Nameless Intruders
Fear swooped on extended mind,
when brain was never silent.
I was never alone,
voices broke all around.
The lead became kinky.
For sometime, I escaped into antiquity for,
a surrogate relief.
The clock prowled for
the graffiti of truth in night.
A programmed psychology
look extra-terrestrial.
The life mutated into a watch
which did not move.
The mob controlled the streets.
How thin was the tribe of fireflies in dark?
The sparks were cold
and stars were warm.
I stayed by the fire of meditation for a
turbulent river.
The movement of shadows made me sad.
An obscene climate inflicted wounds on trees.
Despair & rage, raised a panic in the herd.
Nameless intruders climbed our houses.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
Dark night...
So dark is the night by choice
Silenced of humorous voice,
So lonely is the night of charms
Devoid of a lover's warm arms.
Dark shadows rising upward bound
Above me from the silent ground
Destroying my inner secret dreams
Waking to the sounds of inner screams
Dark shadows rising here to stay
Even after they're casted away
They come back with violence
At the depth of dead silence
Dark shadows rising unkind
causing chaos across my mind
I cant stand, my painful cries
As the dark night arrives
Dark shadows rising knocking me flat
Paralysing me purposefully so that
I can't move and nobody cares
The dark night blindly stares
Dark shadows dying away to fly
Over the dark coloured sky
No more shadows flying around
Remembering my dreams abound
As the heavenly glowing stars swoon
Circling around the glittering moon
Radiating above in the sky like mothers
Amongst the ashen white, I saw serenity's colours
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Making Of Stars
The Making of Stars.
Long time ago before stars appeared,
nights were as black as standing inside
a mist of ink ejected by an octopus.
When stone-age man found how to lit
a fire, sparks flew up and slowly
the night sky had what we call stars.
When a star or spark dies a new one
will appear if not as many as before
now that we have electric light.
In Kalahari a tribe sits by the fireside
sparks fly upwards, they see to it we
always have stars on the night sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Fireflies.......
you do not hold the
fireflies in your hands
or put
them in a jar
they belong to the
space
to the place upon
the crown of
trees
to the night where
they are most
beautiful
when they glitter
like
the silent sparks of
the fire crackers
of the
Chinese New Year
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Surrogate Lover
You were so cold like the dead,
Your love silent as the grave,
Masquarading as cream while skim
Seldom care and love you gave
Scheming deception and great innuendo
Belittled, but was not in desparado
Your eyes as pure as eldorado,
Yet evil as of puff adder,
Tortured and tormented, I made a choice
Rise and wave your hand Delilah,
Goodbye my old time liar,
Belittling me I never got higher
Upon my love, your breath was fire
Pack your things or I pack,
Tortured and tormented, I walked away
My hands I opened for a surrogate lover,
My arms widely stretched and welcoming,
You broke my heart and she mended it
Come along, my sweet surrogate lover
Lets fly with the birds of the air,
With me you shall never despair,
Hold my hand for history is gone
You are all I need, yes you are the one
Growing apart with you Delilah
Growing together, surrogate lover
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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the fireflies of Puerto P.
we take the boat at night
the sea is having its low tide
we are going to the place where the fireflies are mating
we trace the rivers like blood to our veins
the moon has not come at that hour
the trees along the banks are mere shadows
the fireflies are all there
glistening like stars in the heavens
there is so much silence
what we can hear is only the sound of the boat sliding on the river
i've seen for once the magic of their lights
and there i am but a mere shadow against the trees
the journey towards my childhood begins
where Papa trapped all of them inside a jar for us to marvel
how life gives light and how quick shall death take it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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These
are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.
The year plunges into night
and the heart plunges
lower than night
to an empty, windswept place
without sun, stars or moon
but a peculiar light as of thought
that spins a dark fire -
whirling upon itself until,
in the cold, it kindles
to make a man aware of nothing
that he knows, not loneliness
itself - Not a ghost but
would be embraced - emptiness
despair - (They
whine and whistle) among
the flashes and booms of war;
houses of whose rooms
the cold is greater than can be thought,
the people gone that we loved,
the beds lying empty, the couches
damp, the chairs unused -
Hide it away somewhere
out of mind, let it get to roots
and grow, unrelated to jealous
ears and eyes - for itself.
