Denial Of The Heart
While sitting in a bench
Of an empty old park
Smoking a cigarette
watching the cloud of smokes
Vanishing in spiral forms around me
bewitched by the sunlight
Of a summer's afternoon....
Thinking about you
My mind is trying desperately
To erase your name
From its chamber of thoughts...
But my heart still refuses
To follow through....
Desperate also I am
to find a new love
And get a new life
Which is my real desire
And it it is also a fact of life:
'Ashes remain where there was fire'...
And wonder why
My heart is still in denial
Time is flying
And I am getting old and tired....
Thinking about my life
Which one day will expire....
COPY WRITE©2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Vanishing Future
The Vanishing Future
The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old Man
The old man sat on a park bench
just watching the people pass by.
He did it day after day
alone in everyone's eyes.
He would smile occasionally
but no one ever knew why.
Everyone who saw him
wondered why he sat so still
and just looked out
at everyone who passed him there.
The old man sat in repose
from dawn until dusk fell.
He sat there in the summer sun
and as winter's bleakness fell.
He looked for some face
he might remember from his past
so they could reminisce for a while.
Sadly, the years slipped away.
Everyone spoke about him,
but no one ventured to talk.
Then one day the old man
wasn't on the park bench
and he was nowhere to be seen.
Now a different question was asked.
Day after day, the bench was empty.
Where had the old man gone?
Had he simply passed away?
The questions remained unanswered
because no one ever stopped
to enquire of his name.
I would like to think
that in the dying hours
on the park bench one day
that he had found
what he was waiting for
and then happily he faded away.
12 July 2012
poem by David Harris
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Bench
Sitting on a bench watching people go by.
Smiles and frowns, Stares and glares
Wondering what they are thinking?
Is it me greeting them one by one
Or me sitting on a bench.
The seat of comfort and distractions
a place to think and read
Feed the birds, Friendly chats
Surprising hellos, A lot of old fellows
wanting the seat, for they are beat!
Everyone's favorite seat
The bench of life
poem by Michael Peterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lonely
There was an old man
sat on a park bench,
his trousers were baggy,
his hair was unkempt.
It flowed long and white
right down to his shoes
and children would pass by
looking bemused.
A glint in his eye
and a glow on his cheek
he sat all day long
not a word did he speak,
but should you have asked him
why he was there
he'd had given you reasons, I'm sure
with a stare.
He sat on the park bench
eating some berries,
he didn't look sad
and he didn't look merry,
then just when the church clock
struck quarter to four
the old man got up
and he fell to the floor
Nobody noticed him tumble
nobody even passed by
and as sunshine hid behind a cloud
that lonely old man, he did die.
But sometimes as I pass that bench
I have a strange feeling inside
that someone is eating a berry or two
and watching the people go by
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Watching For Pa
Three little forms in the twilight gray,
Searching the shadows across the way;
Two pair of black eyes, and one of blue --
Brimful of love, and of mischief too;
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
May, with her placid and thoughtful brow,
Beaming with kindness and love just now;
Willie the youngest, in anguish did lay,
Stealing sly kisses from sister May,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Nellie, with ringlets of sunny hue,
Cosily nested between the two;
Pressing her cheeks to the window pane,
Wishing the absent one home again.
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Now there are shouts from the window seat;
There is a patter of childish feet;
Gaily they rush through the lighted hall --
"Coming at last" is the joyful call.
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Standing on the doorstep,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Standing on the doorstep,
Watching for Pa!
poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Afternoon In The Cemetery
A dog with a lame leg drags itself around the tombs
Mrs. watson talks with someone whos been dead for years
A sickly smell of urine rising from her tights
Two old ladies on a park bench sitting silent already dead
What a wonderfull place to have a cup of tea
What a wonderfull place to read a book bout love
What a wonderfull place to sit around with me under a tree
On an afternoon in the cemetery
Millions of flies spiral around a cross before they land
In a fresh grave someone dug last night
The little chappel looks so sad even the flowers seem to cry
And all those people seem to wait for the moment they will die
What a wonderfull place to have a cup of tea
What a wonderfull place to read a book bout
What a wonderfull place to sit around with me under a tree
On an afternoon in the cemetery
song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spying On Me?
While quietly sitting down
In one of the benches in Central Park,
Bewitched by a Sunny afternoon,
I saw something moving fast/
I imagined it was a ghost
That found refuge under a shadow
Of a lonely tree still standing
In the middle of the open field…
For a moment, I thought
That it was you spying on me.
Yes, the woman that silently hid
Behind a colorful mask,
Some time ago!
