Waitress Eyes
I stare into a lonely nighttime puddle
'Don't Worry' tattoo'd on her right wrist;
'Be Happy' on the left
-She puts out a cigarette
in the mushy ashtry outside
and i watch her as she walks back
into the organized chaos
Sometimes her mouth is sad
around the edges;
She's over-worked-
people's rudeness has
made her half life-starved
..But also, half life-charged-
-And it gives her all the more
reason to dream of living in India,
praying under stars
Her small, graceful hands
set glasses on tables
with feline precission and care-
The hands of a hard worker
Feet aching in food-spattered shoes
; A vegetarian serving prime rib to strangers
But...besides the over-worked drowsiness
and sadness in her face
there are hints of insight;
peace; joy; wit; ...and
Wonder in her eyes
She steps into each new moment
as if on a journey
, or a mission...
; A pilgrimage -
She playfully curses her friends,
(and the regular customers)
Flaunts a twenty-dollar tip,
and skips away with a giggle that sounds
much younger than she is -
Some waitresses have Eternity
and Buddha
and Compassion
in their footsteps,
in their eyes, in their hands,
and in their smiles.
poem by Ray Quesada
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Small People!
it is then...
the small people,
common men and women,
who by their hands built this dream,
who plowed the fields,
paved the roadways...
who picked your fruit,
who built your small businesses.
who worked your factories and mills.
who built your homes and churches.
who drove your trucks, who fixed your cars,
who made your clothes and your furniture.
who worked for too little
to make you too rich....
who hauled your trash,
who wiped your asses.
who worked as cashiers, clerks, and salesmen.
who covered for you when you were sick,
yet worked when they were sick.
who laid your bricks, who cut your logs,
who stocked your grocery stores.
who dug your graves and fought your damn wars,
the small people, that you throw away!
no jobs, no work, no benefits, no insurance...
no medical care, no cars...
no lights, no rent, no food, no shelter...
no name, no reason to be!
the small people...
too old, too tired, too angry, too used up.
self taught, no degree, experience doesnt count.
the small people....
pushed into a corner,
stacked in the alleyways.
broken wheels turning on broken glass.
the small people....
staring back from your mirror,
from the darkness outside your window.
the small people...
who are not going
to take it anymore!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'm living a dream
I'm living a dream
where people stay together as one
as god want us to be
where all the enemies compromise and become as one
i'm living a dream
where i could wake up and look at the blue sky with a happy sunny face
where i could watch the rainbow on the sky
i'm living a dream
where the battle have to come to an end
i'm living a dream
where i could hear the singing bird
where i could stand on the top of a high mountain and shout for freedom
poor me
we yell at each other
we used each other
we hurt each other
because we are human
this is a way of life
my people let's hope for the best
my people lets stop being selfish
open your eyes and see the world is drifting apart
because of us
i'm living a dream
where we all become as one
holding hands in hands
I'm living a dream
where we all could live without any pain and sorrow
how wonderful would it be
if we stay together
die together
blame together
i just realized we are only human
I'm living a dream
poem by Guenael Oristel
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Images
I have an image in my head,
It's of my mother
in an old pinny,
her hard, broad hands
that were soft and plump on the palm,
with cigarette yellow
at the fingertips.
I have this image in my head
It's of her with a washing board,
sighing, tired
and me, small and tubby,
taking mini steps
towards the wringer,
'can I do it mummy, can I do it'
I have this image in my head
of her face, all lit up,
her excitement
at her first ‘twin tub'
and my heart aches for her.
I see her poor, over worked body,
her anguished face and I cry for her.
I have this image in my head
and it never fades.
I wish she'd had a better life,
taken more care of herself.