In this mine they come to dig - all.
Is this the counterfoil to sweetest
music? The source of poetry that
seeing the clock stopped, says,
The clock has stopped
that ticked yesterday so well?
and hears the sound of lakewater
splashing - that is now stone.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Before Nightfall
sunset crashes down
on houses, I hear voices
of the day around me
the alarm clock from
this morning
“have you found
where you are going
to get gone, will you
go, choose wisely
this day is nearly ending”
I can’t choose
this day is over, the
voices are only
leaves falling
from trees
I walk into the sunset
still crashing down
into shadows, I hear
your voice above
everything
the sky’s on fire dear
we should run while
we still can
poem by Ben Paynter
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Missing
The boots of clunking time
Kicked us all around this life
But for moments we stood free
On the surge and peaks of dreams
And now here in these dark glens
Where the air seems cold and thin
I wish I wasn’t wishing
I was with them still
The chestnut trees stood tall
By the banks of Inch canal
They were much too tall to fall
Through the branches to the grass
And the loch was icy cold
cold as fear of diving in
but you who knew no fear then
dived completely in
chorus
and breaking down the walls
took us miles away from home
where the riper fruit hung low
to beneath the crashing stone
that you almost died below
and the sudden storm that came
it chased through field and woodland
all the frightened braves
And soon it came to pass
That we all went passing through
The last gates of innocence
And to talking from a glass
And we grew to greater heights
And we flew on distant flights
We climbed the steps and hills and
Traded flight for bills
chorus
And now the sun’s come shining
on these streets and fields we knew
but like the changing river
they’ve changed into something new
something new that’s hiding all
those people who were small
who stared into the sun until
we saw right through into the blue
who skipped the change of step
as pure as morning dew
And donning coats of distance,
Over rags of truth and chance
We climbed the hill of purpose
Just as if ambition owned us
And kept collecting stuff and chains
til suddenly the road became
an ever growing faltering
in the fog that fell between
all we are and all we’ve been
And all those innocents
Have been missing when we met
Through those intimacies spent
like strangers on the street
on a bend that keeps on turning
like a spiral, incomplete
decked with “all our yesterdays”
out of bounds and out of reach
The boots of clunking time
Kicked us all around this life
But for moments we stood free
On the surge and peaks of dreams
And now here in these dark glens
Where the air seems cold and thin
I wish I wasn’t wishing
I was with them still
I Walk A Nameless River
I walk a nameless river
One which collects water from the houses,
The streets and such,
A river of rain that carry small sticks,
Cigarettes butts and, bits of paper
A shadow river that moves pap like rocks
A river trapped in the street cars’ tracks
A river rushing past ants and praying mantises
Against butterflies and worms that comes up and leave
Body tracks in the mud.
A river fed by puddles and cracks; indents in the sidewalks
By downward slanted driveways and situated front yards
By small streams on window glass and streams down sycamore trucks,
Maple, oak and such.
A cleaning river of gutterized rain,
A leaf drooping rain of green things,
River of no name
Too thin to carry twigs
Easily distracted by my foot
Easily stagnated into a nameless pond
When the sky has dried out.
I walk a one street river
A shallow river of clinched fists
A narrow river of butterflies in the nameless sky
A concrete river of feet saturated against the maple rocks
A river of bodies coming up leaving a river of cracks
A river of cigarettes of worms of sycamore trunks, oak
Marble and such.
A thin river of destruction, of gutters and traped tracks
Of sticks collected among themselves like dead praying mantises
In the rush of houses and driveways stacked in the water
Of a small rainy sky.
poem by David E. Patton
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Lover's Gifts XXII: I Shall Gladly Suffer
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to
splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all
the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of
dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the
courtyard to milk the king.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk
gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the
turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails
outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he
disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the
swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind
throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks
of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of
new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for
the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka
groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the
maidens!