The one that broke my heart
And run away like a frighten thief
Almost caught
In the middle of the night…
In a starry and clear night,
Sitting again in the same bench,
I observed the bright full moon
And suddenly I heard a loud voice
Like somebody calling my name
And for a moment, I was afraid,
I thought it was you calling me
While hiding behind the moon…
Now, a question remains:
Were you the one spying on me?
Only time will tell
The day you come back to me!
©All Rights Reserved-2011
poem by Romeo Della Valle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Memories Never Sleep
There is no word spoken
In the drizzling summer rain
Where I stand
Beneath the broken streetlight
Of vanishing illumination.
We never really talked
To each other,
I never did learn
The art of conversation.
I did study your eyes
And the movement of your lips,
I appreciated you more
Than you could have ever understood.
To see your hair
In the sunlight
And autumn breeze,
God knows I needed you.
A hush falls
Over my heart
As I try to recall
Sitting beside you
At church or the city park.
My memories
Never sleep;
I don’t know where
You rest your head tonight
But you remain with me.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Magical Saturday Afternoon
I want to kiss your arms
On a park bench in the sunlight,
They’d be sweet and warm,
Life would begin to feel right.
Then we’d walk along a lazy street
To purchase ice-cream cones,
Everything you talked about
Would be as lovely as a melody.
This would all take place
On a magical Saturday afternoon.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Park Bench
Sitting on a park bench,
the fragrance of the grass
scents the fresh air.
It makes you look more closely
to everything that is there.
The beauty of the day,
white clouds, no black ones of dismay.
A breeze that bends
every leaf and petal to and fro.
Then there are the colours,
a multitude of green.
Everything assaults our senses,
every smell and flower there.
The sun is over my shoulder,
blue skies, and no clouds in sight.
As I sit here on a park bench
enjoying everything, I see.
(7 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smokin The Herb Again
Yo yo yo, yo, yo yo what
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Damn, I really wish I could find my sack man
Must have got eaten by pac-man
If I had it I could smoke again
Smoke with my friends to the very end
But now Im trying to comprehend
Whens the next time that Ill smoke again
I need to know, please tell when will we smoke again
I got a buddy, his name is ted
Hes got a problem going through his head
He doesnt know how to puff puff give
But I like so Ill teach him and Ill let him live
Everyday we teach him right
When he divides, we have to fight
But at the end of the trying day
We says its ok and we puff away
Just the other night, I saw you, you were smokin not sharing and being tight
But thats ok, you are my friend, well smoking until the very end
The lessons that we put out, we order you to try it out
Its nice to smoke, yea thats what were all about
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Hey, ho, hey ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking everywhere
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking all together
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Footsteps (Killing F(r) iends On Paper)
The sound of
footsteps
in the gravel
behind you
makes you turn.
Your eyes widen
and your jaw drops
as does your
smoking cigarette.
You stare at me
for a second
or two.
You are not smiling
and though
your mouth moves
it speaks no words.
Gunshot breaks this silence
as your head explodes
in a cloud of red mist
and bone.
I smell gunpowder.
Look down
on your headless torso,
picks op stained
still smoking cigarette,
noticing for the first time
the shotgun in my hand.
My brain is numb.
Voice
sounds strange
and distant
as I call
the Cops.
I feel the wind
I see the sun
I taste metal
I hear the birds
...but not the
2nd gunshot
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Early Works - Smoke Rings
Lazily reading a book
on a Sunday afternoon,
sitting in a comfortable chair
watching smoke ring rise in the air.
Do you know the satisfaction
of a lazy Sunday afternoon,
of the joy of watching children
playing on the floor in the front room?
27 June 1981
poem by David Harris
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Memories On A Park Bench
He sat on a park bench
just to pass the time away
when he saw her there
from the corner of his eye.
She was older now,
but her beauty had not faded.
She turned in his direction
and he smiled at her.
At first, she looked at him strangely
until there was recognition.
She smiled back
and then joined him.
They sat there on the park bench
the sun smiling down on them
as the daffodils swayed in the breeze.
For both of them came a flood
of memories of when they were young
before the world spirited them away.
Both had walked down many roads,
had some hard knocks along the way.
Both recalled them now
the way old friends meeting do.
As they sat there
recalling memories from happier days.
All too soon they would be parting
and as they would go,
they would take with them
a little of each other
in the form of memories
that they acquired on a park bench.
5 April 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I feel Like A Protesting Mood Today
I feel like a protesting mood today. Consecutive Governments all over the world are eroding our rights away one by one. We must not do this and we must not do that.
A good case in point is the smoking ban, well that has just got way out of hand. I agree no smoking in places where we eat, but now the idiots wants to ban you smoking in your own car! Now that is stretching it a bit too far. It makes you wonder what part of cloud cuckoo land their ideas come from.
