Beautiful
A cinder,
neither coal nor ash,
my life,
clogs the roots of swaying carnations.
Fear, like a cheetah, runs faster than discretion.
Helplessly you tear off the last page
of the book
without reading the end.
One petaled coral, green,
hides the white death,
drowning the hope.
The river has changed the course,
without meaning, purpose,
meandering, engulfing the cardinal designs.
A homeless god wanders,
in my garden, to sit for a while
in the ruins of burnt umbers,
till the shrine is completed.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
Red book - The Rule Is You Must Say How You Really Feel.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast, it says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Some new so close to you. You must get to know them. Its a game you can slowly win. Bury your true feelings.
Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never to fast, never too fast. It says it won't last burnt by the past. We are all wearing masks. Time to take them off. Stop hiding behind your walls. It cost us all. It will be your down fall. Just another phone call. Meeting the face behind this stall. It has come to a sudden halt.
Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Are we trying to hard? Are we faking this march? Are you trying to hide something underneath? Are you look for a little relief? Do you want me, and are afraid to say it? Denying our insides. They can't be alive. They just can't. And go back to the old dance.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Memories ignite, previous passions locked up so tight. Are you willing? Are you giving in to obvious feelings. Let me know. And I won't go. Please stop the fruadlent show. Its faking thats so heart breaking. Is your heart aching? How can I make you understand this is your one and only chance. So please lets dance.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of the past. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. I have been burnt by the past.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Facing a Blank: Part 3
Here I am facing a blank page once again,
searching the white for borders and meaning.
Where my inspiration has dried up like a river
in the dryest summer, in this famine filled place
where meaning dares not tread for fear of death.
Up at five thirty, looking out at the morning
the touch of cold air is only that, a touch
morning twilight glimmers over clouds,
but they bring no hope for change or growth
This life was given for what reason?
to seek out sustenance in this place
Green profusion is everywhere, yet all is dead
the goal is there, but it is uncouth and evil
Why search for such goals, except to fit in
when there are riches beyond the desert?
Every day we gather together in comradeship
and it is like a shallow oasis, there and gone.
Holding together for a deeper pool; love maybe
or for the wine that we consume just to smile.
And each night in hope I look to her face,
see not the signs, and take one more drink
It is despair brought to life in false happiness.
And I face the blank alone, holding tight to reason-
that this, too, shall pass beyond the blank spaces.
poem by Poet Dragon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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River Of Tears
Its three miles to the river
That would carry me away,
And two miles to the dusty street
That I saw you on today.
Its four miles to my lonely room
Where I will hide my face,
And about half a mile to the downtown bar
That I ran from in disgrace.
Lord, how long have I got to keep on running,
Seven hours, seven days or seven years?
All I know is, since youve been gone
I feel like Im drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.
Drowning in a river.
Feel like Im drowning,
Drowning in a river.
In three more days, Ill leave this town
And disappear without a trace.
A year from now, maybe settle down
Where no one knows my face.
I wish that I could hold you
One more time to ease the pain,
But my times run out and I got to go,
Got to run away again.
Still I catch myself thinking,
One day Ill find my way back here.
Youll save me from drowning,
Drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.
Drowning in a river.
Feels like Im drowning,
Drowning in the river.
Lord, how long must this go on?
Drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Burnt Hands
Back off! my dearest
for the sparkling jewel that you see
are glittering coal
that could burn your delicate hands
I beg off you, my love
stay away
for your innocence is misleading you
WHY? ? ?
asked innocence
and the questioned remained unanswered
she inquired again; no reply
equipped with faith, she stepped forward
to rescue the misplaced gem; among the burning coal
she advanced with glaring eyes-and hope
patted her shoulder-go on dear
Screamed innocence, as she touched
the gem was equally hot
as hot as any coal
Screamed innocence- I burnt my hands
I burnt my hands, dear faith
it really hurts, she turned to hope
at this ruthless sight
faith was speechless
and hope stood back, ashamed
is this my fate? she questioned
as she glanced at her blistered hands
is this my fate? ? ? ? ? -innocence wept like a child
silence there was
and then a whisper
it will soon heal, my dear
she looked up; with tear shedding eyes
she rushed to embrace hope
faith smiled to himself
O! dear dear innocent innocence
how I wish you to know
you burnt your hands but rescued gem
your fate?
is that you should not know……
for there are infinite gem
to be rescued; by you
yet, you will never know
you will never know
my dear burnt handed innocence
you will never know.
