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My father is dead.
I who am look at him
who is not, as once he
went looking for me
in the woman who was.
There are pictures
of the two of them, no
need of a third, hand
in hand, hearts willing
to be one but not three.
What does it mean
life? I am here I am
there. Look! Suddenly
the young tool in their hands
for hurting one another.
And the camera says:
Smile; there is no wound
time gives that is not bandaged
by time. And so they do the
three of them at me who weep.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smile For The Camera
I see you standing out there in the hall
You seem so nervous waiting for his call
I focus on you
I reach for the lens
The shutter snaps again
(smile)
Smile for the camera
You know
(smile)
The camera never ever lies
Ive been watching you with
Eager hungry eyes
For sometime
(smile)
I hold my lens in the middle of the night
Visions of you dancing in the strobe light
Up on my wall is a picture or two
Of someone who looks like you
(smile)
Smile for the camera
You know
(smile)
The camera is my wide lens
(smile)
You know the camera is my private eye
I got color transparencies
I got black and white
(smile)
Smile for the camera
You know that
(smile)
Cameras never ever lies
(smile)
Ive been watching you with telephoto eyes
For some time
(smile)
Smile for me
(come on)
Smile for me
(come on)
Smile for me
(come on)
Smile for me
(come on)
Smile for me
(come on)
Smile for me
(come on)
(smile)
Wont you smile for the camera
Wont you smile for the
Click, click, click
(smile)
Smile for the camera
(smile)
Smile for the camera
(smile)
Smile for the camera
(smile)
Smile for the camera
(smile)
Smile for the camera
(smile)
You know
(smile)
The camera is my private eye
(smile)
Ive got color transparencies
(smile)
Ive got black and white
(smile)
Smile for the camera
You know that
(smile)
Cameras never ever lies
(smile)
Ive been watching you with telephoto eyes
(smile)
Smile for the camera
You know that
(smile)
Camera is my private eye
(smile)
Ive been watching you
With eager hungry eyes for some time
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Other Hand...
the black man's hand,
the poor man's hand.
the Muslim hand, the Jewish hand...
the gay man's hand,
the working man's hand,
the ex-convict's hand,
the farmer's hand, the garbage man's hand...
the Christian's hand, the atheist's hand,
the father's hand, the soldier's hand,
the peacemaker's hand,
the healer's hand, the teacher's hand,
the prodigal's hand, even the murderer's hand...
the victim's hand, the broken hand,
the praying hand, the touching hand...
all, when extended,
feel like my other hand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Children's Song
We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.
And though you probe and pry
With analytic eye,
And eavesdrop all our talk
With an amused look,
You cannot find the centre
Where we dance, where we play,
Where life is still asleep
Under the closed flower,
Under the smooth shell
Of eggs in the cupped nest
That mock the faded blue
Of your remoter heaven.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Father's Hands
My Father's Hands
As I look upon my father's hands
now a spotted, wrinkled road map,
that time, sun and sweat,
have hardened them to a painted tortoise shell.
Those, the same hands that I once feared,
and yet at the same time so gentle
that they held my tiny hand deep within.
I feared nothing as if he was the grace of God.
Will they still remember me?
My Father's hands.
9 April 2008
Weep Day
I never went to the tropical island
Though everybody said they saw me there
And it wasnt me you punched a hole in
At the west german protest march
Simultaneous events dont happen
We are isolated temporally
And a part is never called the whole thing
Though it bothers us to know its so
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
I didnt write the words you hear me singing (didnt write the words you hear me singing)
I didnt sing the line before this one (didnt sing the line before this one)
You are not the one I was addressing (you are not the one I was addressing)
That person took a train to africa (africa)
Where he met the consulate from belgium
Who is now a buddhist in a cave
Who is pitching for the oakland raiders
Striking out the batter she became
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mano O Mano
Lyrics & Music: John Oates
See a lot of people walking around and around
terra firma turned them upside down
too scared to reach out maybe afraid of what they'll find
but a hand stuck in a pocket come up empty every time
Now you better believe the writing on the wall
all for one one for all
woman to woman and man to man
face to face heart to heart hand to hand
Mano a Mano
Hand to Hand
Mano a Mann
See a lot of people fighting for the left or the right
fighting people see black or white
you'd like to go your way sure I'd like to go mine
but we're all in this together running out of time
Woman to woman and man to man
heart to heart and hand to hand
set on example for all the little boys and girls
for the hand that rocks the cradle can rule the world
Mano a Mano
Hand to Hand
Mano a Mano
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.
