Castles In The Cloud
castles in the cloud
ivory towers and
the fearful cloth of
the black robe
crowns and names
and titles of royalty
badges and lines
power numbers
and marks of
high society,
you know me
i smash them all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ring Of Grass
Rings of grass crowns of flowers they're gone gone gone gone
Furs that I woven of whispering hours gone gone gone gone
She's gone away where the rings are real
And the furs have warmth that a woman can feel
Round and round round goes the wheel
And she's gone gone gone gone gone
Rings of grass and crowns of flowers gone gone gone gone
Castles of sand with seashell towers gone gone gone gone
She's gone away where the dreams are small
But the castles are rock and they never fall
And left me here to live among all that is gone gone gone gone gone
Rings of grass oh why did they die away gone gone gone gone
Whispering hours where did they fly away gone gone gone gone
And where is the wisdom to understand
That years would crumble our castles of sand
And the flowers and grass turn brown in our hands
When it's gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Ivory
You were born with a face that would let you get your way
Yeah you had everything you wanted child, that is until the day
you know you're much too fine and free, Ivory
You've been dressed in a vest, every minute of your day
You walk into a room, stand in a lit shade
Is your timer too high for me, Ivory
Ivory
How does it feel to be so high
Ivory
How long how long will it take for you to cry
Ivory
I'm in need
Ivory
Ivory
I'll touch your soul, might even touch your brain
I know you can't see me
I know your blind
Come back come back and see
Ivory
So good to me
Ivory
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Numbers..
Numbers are cruel,
When the heart beats ninety per minute,
when pressure is, down very down,
High very high, fluctuating.
Numbers are cruel,
when wearing spectacles,
power can not be adjusted,
must buy a new pair.
Numbers are cruel,
when using Glucometer,
higher the reading,
must control the eating.
Numbers are cruel,
when one has thousand,
sometimes in negatives and
the other has millions.
Numbers are cruel,
when one is young and fresh,
and the other is old and in mess,
bigger the number, wiser.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Badges People Pages
oh we were so
set about the words
chagrine skin margins
footnotes of the neath heart
struck bottom corner left right
notes in pencils sharp
left overs of the right owners
who honestly told their stories
and never peeped from behind the titles
but
chapters the beginnings the ends
all burdened by a mind
thinking in badges people pages
oh so so set about the words
unanimated in the smoke bonfire
badges people pages
burned
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Allegories Of That Early Morning
one can
after a
time see
the dichotomy
of the body
& mind
the mind
has its own
territory
it grows its
own garden
plants its
own towers
of ivory
the body
constructs
its rivers
destroys the
fences
and demolishes
walls
in the mirror
you see a
face
and you are
carried
with so much
sympathy
the carriage
with a black horse
begins
to take the body
the mind is the
white horse
galloping in
a different
direction
the peace of your
world
depends on the
power of your hands
to whip and
caress
meanwhile the flowers
in your garden
bloom and wilt
the tower of ivory
begins to
shoot its light
against that
vast dark landscape
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Saxon Epitaph
The earth builds on the earth
Castles and towers;
The earth saith of the earth:
All shall be ours.
Yea, though they plan and reap
The rye and the corn,
Lo, they were bond to Sleep
Ere they were born.
Yea, though the blind earth sows
For the fruit and the sheaf,
They shall harvest the leaf of the rose
And the dust of the leaf.
Pride of the sword and power
Are theirs at their need
Who shall rule but the root of the flower
The fall of the seed.
They who follow the flesh
In splendour and tears,
They shall rest and clothe them afresh
In the fulness of years.
From the dream of the dust they came
As the dawn set free.
They shall pass as the flower of the flame
Or the foam of the sea.
The earth builds on the earth
Castles and towers.
The earth saith of the earth:
All shall be ours.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Towers of Ivory
Subdued by the paregoric dream-land,
Your sleepy eyes stare into the nowhere
Flashing on the screen by buttoned demand
And cosmic transmission's continued care.
They'll feed you full of the barbiturates—
Hypnotic images made inculcate—
Just to keep you still and inscouciant…
Perhaps collectiv'ly agglutinant.
God bless them and their commercial glory—
Clearing the streets of all the miscreants—
So they could build towers of ivory.
Someday, you'll be packaged and maybe canned
In the aluminum chamber's stale air,
Controlled by the factory's firm command—
Which compresses you to the market square.
There, in process, you may capitulate,
Your core contained as pulp concentrate.
Saw the top off, keep yourself compliant
When you lose you lid, scalping salient.
You are a piece of the inventory,
A stock sold en masse, completely constant,
So they could build towers of ivory.
