Related quotes: hey friend, dear poet why...

Why Be A Bukowski Or An Emily? They Are All Dead

hey friend, dear poet
why be an emily dickenson or a charles bukowski
or a walt whitman or an ezra pound

look man, they are all dead
they're great, they have given themselves
extraordinary fames
commensurate to their extraordinary works
but they are all dead
and they have no more possibilities

they are all impotents
and faded and (forgive the word)

gone, gone, gone, gone.
let them be but part of our memories,
nothing but maps, guides, to the roads that we must now
take,
ghosts, famous ghosts, but ghosts just the same,
spirits, their poems are here with us
as a legacy

but we are alive, we are the possibilities
we are more than miserable with our
search for meaning
our quest to justify our insignificances
these little cravings for light
and scent and color
these little lives we have

if true to our miseries
as they were true to theirs

we can even be more
than what they had in their own time
in their own lives
have become......

sail on man, sail on, in the ocean of possibilities
in the vast space of our potentialities

we can be ourselves, truly ourselves,
that to me,
is greatness enough

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

When Ghosts Come

I know where I stand
And I have seen His Power
Though some fail to understand
I've seen proof in His Word there.

There are things in this earth
That provide some mystery
So for all that it's worth
At this time, listen to me.

My stories on ghosts are all true
Related by witnesses I don't doubt
But more important is what I tell you
It is God you cannot live without.

These wandering spirits or ghosts
May be evil or a plain confused soul
Some may cause harm, in eternity lost
Some died in sin and so never was whole.

And the only way to get rid of them so
Is to come to the LORD God of all
He alone is the Power you must know
For ghosts to flee, to God you call.

AMEN!

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Villonaud for This Yule

Towards the Noel that morte saison
(Christ make the shepherds' homage dear!)
Then when the grey wolves everychone
Drink of the winds their chill small-beer
And lap o' the snows food's gueredon
Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer
(Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Ask ye what ghost I dream upon?
(What of the magians' scented gear?)
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun
And slay the memories that me cheer
(Such as I drink to mine fashion)
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Where are the joys my heart had won?
(Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!)
Where are athe lips mine lay upon,
Aye! where are the glances feat and clear
That bade my heart his valor don?

I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown meer
(Who knows whose was that paragon?)
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Prince: ask me not what I have done
Nor what God hath that can me cheer
But ye ask first where the winds are gone
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

poem by Ezra Pound
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Father's Soul

father's soul comes again
i am cold
to his hug, this sickness
of ghosts
embracing us, the living,

questions and images
mixing on a night
of horror,

always, the question is:
what for, dad? what for?

leave us, we know how to
live our lives,
stay in the land of the dead
and be rested,

for now is our time to confront
our own ghosts,
equipped by your quotes
we think we know the routes.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Habent sua fata libelli

the destiny of books
always depends on the
reader,

the destiny of my poetry
depends
on the capacity of
the feeler

its rhythm its tone
and color
its scent
its ending
its lasting impression

its possibilities like your
possibilities
always a memory of those
whom we have
easily
buried in the realm of
forgetting.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It will always be the same possibilities, in sum or on the average, that go on repeating themselves until a man comes along who does not value the actuality above idea. It is he who first gives the new possibilities their meaning, their direction, and he awakens them.

quote by Robert Musil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Glee -- The Ghosts

In life three ghostly friars were we,
And now three friarly ghosts we be.
Around our shadowy table placed,
The spectral bowl before us floats:
With wine that none but ghosts can taste,
We wash our unsubstantial throats.
Three merry ghosts--three merry ghosts--
three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.

With songs that jovial spectres chaunt,
Our old refectory still we haunt.
The traveller hears our midnight mirth:
"O list!" he cries, "the haunted choir!
"The merriest ghost that walks the earth, "
"Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar."
Three merry ghosts--three merry ghosts--
three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.

poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Ghosts And Modernity

Ghosts & Modernity

The old house has been modernised the hallway, where
ghosts spooked, is now a bathroom, and since there is no
entrance one has to exit through the kitchen window on
a ladder on the wall, this is called saving space, a modern
and fun way to live. The ghosts have gone, no dark corners
and no children with imagination to see what practical
adults are blind to. Closing my eyes I can see children and
ghosts, but not as clearly as before, the kaleidoscope has
gone fuzzy with the distance and it saddens me too that
I’m the only one left to remember a draughty hallway and
the warm glow of true fairytales sprung from the mind of
the very young.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Born As Ghosts

The hills find peace
Locked armed guard posts
Safe from the screams
Of the children born as ghosts
Gates guns and alarms
Shape the calm of the dawn
Peering down into the basin
Where death lives on
Where young run foaming at the mouth with hate
Where burning batons beat the freezing who shake
Under the toxic sunsets they dine and toast
Their walls deny the terror faced by the children
Born as ghosts

Born as ghosts

One book and forty ghosts
Stuffed in a room
The school as a tomb
Where home is a wasteland
Taste the razor wire
And thought is locked in the womb
The tales that shocks the lives off the screen

Born as ghosts

song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ghosts Of Our Past

We are haunted all the time
by ghosts of our past
for things we did long ago.
They remind us often
of the mistakes we made
and cannot amend.
These ghosts can come to us
at almost anytime
and we always refer to them
as our memories.