quote by Quentin Crisp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mano A Mano
Lyrics & music: john oates
See a lot of people walking around and around
Terra firma turned them upside down
Too scared to reach out maybe afraid of what theyll find
But a hand stuck in a pocket come up empty every time
Now you better believe the writing on the wall
All for one one for all
Woman to woman and man to man
Face to face heart to heart hand to hand
Mano a mano
Hand to hand
Mano a mann
See a lot of people fighting for the left or the right
Fighting people see black or white
Youd like to go your way sure Id like to go mine
But were all in this together running out of time
Woman to woman and man to man
Heart to heart and hand to hand
Set on example for all the little boys and girls
For the hand that rocks the cradle can rule the world
Mano a mano
Hand to hand
Mano a mano
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peace
And sometimes I am sorry when the grass
Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows
And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass
That I am not the voice of country fellows
Who now are standing by some headland talking
Of turnips and potatoes or young corn
Of turf banks stripped for victory.
Here Peace is still hawking
His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn.
Upon a headland by a whinny hedge
A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow
There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge
And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.
Out of that childhood country what fools climb
To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Woman Of Time
Old woman will sit there and ponder all day.
She dreams of many years gone on by.
Nobody knows what she's feeling.
As she smiles looking up at the sky.
Would it be many memories behind,
So distracted by what's in her head.
Time has passed on surely for her.
But so happy she looks instead.
Woman Of Time
She will tell you her past stories.
Yes she will continue on and on about this.
Such brightness fills her wrinkled eyes.
As she recalls her very first kiss!
She may be lonely but never alone.
A lesson we can learn from her everyday.
Life she says is so short. love one another.
This I heard her many times say.
Woman Of Time
Does she fear such short time I wonder,
She has no fear in dying or regret.
How she places her hand on mine.
It is her own words here I won't forget.
Her children are all grown up now,
She pictures each passing memory with them.
Sweet old woman you've come so far.
And so much then this, all the love you send
Woman Of Time
poem by Suelynn Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smile For A Better Day
To touch a life can be simple
it just takes you to make it work
a hand shake, a smile, a hello
or just be polite, give a needy hand
so simple but so hard in life today
people are in a hurry, don't want to be bothered
no time for strangers, little time friends or co workers
take the time, it can be fun and bring a smile
make it away were you leave them thinking
people are friendly no matter when or where
a smile, a hello, a shock look of surprise
as you walk a way. they think how pleasant that was
how you made their day better and that really matters
a simple gesture can change a frown to a smirk to a big smile
make time to say a simple hello, shake a hand or a smile
could make anyone's day a better day, especially yours
poem by Michael Peterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hook
I was only a young man
In those days. On that evening
The cold was so God damned
Bitter there was nothing.
Nothing. I was in trouble
With a woman, and there was nothing
There but me and dead snow.
I stood on the street corner
In Minneapolis, lashed
This way and that.
Wind rose from some pit,
Hunting me.
Another bus to Saint Paul
Would arrive in three hours,
If I was lucky.
Then the young Sioux
Loomed beside me, his scars
Were just my age.
Ain't got no bus here
A long time, he said.
You got enough money
To get home on?
What did they do
To your hand? I answered.
He raised up his hook into the terrible starlight
And slashed the wind.
Oh, that? he said.
I had a bad time with a woman. Here,
You take this.
Did you ever feel a man hold
Sixty-five cents
In a hook,
And place it
Gently
In your freezing hand?
I took it.
It wasn't the money I needed.
But I took it.
poem by James Arlington Wright
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An Invitation
Holding with shaking hands a letter from some
Official – high up he says in the Ministry,
I note that I am invited to Birmingham,
There pedagogues to address for a decent fee.
'We like to meet,' he goes on, 'men eminent
In the field of letters each year,' and that's well put,
Though I find his words not wholly relevant
To this red-eyed fellow whose mouth tastes rank as soot.