Logorrhea stimulates the sweat gland,
Dripping glistens of advertised affairs.
The meaning's lost words—dilute, disband
Against doped up, stuttering speaking flares.
The desultory shotgun actuates,
Bullets flying as if to artuate
You, so staggered, totally reliant
In proxy wars that seem irrelevant
To the greater portions of history.
Agitated verbs buzz ev'ry instant,
So they could build towers of ivory.
White washed, white washed—empty color, so bland—
Swallowing shadows in their twilit snare,
An inoffensively scurrilous brand
Stretching across the encompassing bare.
Nothingness lays; appears ablaqueate
In false promise's place to congregate:
A temple of the blank, exsciccant
And peeling thoughts, scratching exfoliant.
From the belly of this purgatory,
They paint by numbers—brushes incessant—
So they could build towers of ivory.
In susurration, viral-like expand,
The pandemic whisper plots, prodding there,
Molting molted pelts of ungrateful hands
Holding the last caress, happy despair.
The ersatz self want things to replicate—
The cutting cloth patchwork that fabricates.
We are born like fetuses, like infants,
From non-symmetric, inequidistant
Sun burst blood streams of the hunky dory.
Our heavy heads are asemic pregnant,
So they could build towers of ivory.
With the confluence of thoughts that I state,
I say nothing only to simulate
The nature of things that seem suppressant,
The endless barrage of stimulants.
They want me to tell you stupid stories,
So I prefer to remain defiant,
So they could build towers of ivory.
Without a doubt, this is my most difficult poem.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Posers and a Poseur
Posers and a poseur
The “ Princess” came from peasant stock
Which some would find to be a shock.
Her title was a fantasy
which was accepted readily.
By those who fawn on Royalty
The cream of high society,
who swallowed her flamboyant lies.
The may be rich but they’re not wise.
Her bold charade she could achieve
because they wanted to believe
They could hobnob with Royalty.
Just fools behaving foolishly
The took her as their protégée.
Which suited her admirably,
she took society by storm.
A rebel who would not conform.
I won’t reveal the lady’s name.
She is a winner in life’s game.
Her secrets known to just a few
They will not tell, they dare not do.
It would reveal stupidity
they do not want the world to see.
Which goes to show that you can do
almost anything you dare to.
The “Princess “wins the posers lose
and all because they do not choose.
To let the world know honestly
that they were fooled so easily.
3-Oct-08
http: // b; og.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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High Power Lines
high power lines
along the green
ricefields
two black
birds
so interconnected
bridged
and yet
unengaged
with each other
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hymn 147
The names and titles of Christ. From several scriptures.
['Tis from the treasures of his word
I borrow titles for my Lord;
Nor art nor nature can supply
Sufficient forms of majesty.
Bright image of the Father's face,
Shining with undiminished rays;
Th' eternal God's eternal Son,
The heir and partner of his throne.]
The King of kings, the Lord most high,
Writes his own name upon his thigh
He wears a garment dipped in blood,
And breaks the nations with his rod.
Where grace can neither melt nor move,
The Lamb resents his injured love;
Awakes his wrath without delay,
And Judah's Lion tears the prey.
But when for works of peace he comes,
What winning titles he assumes!
Light of the world, and Life of men;
Nor bears those characters in vain.
With tender pity in his heart,
He acts the Mediator's part;
A Friend and Brother he appears,
And well fulfils the names he wears.
At length the Judge his throne ascends,
Divides the rebels from his friends,
And saints in full fruition prove
His rich variety of love.
poem by Isaac Watts
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There are three crowns: bible, priesthood, royalty. but the crown of a good name surpasses them all.
No More
Meat eatingflesh eatingthink about it
so callous to this crime we commit
always stuffing our face with no sympathy
what a selfish, hardened society so
No More
just looking out for myself
when the price paid is the life of something else,
No More
i won't participate
we've got the power we've got the might
to take whatever is in sight
not even worried, it's an unfair fight
well we've got a heart to tell us what's right
our numbers are doubling in 88
cause the people are starting to educate
themselves their friends and their families
and we'll have a more conscious society
song performed by by Youth Of Today
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn 148
The names and titles of Christ. From several scriptures.
With cheerful voice I sing
The titles of my Lord,
And borrow all the names
Of honor from his word:
Nature and art can ne'er supply
Sufficient forms of majesty.
In Jesus we behold
His Father's glorious face,
Shining for ever bright,
With mild and lovely rays
Th' eternal God's eternal Son
Inherits and partakes the throne.]
The sovereign King of kings,
The Lord of lords most high,
Writes his own name upon
His garment and his thigh:
His name is called The Word of God;
He rules the earth with iron rod.