Rwanda 1994
The Kagera River rises in Burundi blue
It sweeps down from the highlands green.
But then why the river runs red?
Why does it look so sinister?
It hauls the bodies of the dead
Its currents carry your sister.
The Kagera River rises in Burundi green
It flows wild to Lake Victoria blue.
But then why the river runs red?
There is no change in the weather.
Yet on the waters float the dead
The currents carry your father.
The Kagera River rises in Burundi white
It drags trees and elephant grass green.
But then why the river runs red?
The day sunny like another.
Yet the streams tow and haul the dead
The currents carry your brother.
The Kagera River rises in Burundi blue
It flows through Rwandan gorges green.
But then why the river runs red?
Why does the village camp smother?
It hauls the corpses of the dead
The currents carry your mother.
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Writer...
IT is not the books
not the words neither is there an
expert way of fishing for
metaphors,
IT is the life lived (and for some
cut so shortly like an unfinished tapestry of
fallen leaves on top of the
flowing skin of the silvery river)
IT is the life that is lived to the fullest extent
no shortcuts, no surrender of the last glimmer of hope,
Till the last day, IT IS our lives that write us
and it that unplanned and
unexpected death
that says the
last words at the last page
of this unpublished
book.
IT IS LIFE
the writer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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New For Old
Bud blisters into life
Stretching for the light
Unfolding radiant green
Upturned palm to the sun
Life seeping in, breathing out
Green, Green so Green
Resurrected hope, so Green
Summer breeze stroking
Branches ebb and flow
Leaves so Green strong now
Fear not wind of change
Mellow summer turns
Green, green, green-yellow
Yellow area of dieing heart
Green lingers no more
Limp transparent yellow
Barely a breeze takes one
Fierce Hyde-like wind now
Cracking and ripping
Wind torn leaves fall
Life chords snapped
Death too early, still Green
Nourishment broken not ended
Seasons build up to tear down
To build up, to tear down
Leaves fall, Green leaves fall
And then some more
Until leaves are falling, falling
Trees and branches revealed
In the x-ray of autumn blast
Winter is coming
Winter is coming
Yellow pale yellow carpet
Beneath the naked tree
Yellow, mulchy brown
Once crisp leaves scatter
Green, yellow, transparent veins
Tired, half dead, leaves lose their grip
Join the autumn rain soaked mound
Providing new life to the roots
Old for new, New for Old
Seeds buried in death
Bring new life in Spring
In the end is the beginning.
poem by Adrian Wait
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Identity of Images (Identité des images)
I am fighting furiously with animals and bottles
In a short time perhaps ten hours have passed one
after another
The beautiful swimmer who was afraid of coral wakes
this morning
Coral crowned with holly knocks on her door
Ah! coal again always coal
I conjure you coal tutelary genius of dreams and my
solitude let me let me speak again of the beautiful
swimmer who was afraid of coral
No longer tyrannize this seductive subject of my
dreams
The beautiful swimmer was reposing in a bed of lace
and birds
The clothes on a chair at the foot of the bed were
illuminated by gleams the last gleams of coal
The one that had come from the depths of the sky and
earth and sea was proud of its coral beak and great
wings of crape
All night long it had followed divergent funerals toward
suburban cemeteries
It had been to embassy balls marked white satin gowns with
its imprint a fern leaf
It had risen terribly before ships and the ships had not
returned
Now crouched in the chimney it was watching for the
waking of foam and singing of kettles
Its resounding step had disturbed the silence of nights
in streets with sonorous pavements
Sonorous coal coal master of dreams coal
Ah tell me where is that beautiful swimmer the swimmer
who was afraid of coral?
But the swimmer herself has gone back to sleep
And I remain face to face with the fire and shall remain
through the night interrogating the coal with wings of
darkness that persists in projecting on my monotonous
road the shadow of its smoke and the terrible
reflections of its embers
Sonorous coal coal pitiless coal
poem by Robert Desnos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Till Death
Till death do us part my love
till death pull us away
till death ruins our lives
till death. We Stay!
why travel to see the world
when i can stare into your eyes
why try to make others happy
when i have you by my side
come lock your fingers with mine
squeeze them when you are cold
come walk with me amongst this path
To let our memories unfold
No I am no romeo or your knight in shining armour
Nor am I romantic or a loving charmer
More a fool who mingles in disstress
but I am yours and you love me never the less
So, Till death do us part my love
till death pull us away
till death ruins our lives
till death. We stay!
poem by Mozafar Ali
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Paradise
This song was first released on the rocky mountain high album. it is the only album it has been released on.
