morph into
A dancing peacock
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Bereavement
Do not get tired from grief as you are bereaved,
And bereavement is relief as you are bereaved.
Do certainty on the scene of writing, when all is leisure
And certain people believe in their belief as you are bereaved.
Does your mind seem a container of science and sea?
Then let feelings go, let them reside away from the thief as you are bereaved.
Does your partner know why marriage is sacred and solid?
Then see him or her with a measure of truth as the chief as you are bereaved.
May surrendering accomplish the goal of a life-time,
May I wish you all the best with your disbelief as you are bereaved.
Let Time fly, let innocence mend the tattered cloths and dress and uniform,
For when a person dies he or she is abject and very brief, as you are bereaved.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
Well it was sunday bloody sunday
When they shot the people there
The cries of thirteen martyrs
Filled the free derry air
Is there any one amongst you
Dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding
When they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You claim to be majority
Well you know that its a lie
Youre really a minority
On this sweet emerald isle
When stormont bans our marches
Theyve got a lot to learn
Internment is no answer
Its those mothers turn to burn!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You anglo pigs and scotties
Sent to colonize the north
You wave your bloody union jack
And you know what its worth!
How dare you hold to ransom
A people proud and free
Keep ireland for the irish
Put the english back to sea!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Well, its always bloody sunday
In the concentration camps
Keep falls road free forever
From the bloody english hands
Repatriate to britain
All of you who call it home
Leave ireland to the irish
Not for london or for rome!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blinded
From the night comes a roar of thunder
Beholding light on the spell youre under
And the signs of death descend your way
Fighting back from the devils hunger
Freeing souls from their chosen number
And the sword of right will guide your way
And thus youll find that only demons fill your mind until you wake
But only time will tell the answer youve been blinded from today
Burning dreams cause your mind to wonder
Iron crosses are the calling numbers
And the fight for the answer still remains old
But the night will reflect the hunger
And the blackness will pull you under
Still the sword of right will guide your way
And in the night youll hear the voices calling down and they will stay
But only time will tell the answer youve been blinded from today.
song performed by by Queensryche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coals glowing orange red
Coals glowing orange red in the half drum
blazing through the holes in the sides of it
and a guard warms his hands
where he stands watching, with eyes alert
one hand touching the baton
as if testing if it is still there
and his shadow is gigantic
on the white building behind him
and above him, in the night
God’s coals are aflame
burning through the holes in the sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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No Right To Say What Is Unfair
If someone introduces a game to play,
It becomes their game to play.
And if one is seduced to play along,
They have no right to say what is unfair.
With a benefit there to correct and protect them.
And if there is going to be any changing of rules,
The creator of the game introduced will win.
In some circles this is called common sense.
If someone introduces a game to play,
It becomes their game to play.
And the playing of it will be to their benefit that's it.
Since the game of choice introduced to seduce,
Was not implemented...
For the creator of it to lose.
It is very rare one chooses to introduce a game,
To have it played for the purpose of their losing.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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