The Low Sky
No vulture is here, hardly a hawk,
Could long wings or great eyes fly
Under this low-lidded soft sky?
On the wide heather the curlew's whistle
Dies of its echo, it has no room
Under the low lid of this tomb.
But one to whom mind and imagination
Sometimes used to seem burdensome
Is glad to lie down awhile in the tomb.
Among stones and quietness
The mind dissolves without a sound,
The flesh drops into the ground.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Blind!
A red-roofed house is shining to the skies;
A house red-roofed and brilliant in the wind:
A house of colour filled with wandering eyes;
And all the eyes are blind.
A gentle sound of moving fills each room:
A sound of hands, - dumb hands that touch and pry:
A sound of fingers feeling in a tomb
Before they close and die.
A hundred windows face long rows of flowers-
Long rows of flowers, and flowers that sway and dance
Where lidded eyes can gaze for hours and hours;
Blue eyes that shut in France.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Mockery
I met my love a-weeping,
Weeping in the night-tide pale;
Her head among the lily bloom,
Weeping by an empty tomb—
An unshut tomb.
I gently stroked her golden hair
That shone so
With the moon-glow
In the sad-sweet air.
Like playful breezes from the south
Came soft smile-dimples to her mouth;
And when again she seemed to weep
I kissed her wild-wide eyes to sleep;
While there beyond the lily bloom
I saw the watching, waiting tomb.
I left my love a-sleeping,
Sleeping in the cypress vale;
Smiling sadly in the gloom;
Sleeping in the fastened tomb—
The tight-shut tomb.
How round the tomb the moving mists
Will twirl so
When the wind blows,
That the ivy twists
And shudders round the cold grey stone:
A serpent on a crumbling throne.
While I, upon a nearby mound
Hear salt tears soaking in the ground;
But there, when’er the lilies bloom,
I hear low laughter in the tomb.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Hymn 44 part 1
Christ's dying, rising, and reigning.
Luke 23:27,29,44-46; Mt. 27:50,57; 28:6ff.
He dies! the friend of sinners dies!
Lo! Salem's daughters weep around;
A solemn darkness veils the skies;
A sudden trembling shakes the ground.
Come, saints, and drop a tear or two
For him who groaned beneath your load:
He shed a thousand drops for you,
A thousand drops of richer blood.
Here's love and grief beyond degree,
The Lord of glory dies for men!
But lo! what sudden joys we see;
Jesus the dead revives again!
The rising God forsakes the tomb!
The tomb in vain forbids his rise;
Cherubic legions guard him home,
And shout him welcome to the skies
Break off your fears, ye saints, and tell
How high our great Deliv'rer reigns;
Sing how he spoiled the hosts of hell,
And led the monster Death in chains.
Say, "Live for ever, wondrous King!
Born to redeem, and strong to save;
Then ask the monster, "Where's thy sting?"
And, "Where's thy vict'ry, boasting Grave?"
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Goat Paths
The crooked paths go every way
Upon the hill - they wind about
Through the heather in and out
Of the quiet sunniness.
And there the goats, day after day,
Stray in sunny quietness,
Cropping here and cropping there,
As they pause and turn and pass,
Now a bit of heather spray,
Now a mouthful of the grass.
In the deeper sunniness,
In the place where nothing stirs,
Quietly in quietness,
In the quiet of the furze,
For a time they come and lie
Staring on the roving sky.
If you approach they run away,
They leap and stare, away they bound,
With a sudden angry sound,
To the sunny quietude;
Crouching down where nothing stirs
In the silence of the furze,
Couching down again to brood
In the sunny solitude.
If I were as wise as they
I would stray apart and brood,
I would beat a hidden way
Through he quiet heather spray
To a sunny solitude;
And should you come I'd run away,
I would make an angry sound,
I would stare and turn and bound
To the deeper quietude,
To the place where nothing stirs
In the silence of the furze.
In that airy quietness
I would think as long as they;
Through the quiet sunniness
I would stray away to brood
By a hidden beaten way
In a sunny solitude.