When I was a child, my family would travel
Down to western kentucky where my parents were born
And theres a backwards old town thats often remembered
So many times that my memries are worn
And daddy wont you take me back to muhlenberg county
Down by the green river where paradise lay
Well, Im sorry, my son, but youre too late in asking
Mister peabodys coal train has hauled it away
Well sometimes wed travel right down the green river
To the abandoned old prison down by adrie hill
Where the air smelled like snakes and wed shoot with our pistols
But empty pop bottles was all we would kill
And daddy wont you take me back to muhlenberg county
Down by the green river where paradise lay
Well, Im sorry, my son, but youre too late in asking
Mister peabodys coal train has hauled it away
And the coal company came with the worlds largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man
And daddy wont you take me back to muhlenberg county
Down by the green river where paradise lay
Well, Im sorry, my son, but youre too late in asking
Mister peabodys coal train has hauled it away
And daddy wont you take me back to muhlenberg county
Down by the green river where paradise lay
Well, Im sorry, my son, but youre too late in asking
Mister peabodys coal train has hauled it away
Words and music by john prine
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Matters Of Observation
it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages
for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house
i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house
my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.
there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden
the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all
i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds
i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books
i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it
inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paradise
When I was a child my family would travel
Down to western kentucky where my parents were born
And theres a backwards old town thats often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.
Chorus:
And daddy wont you take me back to muhlenberg county
Down by the green river where paradise lay
Well, Im sorry my son, but youre too late in asking
Mister peabodys coal train has hauled it away
Well, sometimes wed travel right down the green river
To the abandoned old prison down by adrie hill
Where the air smelled like snakes and wed shoot with our pistols
But empty pop bottles was all we would kill.
Repeat chorus:
Then the coal company came with the worlds largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.
Repeat chorus:
When I die let my ashes float down the green river
Let my soul roll on up to the rochester dam
Ill be halfway to heaven with paradise waitin
Just five miles away from wherever I am.
Repeat chorus:
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Atlantis
In that ocean.
Wide eyed and deeper in your gaze,
And bluer than the bright that's in the cave.
There is a city,
Came out from you, Atlantis
In ruins, sunken below the waves
But in the city,
Where there is no one.
What's the point of being free, eh?
When there is nothing there to tie me down,
Oh, no more here.
The bluest city,
Covered in coral and coral,
On sea chests,
And sealed Jamaician tales.
There is nobody
To count the soldiering meandering whales,
With a shoal of herring amongst the sails.
But in the city,
Where there is no one.
What's the point of being free, eh?
When there is nothing there to tie me down,
Oh, no more here.
There is the city Atlantis.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Karma
I drop a stone into the ocean
Every choice another turn of the screw
Another wheel set in motion
With every single thing I do
Its there in the air that I breathe
Its in my whisper and scream
Inside everything I believe
And its all gonna come around someday
As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me
There is no absolution whether Im the garden or the rose
If I aint part of the solution, yeah you know how that goes
You can always leave but you bring it all back home someday
As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me
Every single thing I say, everyone that I betray
Any love that I take when I do not make it in return
Every thing I do and every time Ive been unfaithful too
All the things that I believe are lessons I must learn
As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me
As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cheetah Glow
With those distinctive tear-stained eyes
The cheetah looked around,
With ears alert to realise
Each sudden nearby sound...
In hunting mode, the cheetah sensed
Each second one-by-one,
Alone, aloof and without friends
Beneath the burning sun...
The sizzling light shone down all day,
Upon the cheetah's fur,
To warm its cold heart all the way,
Whatever must occur...
For cheetahs want to stay alive,
Regardless of the cost...
They fight a war so they survive,
Until the war is lost...
This cheetah's stare looked left and right,
For something unaware,
Before the creature's taken flight
On land or in the air...