She had this matter of fact attitude,
resololute, never to give in
and at the end, when all was done
there was nothing left but pain.
poem by Ruth Walters
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An Old Man's Prayer
i pray for the sounds
of leaves falling in timeless glory;
for the bark of the dog,
and the paw of the cat.
for the laughter of children playing,
who have a home and food to eat.
for the tired smiles of working parents,
for the ears and stories of grandparents.
for the kiss and the touch of lovers,
for the dreams of the young that know not bounds.
for the gurgle of creeks and the sighs of mountains,
for the crow, the turtle, and the squirrel.
for the plow, the shovel, and the axe, ...
and hands that know each.
for eyes that see beneath color and nationality,
for the spiritual who dare not name god.
for the silence of guns at last laid down,
for bridges built by caring hands.
for shoulders that take on responsibility,
for feet bound by determination.
for the face of justice drawn by the hands of compassion,
for the way equality feels!
for sundown, darkness, and dawn...
for stars that do not need names.
for the wisdom of trees, and the taste of dew,
for the howl of moonlight that shakes the night.
for the nearness of companions when life seems far,
for the stillness that makes the heart dance.
for passion, simplicity, and understanding,
for the gift of every moment....
i pray....
giving thanks with a pilgrim's feet!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Workaholic
He retired from his job on his sixty fifth birthday
But he did not enjoy the work free life
And he died just nine months into his retirement
To be mourned by his family and his wife.
It has been said he was a workaholic
And that he was one who worked as hard as two
And he felt bored without a job to go to
And he pined away as many like him do.
His problem was he did not have a hobby
And a working life the life he loved and knew
A good man for his wife and family and his Country
But good men just like bad men must die too.
For forty seven years he worked for the same employers
And to the end to his bosses was true
His parting gift from them a wrist watch and box of chocolates
And a well done and a shake hands and thank you.
He must have been one who truly liked his bosses
To have worked for them for forty seven years
His last day on the job it was his saddest
And as he left he fought to choke the tears.
His problem was that he did not have a hobby
And he only lived for each working day
And when he left the workforce in his sixties
He fell into ill health and pined away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Blind is the Deepest Love
Blind is the deepest love, where sight gives way to insight
And the wonder of her face is of no consequence
I summon my powers of composition, unswayed by her attraction
My skills of translation in the service of emotions
Language is my guide within her storybook of life
I hear her songs in lines made up more seductively than eyes
Dancing their descent and rise. And if I never see her face
I could find myself in her embrace
When I reach out with my heart to hold her close.
In the quiet of a small abode, large in its comforts
And in profile against a sky of endless dark
I dipped my small hands in the pristine pool
Of silence deep, finding a touch that made reply
As her hands met and conversed with mine
She spoke a tongue new to my life.
Insisting that I didn't mind, that the absence
Of her face before my eyes
Was beautiful beyond the beauty I was sure to find.
Renunciations made, you journeyed to construct
Your gates set on the freedom of deserted hills
Far from the cities which stand remote
Where stars and souls are never visible.
So at this evening hour, late in life as I am
My gaze declining as I gather your insight
I still conceive in dreams how we let our veils fall
At the wedding of our hearts, where finally
Your eyes meet mine as if the brightest stars.
poem by Frank Bana
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Work To Do!
i came from a generation
that worked.... was born to
work, daylight to dawn,
for everything we had.
we grew our own food, we
cut firewood, we worked
with our hands.
we were taught to work...
we built houses, bridges,
paved roads... worked on
farms, worked in sawmills,
worked in factories...
whatever it took for food
and shelter...
and if a neighbor got hurt,
or sick, and couldnt work...
we helped him and his family
till he could.
those of us left who can work
are still working, a lot of us are
out of work, and cant find work!
and so the world has changed...
it seems like a lot of people
spend more time avoiding work
than working... a lot of people
look for the easy way out...are
dependent on society...
still a lot of good and willing people
just need help.
they call this progress...based
on technology, and looking out for
number one. seperated, almost islands...
greed has taken the place of the bent back!
so when it all falls apart, and that will
be soon, what happens? who knows how
to survive? who has the backbone?
things to think about, and yes...
work to do!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Only Alive
(blackwell--blackwell)
When you happened by my open eyes could see,
My sleeping hands awoke and almost reached,
I was full of life till you walked on by
Then I went right back to feeling sad and lonely
And only alive.