3 May 2008

poem by David Harris
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Ghosts

Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come, moving their useless arms
like forsaken servants.

Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;
fat, white-bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurching
above my bed.

But that isn't all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;
curling like pink tea cups
on any pillow, or kicking,
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing
for Lucifer.

poem by Anne Sexton
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The nation did not begin to realize the extraordinary possibilities of the vast Western territory until its attention was thus suddenly and definitely concentrated on the Pacific by the annual addition of over fifty million dollars to the circulating medium.

quote by John Moody
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Other Side for M Lady Tara

Two little ghosts out walking at night
When one little Ghost cried out in fright
Oh Dear I think I see a man.
He’s over there I’m sure I can
The other ghost says you cannot do
there are no men they are not true
Just old Ghosts tales to frighten you
and if they were what could they do
There are no men there never was
I know that’s true because.
My old professor told me so
and he was clever he should know.
The whole idea amuses me
A living man you’ll never see

(Apr 04)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Class Distinction

A quiet house where quiet ghosts
haunt quiet rooms but silently
The Ghosts respect their living hosts
and treat them most respectfully.
They can’t go back they won’t go on.
Confused by their predicament,
they wait until the daylights gone
before they show they are present.
They do not wish to cause alarm.
as common ghosts are wont to do.
All part of their well bred charm.
Though they are dead they hold the view
that no aristocratic ghost
should stoop to frightening their host.

26-Mar-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Chimes are the Wind

Chime’s are the Wind

“Chimes are the wind”, when it goes from Dawn to Twilight.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the sun goes down and the moon goes up.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the Ocean’s tidal waves splash the deep blue and the aqua
water and the tidal pools disappear.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the puffy white clouds cover the golden yellow sun.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the rain floods the river.

“Chimes are the wind”, when there’s a million possibilities.

“Chimes are the wind”, when there are no more possibilities to harm the world
when there’s such a peaceful place in the universe that there is so-many
possibilities there are endless possibilities.

By: Bella Martinez

poem by Bella Martinez
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Democracy is based upon the conviction that there are extraordinary possibilities in ordinary people.

quote by Harry Emerson Fosdick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My uncle was born at the end of the Edo era and was a great authority on the various bizarre and gruesome legends that were so popular in those days: tales of haunted houses with rooms no one dared enter; tales of the souls of scorned women, still living, tormenting an unfaithful lover; tales of ghosts unable to relinquish an attachment to their former lives... Yet he took great pains to deny there was any truth to these legends, repeating the lesson of his samurai education that "a true warrior does not believe in ghosts."

Kido Okamoto in The Ghost of Ofumi (1930), translated by Ian MacDonald
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Ghost Of The New World

'_There are no ghosts in America._'

There are no ghosts, you say,
To haunt her blaze of light;
No shadows in her day,
No phantoms in her night.
Columbus' tattered sail
Has passed beyond our hail.

What? On that magic coast,
Where Raleigh fought with fate,
Or where that Devon ghost
Unbarred the Golden Gate,
No dark, strange, ear-ringed men
Beat in from sea again?

No ghosts in Salem town
With silver buckled shoon?
No lovely witch to drown
Or burn beneath the moon?
Not even a whiff of tea,
On Boston's glimmering quay.

O, ghostly Spanish walls,
Where brown Franciscans glide,
Is there no voice that calls
Across the Great Divide,
To pilgrims on their way
Along the Santa Fe?

Then let your Pullman cars
Go roaring to the West,
Till, watched by lonelier stars,
The cactus lifts its crest.
There, on that painted plain,
One ghost will rise again.

Majestic and forlorn,
Wreck of a dying race,
The Red Man, half in scorn,
Shall raise his haughty face,
Inscrutable as the sky,
To watch our ghosts go by.

What? Is earth dreaming still?
Shall not the night disgorge
The ghosts of Bunker Hill
The ghosts of Valley Forge,
Or, England's mightiest son,
The ghost of Washington?

No ghosts where Lincoln fell?
No ghosts for seeing eyes?
I know an old cracked bell
Shall make ten million rise
When one immortal ghost
Calls to the slumbering host.

poem by Alfred Noyes
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