I would think until I found
Something I can never find,
Something lying on the ground,
In the bottom of my mind.
poem by James Stephens
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Seasons In The Abyss
Razors edge
Outlines the dead
Incisions in my head
Anticipation the stimulation
To kill the exhilaration
Close your eyes
Look deep in your soul
Step outside yourself
And let your mind go
Frozen eyes stare deep in your mind as you die
Close your eyes
And forget your name
Step outside yourself
And let your throughts drain
As you go insane... go insane
Inert flesh
A bloody tomb
A decorated splatter brightens the room
An execution a sadist ritual
Mad intervals of mind residuals
Close your eyes
Look deep in your soul
Step outside yourself
And let your mind go
Frozen eyes stare deep in your mind as you die
Close your eyes
And forget your name
Step outside yourself
And let your throughts drain
As you go insane... go insane
Innate seed
To watch you bleed
A demanding physical need
Desecrated eviscerated
Times prostrated
song performed by by Slayer from Seasons In The Abyss
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Body
this body's not my home...
just a nest, frayed and tattered.
a tumbledown shack,
weathered by the years.
a cup stained by use.
a fire gone to embers,
a prayer lost in the din.
the sound of the hawk's wings
in a sky no one can touch.
bury it, or not! i dont care!
you can burn it on a pyre,
or leave it for the wolves.
i cannot take it with me,
have no use for name or identity.
the bird upon leaving the cage
doesnt come back for the cage!
the ego dies and dissolves
back into the matter of timelessness.
no stone, no preacher, no sadness,
when you've given it all it is finished.
a soft rain begins to fall...
this body is not my home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Red Rage
Red looks glance round
From snub-perceiving face.
Red rags stand out
For testosterone-filled bull.
Red mists crowd in
On unconsidering mind.
Red hate peers out
From anger-blinded eyes.
Red rage screams out
Through hasty, profane lips.
Red fists fly fast
With unimpeded strength.
Red blades slash deep
Through soft, submissive skin.
Red wounds gape wide
In feeble, mortal flesh.
Red rain drops down
On heat-soaked paving stones.
Red tears spill out
From stricken kinsfolk’s hearts.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Whiskey On The Wound
He was strong and of sound mind
'Til the day he crossed the line
Between an east Kentucky girl and his wife
In his heart there wasn't room
So they tore his heart in two
And he survived by pouring whiskey on the wound
Another faithless heart
Locked inside a neon tomb
Hiding in the dark and
Pouring whiskey on the wound
Well the girl was just the first
In a string of bad to worse
Yet the bourbon seems to deaden all that hurts
But closin' time comes way too soon
He can't abide a cold bedroom
So he survives by pouring whiskey on the wound
Another faithless heart
Locked inside a neon tomb
Hiding in the dark and
Pouring whiskey on the wound
By tomorrow he'll be gone
And they'll say he left alone
But that old bar stool won't be empty long
'Cause some other hopeless fool
Trying to escape the truth
Will sit right down
And pour some whiskey on the wound
Now it's another faithless heart
Locked inside a neon tomb
Hiding in the dark and
Pouring whiskey on the wound
song performed by by Pam Tillis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flying Pies
Flying Pies and exploring eyes
I look out the window as the darkness dies
So we return to days
to continue our ways
only to reap whatever that pays
Satisfying the least your pocket craves
On the wings of a vulture
by raping our culture
with a heartful of greed that obeys
Guilty of the wretched cries
Ignoring all those we offend
and not to consider a mend
They bring blinding ties
the mind sighs as daylight dies
bringing closing eyes and flying pies
poem by Mason Maestro
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The Falcon
Why should my sleepy heart be taught
To whistle mocking-bird replies?
This is another bird you've caught,
Soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes.
The bird Imagination,
That flies so far, that dies so soon;
Her wings are coloured like the sun,
Her breast is coloured like the moon.
Weave her a chain of silver twist,
And a little hood of scarlet wool,
And let her perch upon your wrist,
And tell her she is beautiful.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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One can't rely on eyes, When Imagination is out of focus!