For a moment my heart began to beat,
My puppet legs responded to your strings,
And my shuffling feet started stepping high
Then I went right back to feeling sad and lonely
And only alive.
For all the things worth living for
Left me for someone new
And all of those things I lost
I was left condemned to a lonely life
Then I went right back to feeling sad and lonely
And only alive.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aftermath
Now the radio stutters. snaps to life.
Some sour song that sets it right.
And when London falls
He'd like to call
But the stars collide.
They're beautiful and much maligned.
In a universe where you see the worst,
And it's up to you to fix it.
Now you've worked it out
And you see it all
And you've worked it out
And you see it all
And you want to shout
How you see it all
It's easy to dismiss the "what's it all about" crowd.
There is no doubt. it's this, here, now.
And you close your eyes.
He's not coming back.
So you work it out, overfeed the cat.
And the plants are dry and they need to drink.
So you do your best. and you flood the sink.
Sit down in the kitchen and cry.
Now you've worked it out
And you see it all
And you've worked it out
And you see it all
And you want to shout
How you see it all
Now the universe left you for a runners lap.
It feels like home when it comes crashing back.
And it makes you laugh
And it makes you cry,
When London falls
And you're still alive.
The radio stutters,
It makes you laugh
And the aftermath,
Open up your eyes.
You're so alive.
Now you've worked it out
And you see it all
And you've worked it out
And you see it all
And you want to shout
How you see it all
How you've worked it out
And you see it all
How you've worked it out
And you see it all
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Reason Why I Am Here
people.
the reason why i am here, people
is people, satisfied people, looking for more
to tickle their tongues
for more satisfaction, the reason is people,
people who become restless because nothing
seems to make them people anymore,
people who love people
are the reasons for being here
people who miss people
people who question about being people
people who offer answers
they look for the content of the poem as answers
but there is really nothing
contentious about this
a poem simply pleases
puts forth what is in the heart of people
one that teases
and yet cannot be held by the hands
of people
one that slips like a fish in your hands
one that flies away
the moment it hears steps of men
coming on its way
birds are the reasons, fishes are the reasons
the sea, the depths,
the drowning feeling,
the rising and the falling the coming back and forth
of waves, are the reasons,
so many reasons why we are here
at the end
we look at each other, hands akimbo
eyeballs rolling,
without an answer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breakaway
if melody
is my destiny
than what's left of me,
i'll give to you..
and if next to me,
is all that you need to be
would you settle for fantasy,
if it's the best you could do?
can I have my cake?
can i have you too?
would you follow me?
could i ask you to?
would the world between us,
break these ties?
we worked so hard
to realize..
can a postcard say,
what i see in your eyes?
could i ever break away?
would i be satisfied,
and find peace inside
rolling half my life
over broken white lines?
can i have my cake,
can i have you too?
would you follow me,
could i ask you too?
will i wake up one morning,
and see your face
in the streaks on the window,
that the rainstorm makes?
could you bear all the waiting,
and the strength that it takes?
could i ever break away?
could i ever break away?
can i have my cake?
can i have you too?
would you follow me?
could i ask you to?
would the world between us,
break these ties?
we worked so hard to realize..
can a postcard say,
what i see in your eyes?
could i ever break away?
could i ever break away?
away...
away..