As fast as cheetah legs can run,
Starvation is the foe,
Beneath the ever-burning sun
That makes the cheetah glow...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2010.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Cheetah Glow'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dixie Flyer
(Susan Longacre/Jim Photoglo/Russell Smith)
Well the first thing I remember is the smell of burnin' cinders
And the sound of that old whistle on the wind
I always wondered where the train was going
But I never cared at all where it had been
Yeah the first chance I got, I was gone like a shot
Following that old dream of mine
My only desire was to catch that flyer
And ride it to the end of the line
My life is like a Dixie Flyer
She don't ever look back
So pour on the coal
Let the good times roll
Till the train runs out of track
Full speed ahead no I ain't stoppin' yet
I feel that drivin' wheel down in my soul
I been some places where the train don't stop
Some places where the train don't even go
Yeah some are satisfied just to sit on the side
And watch as the trains roll by
That ain't me, there's too much to see
Gonna roll until the day that I die
My life is like a Dixie Flyer
She don't ever look back
So pour on the coal
Let the good times roll
Till the train runs out of track
Till the train runs out of track
Till the train runs out of track
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Proud
The wail fills the genesis;
you are not living in me any more.
Outside a grey mist of absence prevails.
For a while there was stillness
of white death, then roaring of a
hurricane, before it struck the ancient wall
of a levee. I started gathering my
sky, in ruins of a screaming town.
Faith was walking without legs.
Annihilation with a smile of a calender, starts;
trees and bone littered floating.
I start to understand the stalling darkness.
The human bleed now attracts the wolves
to maul, to tear, to drown
the breath of burned out spirit.
Still a cinder smoulders in debris,
to dislodge the burden of life,
for the face lift of a hanging man.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Catching Fire
Glowing embers, remnants of a world past.
Life is dying, its energy expiring fast.
The last hope for life to survive is fading out and we're stuck drowning in a sea of doubt!
-
Burnt out timber, shadows of what use to be.
Lord God! Start a fire inside me!
So many are burnout, no fire left, to our flaking ashes we cleft.
-
Someone needs to ignite the fire, bring us back to life!
Keep us alive, don't let the darkness suffocate the light:
So many of us, burnt-out, dead, and alone, We need fire in the bones!
-
We're sitting here, waiting for someone to catch fire-dying-
Sitting here warming benches, not even trying.
By our lack of faith, we condemn ourselves to die!
-
Waiting for God to move, but God has already done so.
While we're stalling, he's calling us to go!
But we're waiting for fire, that's already here, but we won't commit because of our fear.
-
Haunted by a fear of the unknown, that we can't survive.
We sit and kill, the very life we're trying to revive.
Waiting for someone else to move, with the blame on our heads, we refuse to push ahead.
-
If you don't move, and he besides you doesn't move,
Who's going to keep the fire, that runs this world, tell me who?
So I'm catching fire, hoping others catch fire with me: catching fire to set men free, are you with me?
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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The Little Girl's Song
Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is bideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Somebody else that you love, Papa,
Somebody else that you dearly love
Is weary, like me, because you're away.
Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move,
And I seem to know what they're going to say;
And every day, and all the long day,
I long to cry, 'Oh Mamma, Mamma,
When will Papa come back again?'
But before I can say it I see the pain
Creeping up on her white white cheek,
As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;
And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek,
As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall.
Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall,
That I might throw my arms round her neck
And say, 'Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all
That I see and see and do not see
In your white white face all the livelong day?'
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Where were you going, Papa, Papa?
All this long while have you been on the sea?
When she looks as if she saw far away,
Is she thinking of you, and what does she see?
Are the white sails blowing,
And the blue men rowing,
And are you standing on the high deck
Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray,
And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck,
And the dark came first to you, far away?
I wish I could see what she can see,
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Don't you remember, Papa, Papa,
How we used to sit by the fire, all three,
And she told me tales while I sat on her knee,
And heard the winter winds roar down the street,
And knock like men at the window pane,
And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet
To be warm and warm as we used to be,
Sitting at night by the fire, all three?
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Papa, I like to sit by the fire;
Why does she sit far away in the cold?
If I had but somebody wise and old,
That every day I might cry and say,
'Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget?
Was she always as white as she is to-day?
Did she never carry her head up higher?'
Papa, Papa, if I could but know!
Do you think her voice was always so low?
Did I always see what I seem to see
When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet?
You used to say her hair it was gold-
It looks like silver to me.
But still she tells the same tale that she told,
She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee,
And the house goes on as it went long ago,
When we lived together, all three.
Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa,
And I feel as if I could be happy no more.
Is she changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream she was brighter before?
She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa,
That I forgot in thinking of you,
The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew!
But I put it out of the sun and the rain:
It was green and white when I put it away,
It had one sweet bell and green leaves four;
It was green and white when I found it that day,
It had one pale bell and green leaves four,
But I was not glad of it any more.
Was it changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream it was brighter before?
Do not mind my crying, Papa,
I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa,
I am not shaking for fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is hideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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