Eyes can't lie, as they are without
imagination.
When one perceives is hidden
behind cloud of his own
imagination,
How can a schizophrenic can recall who he is,
as seen by others! Mind and intellect when has their
own colours or have colour
blindness,
How can feel true colours of life? When imagination outfocus
senses,
When window is covered by
curtains,
How can one can look clearly at
the world? Room when fitted with filters
and deodarants,
How can one feel the enchanting
odour of soil on first rain fall?
What can be the beauty of
flower, or that flying butterfly to one
wearing coloured glass? When imagination fly above,
losing contact of ground,
The birds eye vision may be vast,
Yet lose minute details,
loses that nut and bolts which
can fit everything!
Never come to conclusion about
anyone,
Never allow prejudice to hold
your mind back,
Let imagination dance on solid
ground, Based on impartial observations!
Learn,
Every beautiful butterfly was
ugly, ever hungry worm before
its metamorphosis!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Poem For My 43rd Birthday
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunday Morning - VIII
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Death Of Gen. Jackson - An Eulogy
Hark! from the mighty Hero's tomb,
I hear a voice proclaim!
A sound which fills the world with gloom,
But magnifies his name.
His flight from time let braves deplore,
And wail from state to state,
And sound abroad from shore to shore,
The death of one so great!
He scorn'd to live a captured slave,
And fought his passage through;
He dies, the prince of all the brave,
And bids the world adieu!
Sing to the mem'ry of his power,
Ye vagrant mountaineers,
Ye rustic peasants drop a shower
Of love for him in tears.
He wields the glittering sword no more,
With that transpiercing eye;
Ceases to roam the mountain o'er,
And gets him down to die!
Still let the nation spread his fame,
While marching from his tomb;
Aloud let all the world proclaim,
Jackson, forever bloom.
No longer to the world confin'd,
He goes down like a star;
He sets, and leaves his friends behind
To rein the steed of war.
Hark! from the mighty Hero's tomb,
I hear a voice proclaim!
A sound which fills the world with gloom,
But magnifies his name!
poem by George Moses Horton
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It Must Be Imagination
by Kenny Loggins & Tom Snow
When the feeling isn't right
They say you see it in a lovers eye
But I'm wide awake tonight
'N I'm looking for a reason why
It doesn't show
Still somehow I know
Tell me that it just ain't so
Say I made the whole thing up
It must be imagination
Why can't I forget it
God, you'd think I'd know better
It must be imagination
Gone completely out of my mind
It must be imagination
Tearin' me apart
'N breakin' my heart
You can say what is real
You can tell me if I'm in a dream
'Cause I know what I feel
But I don't know what to believe
Turn on the night light
Even if it takes us all night
I gotta be sure by daylight
If I've made this whole thing up
It must be imagination
Tell me if I'm right
'Cause it's changing my life
It must be imagination
Everybody knows
There ain't no way to fight it
It must be imagination
Breakin' my heart
'N tearing me apart
If I'm only dreamin'
Then I'm cryin' in my sleep
You should be shakin' me
Why ain't you wakin' me up?
It must be imagination
God I must be losin' my mind
It must be imagination
Does anybody know
Is there anyway to fight it?
It must be imagination
All in my mind, all in my mind
It must be imagination
If you wanna go, I just got to know
It must be imagination
Oooh tell me what's the problem
Why you wanna go on breakin' my heart?
1982 Milk Money Music (ASCAP) and
Snow Music (BMI)
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Joy
Though joy is better than sorrow joy is not great;
Peace is great, strength is great.
Not for joy the stars burn, not for joy the vulture
Spreads her gray sails on the air
Over the mountain; not for joy the worn mountain
Stands, while years like water
Trench his long sides. 'I am neither mountain nor bird
Nor star; and I seek joy.'