away
song performed by by John Mayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hand Of Love
The young woman intertwines her hands with her older man
Smiling laughing at his funny charming jokes
The cool rain is the only relief her boiling heart has
His hand softly squeezes hers
He smiles, she smiles
The sun in both of their eyes
Warming them from the inside out
He touches the side of her face
With the hands of steal
But the touch of silk
With stars in her eyes
And the rain soak their innocents
He gently presses his lips to her hand
Baby you are me unspoken princess
She sighs
Has he’s still holding her delicate hand
He be believes that is made out of gold
He knows she is the other half of his soul
He says I love you to her heart as no words are spoken
Looking into her green eyes
That night in the warm rain of mystery
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Senses of the Elegy
At a funeral people usually wear black but I'm wearing white
A small glitch of faith trapped by the depths...what a sight
Everything has changed the world now that you are deceased
Even if this is not the path you chose; may your soul rest in peace
I shall sit and stay with you and your one rose coffin
Strangers stop and stare every so often
I sit next to you entwining our hands
Even if you have passed my eyes shall remain on one man
One heart, one love, one life...one past
The love I have for you and others i compare and contrast
All i ask is for things to be like before
I shall look no further and breathe nevermore
My future and memories of my friends and family matter no longer
For they cannot support me like you do...for you are stronger
I think you did know how you made me feel when I looked into your eyes
We were always happy, always together, there was no sadness...there were no lies
I sit here every minute of every hour everyday reading you my elegy
I have always loved you and I still do that's why i want you to be with me
I will stay by you until there is no such thing as the present
Any of my time spent away from you I'll always resent
Sometimes when I put your hand up to my chest I hear my name in the wind
I know it is you that calls...so I start to cry again
I cry because I'll never know what it feels like to kiss your warm lips
When you were alive you drunk my life force in big sips
And when you got full you diminished our hereafter
A life without you could tear me apart like a natural disaster
Yet here I remain by you whose name was brought to shame
Nevertheless, I did not care...you were not to blame
From my mind your face will never fade
I refuse to be alone now I shall lie in the bed that I've made
It's such a pity that I won't be able to kiss your high cheekbones
You died labeling me single instead of widowed...you melt my heart to stone
Since then I haven't been home so when night appears I lay my head on your casket and see you in my dreams
How could you not see your mind...your soul...your life...tearing at the seams?
How could you know if I reek if you cannot smell?
How could you know, see, or feel what I feel if you cannot tell?
How can you know if I'm good if you cannot taste?
How can you rest in peace knowing your hard work has gone to waste?
How can you be happy and go into the tunnel of light when at the end of it is someone else's face?
The place I have for you in my heart no one else can replace
Without you I don't know what it means to be alive
I feed off of nothing so I won't survive
I remain rooted by you; it seems as if the world is spinning
If you could be revived would you go back to that grand hour or the beginning?
That day you were stressed and delusional of what you were hearing
You're just like the man of every woman's dreams even now you are appealing
Every night before I go to sleep I kiss you softly on your neck
I'm here now and I've been here since the day we've met...you I will never neglect
You're broken; a king who cannot breathe cannot be betrothed upon the throne
You...my darling, my family, my friends and the world have all left me alone
You should be proud your name's written in the dirt
Because you could never know how much this hurts
You can choose to chase me although I won't feel your touch
I sit beside you wasting away because I love you so much
I loved lying beside you in bed resting my head against your chest
I just hope you know you've been everything to me so for now just get some rest
You're in the sky now and I should have no reason to worry
I am ashamed to feel like this for you, for me...for us and I'm sorry
I cannot disappoint you anymore...I'll go home after giving you one last kiss
I'll be back for you and every minute I'm away it'll be you that I miss
To bring back my reason to exist your death i shall undo
As I walk away the darkness surrounds me and I fall into the abyss thinking about you
poem by Adena Marie Von Gardner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On A Seven-Day Diary
Oh I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and talked and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and watched a show and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate steak and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
Love must be the reason for the week!
We went shopping! I saw clouds!
The children explained everything!
I could talk about the main thing!
What did I drink on Saturday night
that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
The last half wasn't worth this 'word.'