Now I remember and it’s not that long ago, doctors encouraged you to smoke to calm your nerves. Now the same doctors are saying it is bad for you. However, it is all right for a group of them to plant a dirty bomb. Am I going mad or is there a double standard here? On the other hand, is it that they don’t have enough patients that they have to go out and create a few?
Then there are the Hospitals and doctors saying we will refuse to treat anyone that smokes. Hang on a minute, you will treat an alcoholic, which is self-infliction, a drug addict another self-infliction. Come on, a lot of you told us to smoke in the first place. Then the other day another doctor was saying that smoking actually help keep the airway clear. Am I missing something here?
Now I wonder what the Government would do if we all said there would be no drinking alcohol in any government building anywhere. Their Christmas parties would have to be held outside with Jack Frost. The point is if they couldn’t drink they might not fall asleep on the front bench, and we might get a few good laws that would do us all some good. Lets all vote in taking their rights away, just like they have been doing to ours. I’ve had enough of protesting to day. Thank you for listening, now I’m going away to write some pretty poetry.
4 July 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In This Life
Sitting on a park bench
Thinking about a friend of mine
He was only 23
Gone before he had his time
It came without a warning
Didn't want his friends to see him cry
He knew the day was dawning
And I didn't have a chance to say goodbye
Chorus:
In this life I loved you most of all
What for?
'Cause now you're gone and I have to ask myself
What for?
What for?
Driving down the boulevard
Thinking about a man I knew
He was like a father to me
Nothing in the world that he wouldn't do
Taught me to respect myself
Said that we're all made of flesh and blood
Why should he be treated differently
Shouldn't matter who you choose to love
(chorus)
Intermediate:
People pass by and I wonder who's next
Who determines
song performed by by Madonna from Erotica
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tinged With Oil
sunlight dancing
on a puddle of rainwater
tinged with oil....
empty cars locked,
rusting in the warmth.
empty bottles, cigarette butts,
and ghosts walking quickly,
going nowhere, leaving a trail
of nothing behind.
stray dogs, beat down stop signs,
people afraid to touch,
much less to feel...
sunlight dancing
on a puddle of rainwater
tinged with oil....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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That Summer Afternoon
That summer was not easy on us
But one afternoon the clouds came
And the shadows gave way to quiet light
As we walked to the park half regretting
Having cursed the heat
We were tired of summer, and afraid of winter
Lying by me, you read a book, occasionally
Turning your head to see what I was doing
But I was reading too
And I would bend over to your side
And kiss you lightly on the head
It was a quiet summer afternoon, and
We had all life can offer
The rest being vanity and excess
I flipped a page and turned to you
To kiss you on the head
It was the last of that hot summer
But winter would be warm
poem by Cesar Nascimento
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Sitting In An Empty House
Sitting in an emtpy house
Waiting for the phone to ring
Sitting in an empty house
Wanting someone to call about anything
Sitting in an house
Just a cat for company
Sitting in an empty house
Will someone please take time for me?
Sitting in an empty house
No one knows I'm so alone
Sitting in an empty house
The pain I feel remains unknown
04/29/06
Last Days of Summer
Whatever the way the summer days end,
In the type of summer is how it has been,
Whether a good one or bad one,
The last days of summer,
Can be sad or happy endings,
As each season ends,
With another one beginning,
The summer could have been,
Miserable yet,
Sun scorching us everyday,
And sunlight shining on all our faces,
It is how it is,
Out there where all is seen,
In,
Summer days of fun,
Summer days of love,
Summer days of seeing,
Summer days of been,
Out and about where summer is,
And when summer came and went?
With a mundane feeling that it left?
Was the last days of summer,
And the begining of another,
Autumn as we know it,
Fall in other places,
Where the ending of one season shows,
By the decaying of it,
When Autumn Fall shows,
Where we will wrap up and snuggle,
With warm cuppas drinks,
With a book,
Or,
Catch up on watching films,
Yet,
Still,
Musing over the summer days,
Of sunshine memories,
Now,
Warm hats and gloves,
With rustle leaves,
That rustle beneath,
Our feet as we walk,
Through the park,
And see,
The summer leaves turn,
To autumn shades,
Taking in,
The last days of summer,
Reflecting,
And remember,
The falls of Autumn's,
Is the signs of summer,
That has ended,
And minglings with,
All that falls,
From the summer ending,
To autumn beginnings,
Is the,
Decaying,
Of summer,
To regrow itself,
For next season's of summer,
When it begins again,
Yet,
In between,
There's,
Autumn,
Winter,
Spring,
Till,
Again,
Last days of summer,
And all in bloom again.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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