The weakness of your breed: yet at length quietness
Will cover those wistful eyes.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Butterfly Dreams
The dreams of my heart
my mind doth pass
In my dream of butterflys
for they hug me
without sound
Nothing stays with me to long
In my dream of butterflys
they lift me from this ground
But I have had from
since as a child
In my dream of butterflys
they so still my mind
The deep solace of song
In my dream of butterflys
they flutter for there posied.
In my dream of butterflys
my daughter now is four
If that should ever leave me
In my dream of butterflys
such delight my eyes
forever roam
Let me find life and stay
In my dream of butterflys
soft weaved wings
they always have
With wings whose tunes
are played out and not
forgotten
In my dream of butterflys
linen is does my neice now lay.
Like the rain of yesterday
rainbow weaved it is
thus so
In my dream of butterflys
heavens light doth shine
so true.
In my dream of butterflys
no cut nor sting
for all will sing
for the beauty with
out flowers no dream.
poem by Uloia Norris Moore
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The Mountain Tomb
POUR wine and dance if manhood still have pride,
Bring roses if the rose be yet in bloom;
The cataract smokes upon the mountain side,
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionet
That there be no foot silent in the room
Nor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet;
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
In vain, in pain; the cataract still cries;
The everlasting taper lights the gloom;
All wisdom shut into his onyx eyes,
Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Island Hawk
Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,
Dumb is the shrinking plain,
And the songs that enchanted the woods are still
As I shoot to the skies again!
Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,
Does the down still cling to my claw?
Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?
Life, I follow thy law!
For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
As I glide and glide with my peering head,
Or swerve at a puff of smoke,
Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,
Here – gone – with an instant stroke?
Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
As I buffet this great glad gale,
Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,
Loosen my wings and sail?
For I am the hawk, the island hawk,
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
My mate in the nest on the high bright tree
Blazing with dawn and dew,
She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee
As I drop like a bolt from the blue.
She knoweth the fire of the level flight
As I skim, close, close to the ground,
With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright
Dew-drops flashing around.
She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk
(Oh, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)
Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
She builded her nest on the high bright wold,
She was taught in a world afar
The lore that is only an April old
Yet old as the evening star.
Life of a far off ancient day
In an hour unhooded her eyes.
In the time of the budding of one green spray
She was wise as the stars are wise.
An eyas in eyry, a yellow-eyed hawk,
On the old elm's burgeoning breast,
She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
She hath ridden on white Arabian steeds
Thro' the ringing English dells,
For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,
To the music of golden bells.
A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood
And tossed her aloft in the blue,
A white hand eager for needless blood.
I hunt for the needs of two.
A haggard in yarak, a hawk, a hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes
That have stared in the eyes of kings?
With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:
She has clawed at their jewelled rings!
Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn
To pluck him a prey from the skies,
When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn
In the valleys of Paradise?
Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,
Bent beak and pitiless breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
Is there ever a song in all the world
Shall say how the quest began
With the beak and the wings that have made us kings
And cruel – almost – as man?
The wild wind whimpers across the heath
Where the sad little tufts of blue
And the red-stained grey little feathers of death
Flutter! Who fashioned us? Who?
Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk,
Bent beak and arrowy breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Butterfly Dreams 2 ('The Dreams of My Heart)
The dreams
of my heart
my mind
doth pass
In my dream
of butterflys
for they
hug me
without
sound
Nothing stays
with me to long
In my dream of
butterflys
they lift me
from this ground
But I have
had from
since as a
child
In my dream
of butterflys
they so still
my mind
The deep solace
of song
In my dream
of butterflys
they flutter for they
are posied
In my dream
of butterflys
my daughter
now is four
In my dream of
butterflys
such delight
to my eyes
forever
may roam
Let me find life
and stay
In my dream of
butterflys
Soft weaved wings
they always have
of which we sing
With wings whoms
tunes
are played
out and not
forgotten
In my dream of
butterflys
linen in does
my neice now
lay
Like the rain
of yesterday
rainbow weaved
it is
thus so
In my dream of
butterflys
heavens light
doth shine
so true
In my dream of
butterflys
no cut
nor sting
for all
will sing
for the
beauty with
out flowers
no dream
poem by Uloia Norris Moore
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