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and went to sleep,
refreshed but tired by the weekend.
poem by Alan Dugan
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Music Is Hapiness
I lift up my hands
The smile on my face tells all
The music
Takes me away
Away from everything bad
The Music
It makes me laugh
It makes me happy
I lift up my hands
Sway back and forth
If there is one thing good in this world
Its Music
It fills my mind
With good thoughts
Replacing the bad ones
My eyes
Full of joy
Instead of sadness
The music
Is my happiness
I lift up my hands
Shake my head back and forth
My hair in my face
The music
It lets me
Come out of my shell
The music
Lets me be who I am
I lift up my hands
The rhythm pounds on my eardrums
The ends of my mouth
Curl up
Instead of down
I lift my head
Brush the hair out of my eyes
The music
Is my happiness
At The Reunion Party (Grandma's)
to drown my well-kept storm
i purge words
too many like bats driven from
a cave
flying on barbaric sounds
and one of you looks at me
with a stab
but it will not hurt me a bit
i ignore
whatever tries to hurt
whatever skins me out to reveal
a damaged bone
think of me
as a happy bee that is all i can ask for
this moment
i shall like it
for what you think
makes me become
what i am not
the hours will run like a windmill
and water pours out
to satisfy the mouth of the hill
and i will be happy to see
something filled
a thirst satisfied
you see i admit i am wrong in
trying to be alone by myself
in doing so for the past days
i shrink like
a plastic bottle
heated by
a candle
i realize the link
it is always a you and I
and the rest of the people in the world
my feet are your feet
my hands are your very hands too
my mind is a lonely planet
lost without the sun
and the rest of the lonely planets
in this always moving
universe
i know what depression is
and now i know how to delet it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Flora of the Eden: Antwerp
Eyes that sought my eyes, an-hungered, as a fire;
Hands that sought and caught my hands in their desire;
Hands and eyes that clipt and lipt me as a hungering fire!
But I turned away from your ecstatic eyes,
But my heart was silent to your eager sighs,
But I turned to other eyes from your imploring eyes.
Hands that I rejected, you were fain to give;
Eyes that for their moment loved me, as I live;
Mouth that kissed me: Flora of the Eden, O forgive!
poem by Arthur Symons
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My Life in the bush of Ghosts (reprise)
Down the bush path
I came running down my hut
I have a pot of food
But what do I do with food
When I have no appetite
And why does life seem
To leave me so soon
.
After a few decades in life
I find my soul roaming
Aimlessly in the bush
Of ghosts, when I wasn't
Really dead.
I never believed in ghosts
Until I saw a ghost
And now, I am to be host
To a host of ghosts
In the bush of ghosts
Which I, myself have not
Come to understand
.
Things do change with time
,
I have worked very hard
To be among those who feel life
But yet, life seem to be
Very far away from me
I have said to myself
When I see life, I will grab life
With both hands
But I will not steal another
Mans life to have life
I will not bring sadness
To another to have life
I will not deceive another man
To have life
I will not seek life through the back door
For what do I gain if I
Bring sorrow to others
To gain life for my self
And what do i do with life
If life I seek to find
Will not stay with me.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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The most beatiful hands
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that caressed you
and rocked you when you were little.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that guided you
when you took your first steps in life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that bathed you,
clothed you and fed you,
during childhood.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that hugged you
and wiped away all your tears
throughout your life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than your mother's hands...
poem by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by Viorel Vintila
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Helping Hands
these hands
these so sore helping hands
and these eyes
seeing through all the black and white,
a monovision more incommon than not,
these hands like talons ripping as fast they can
fish
trapped inside
the barrel
as he cocks his wrist,
that tiny gap of silent air
and in an instant these fish know they're goners,
full of holes
that what this life of mine has been like...
a great tapestry to the biggest moths
and the kindest spiders
as well as the coldest eyes
and the softest hands
however these hands,
rough and dry
witnessed it all first hand
and then the other.
poem by David Thomas
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