Where promises and grace
Can neither melt nor move,
The angry Lamb resents
The injuries of his love;
Awakes his wrath without delay,
As lions roar, and tear the prey.
But when for works of peace
The great Redeemer comes,
What gentle characters,
What titles he assumes!
Light of the world, and Life of men;
Nor will he bear those names in vain.
Immense compassion reigns
In our Immanuel's heart,
When he descends to act
A Mediator's part:
He is a Friend and Brother too;
Divinely kind, divinely true.
At length the Lord the Judge
His awful throne ascends,
And drives the rebels far
From favorites and friends:
Then shall the saints completely prove
The heights and depths of all his love.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Natural Numbers
My numbers never ending
Stretching to infinity
But never ever reaching there
And always further off than me
Are those strange transfinite numbers
Whose names sound like some odd code
Like aleph and omega
And, as Mr Godel showed
We need these abstract artefacts
Even if imaginary
To prove all higher theorems
And ensure consistency
But there are further mysteries
That from my numbers do arise
Like never ending decimals
Irrational numbers in disguise
They too are quite invented
Just convenient in use
When my simple natural numbers
Do not serve to make a proof
Oh the mysteries of numbers!
Oh the madness of all that!
When what started off as counting
Becomes higher abstract maths.
poem by David Keig
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Low Society
A judge a dentist or physician
In this low society
Trade ambition for position
In this low society
Have you heard its in the stars
Next july we collide with mars
Have you heard it in the bars
In this low society
No more pay and lots of leisure
In this low society
Low society
Im just doing what I can
In this low society
But Im an incidental man
In this low society
I give away what others sell
The secrets yours so never tell
cos if you do youll go to hell
Low society
Side by side and always tired
All for one and no-one hired
All thats left is love inspired
Low society
And when the party is complete
And youre still standing on your feet
The taste of victory is sweet
Low society
And darling dont forget
In this low society
To turn off your t.v. set
In this low society
The most important thing at all
In this low society
Is not to stand too tall
In this low society
In this world that never learns
I can see rome as it burns
All the passion and the power
Turns to ash within an hour
No more play and no more pleasure
In this low society
song performed by by Heaven 17
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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25 Oclock
The urge to take you grows more strong
For time had made me wait too long
Each watch I smash apart
Just adding to my power
Each watch I smash apart
Just bringing near the hour
Of 25 oclock, thats when youre going to be mine
25 oclock, well be together til the end of time
At 25 oclock
The ticking seconds hear them call
My spell of hours will make you fall
Each timer that I break
Will halt the flowing sands
Each timer that I break
Will put you in my hands
At 25 oclock, thats when youre going to be mine
25 oclock, well be together til the end of time
At 25 oclock
Each watch I smash apart
Just adding to my power
Each watch I smash apart
Just bringing near the hour
Of 25 oclock
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not Every Poem Knows How To Say Its Own Name Properly
NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS HOW TO SAY ITS OWN NAME PROPERLY
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly-
There are poems that have no name
And poems that are named by others who have not written them-
There are poems whose names make them what they are
And poems whose names contradict and belie them-
Many poems have their first lines as their names
And these poems often are as memorable as one line only-
Great poems and good poems can be nameless
Or can have unforgettable names.
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly -
Poems are poems are poems
And names are names are names
And sometimes they meet and are one
And live happily ever after-
But there are times when perhaps
They never should have met each other at all.
Poems have their names
And names have their poems
But sometimes they love each other
And truly are one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Big Money
Big money goes around the world
Big money underground
Big money got a mighty voice
Big money make no sound
Big money pull a million strings
Big money hold the prize
Big money weave a mighty web
Big money draw the flies
Sometimes pushing people around
Sometimes pulling out the rug
Sometimes pushing all the buttons
Sometimes pulling out the plug
It's the power and the glory
It's a war in paradise
It's a cinderella story
On a tumble of the dice
Big money goes around the world
Big money take a cruise
Big money leave a mighty wake
Big money leave a bruise
Big money make a million dreams
Big money spin big deals
Big money make a mighty head
Big money spin big wheels
Sometimes building ivory towers
Sometimes knocking castles down
Sometimes building you a stairway --
Lock you underground
It's that old-time religion
it's the kingdom they would rule
It's the fool on television
Getting paid to play the fool
Big money goes around the world
Big money give and take
Big money done a power of good
Big money make mistakes
Big money got a heavy hand
Big money take control
Big money got a mean streak
Big money got no soul
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Native Land
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Breathes There the Man... From the Lay of the Last Minstrel
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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