No doubt what he's thinking of is poetry
When 'Thomas Blackburn' he writes, and not the fuss
A life makes when it has no symmetry,
Though the term 'a poet' being mainly posthumous,
Since I'm no stiff, is inappropriate.
What I can confirm is the struggle that never lets up
Between the horses of Plato beneath my yoke,
One after Light, and for Hell not giving a rap,
The other only keen on infernal smoke.
And poems...? From time to time they commemorate
Some particularly dirty battle between these two;
I put the letter down – what's the right note?
'Dear Sir,' I type, 'how nice to speak to you!'
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Thomas Blackburn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death Of A Poet
Laid now on his smooth bed
For the last time, watching dully
Through heavy eyelids the day's colour
Widow the sky, what can he say
Worthy of record, the books all open,
Pens ready, the faces, sad,
Waiting gravely for the tired lips
To move once -- what can he say?
His tongue wrestles to force one word
Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases
For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry';
Sorry for the lies, for the long failure
In the poet's war; that he preferred
The easier rhythms of the heart
To the mind's scansion; that now he dies
Intestate, having nothing to leave
But a few songs, cold as stones
In the thin hands that asked for bread.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yesterdays
(arkeen / james / billy / rose)
Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never told
Now that i'm startin' to learn
I feel i'm growing old
'cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that i'll always see
Time just fades the pages
In my book of memories
Prayers in my pocket
And no hand in destiny
I'll keep on movin' along
With no time to plant my feet
'cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that i'll always see
Some things could be better
If we'd all just let them be
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Got nothin' for me
Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never shown
Suddenly this time i found
I'm on the streets and i'm all alone
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that i'll always see
I ain't got time to reminisce old novelties
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday
Yesterday
song performed by by Guns N' Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Beauty of the Woman
The Beauty of the Woman
For Thea and Alexi Katherine ~ 16 April 2011
The beauty of the woman is behind her touch
In the space between her fingers and the son’s
As he takes his first steppes
Between her hand and the daughter’s
As the father leads her down the isle
The beauty of the woman is behind her eyes.
In the circumference of each teardrop
Which shrunk: keeping pace with the contractions.
And disappeared when the daughter
Kicking and screaming was laid on her chest
Which became a stream of awe—wondrous
Even as the daughter found comfort on her breast
The beauty of the woman is behind her smile
Which she held through sleepless nights
Teething, feeding, monsters, and proms
Through the holding and the swaddling
Even the letting go…
The beauty of the woman is in the strength
To hold, to watch, in love-eternally
To spend eternity letting go
Of the hand that grasped her pinky
And each little piggy-toe
The hand she felt inside her
Which made her beauty glow
The beauty of the woman is
Something I’ve only seen
Something I know incompletely
But touch with my own hands
but the beauty fall between my fingers
and the beauty behind her hands.
poem by Aaron Graham
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The Hand That Signed the Paper
The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.
The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.
The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locusts came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.
The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor pat the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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In The Well
My father cinched the rope,
a noose around my waist,
and lowered me into
the darkness. I could taste
my fear. It tasted first
of dark, then earth, then rot.
I swung and struck my head
and at that moment got
another then: then blood,
which spiked my mouth with iron.
Hand over hand, my father
dropped me from then to then:
then water. Then wet fur,
which I hugged to my chest.
I shouted. Daddy hauled
the wet rope. I gagged, and pressed
my neighbor's missing dog
against me. I held its death
and rose up to my father.
Then light. Then hands. Then breath.
poem by Andrew Hudgins
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Hurting
Hurting
hurting deeply
hurting severely
weeping, rolling, irritated
hurting
hurting like a caged boar
hurting like a woman in labour
hurting like a godly man prior
repentance
lamenting
lamenting like a hungry infant
outwitted by your superior craft
of segregation
stranded on a deserted island of
inferiority
burdened by excruciating pains caused
through deprivation
suffering from the wounds of
prejudices
haemorrhaging like a severed vessel-
weakened by your master culture
swamped by your perfect philosophy
imprisoned, betrayed, suppressed and
miseducated
with the perfect help plan.
Hurting, hurting, hurting!
poem by Paul Andrew Bourne
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Yesterday
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father's hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me
oh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here
I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don't want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
poem by William Stanley Merwin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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