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Country Wife
She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
Following their voices on the breeze,
She makes her way. Through the dark trees
The distant stars are all she sees.
They cannot light the way she's gone.
She make her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
She cannot see the winds that break
The night reflected on the lake
But knows they motion for her sake.
These are the choices they have brought her:
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
poem by Dana Gioia
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Transformation
Moonlight filtered through the trees.
Can cast strange shadows on the ground
which fill me with a vague unease
because they seem to move around.
Somehow independently
The minute that I look away.
As if they have been watching me
to try and lead my thoughts astray.
I know that in reality
the shadows represent no threat
But fear erodes my certainty
and in my panic I forget.
I only know I have to run.
Just as the shadows knew I would
They coalesce, attack as one
Then finally I understood.
I should have run when I first saw
the shadows on the forest floor.
I know now what I did not know
before I became a shadow.
31/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Winter night and the three little men
Winter Night and The Three Little Men.
The Fire burns bright,
While the woods turn to night.
The cold creeps in with sudden quickness
and trees set in sudden ice.
It is, suffice to say, that this is a cold Winter night.
The fire that night kept warm the three little Men
and cast a light that stayed the predators of that cold winter night.
The cold crept and the Wolves howled but all tried in vain
for the fire kept the three little men safe,
but men are lazy and some call them crazy.
All the same because that winter night was to
be the last for the little three men.
The three little men eyes drooped and finely closed
but the poor men forgot to tend the fire.
The fire went out with a flicker then a splutter
and Winter night crept in;
There was one witness that cold Winter night, the Moon.
Try as she could her brightness could not save the poor
little three Men, that cold Winter night.
Josiah, Lozier
poem by Josiah Lozier
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Night Of Fear
The silent night has turned to a night of fear
With windows howling wind into your ear
You listen to the spirits far behind
These things you hear are too much for your mind
The bell strikes and your spine chills like the grave
The chill that turns your blood from red to grey
You know that with these things you see and hear
The silent night has turned to a night of fear
Image on your bedroom wall
Shadows marching in the hall
Just about to flip your mind
Just about to trip your mind
Just about to flip your mind
Just about to trip your mind
The green and purple lights affect your sight
Your mother cannot comfort you tonight
Your brain calls out for help thats never there
The silent night has turned to a night of fear
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Baguio city, a memory....
i remember
that coldness of December
we stayed
on top of that hill
below us
all fog
around us trees
foggy trees
the glass window
is hazy
the heat from the fireplace
gives
the warmth that we cannot
give
to each other
my mind played on the
waves of fire
when all the lights are closed
at midnight
i remember
i went out of my room
went outside the house
climbed the fence and
stood there with my arms raised in surrender
i was too lonely
and did not know what to do
where to
i was broken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lead Me On
Shoulder to the wheel
For someone elses selfish gain
Here there is no choosing
Working the clay
Wearing their anger like a ball and chain.
Fire in the field
Underneath a blazing sun
But soon the sun was faded
And freedom was a song
I heard them singing when the day was done
Singing to the holy one.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
Waiting for the train
Labelled with a golden star
Heavy hearted boarding
Whispers in the dark
Where are we going--is it very far?
Bitter cold terrain
Echoes of a slamming door
In chambers made for sleeping, forever
Voices like thunder in a mighty roar
Cry to the lord.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
Man hurts man
Time and time, time again
And we drown in the wake of our power
Somebody tell me why.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
Lead me on
Lead me on
To a place where the river runs
Into your keeping, oh.
Lead me on
Lead me on
The awaited deliverance
Comforts the seeking...lead on.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her
I was a laughing child
That did not know and
Did not fathom
Time was catching up with me when
Everywhere behind me
Whether looking towards the future or
Leaving the past behind,
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadow and
Her hair, thick, with wisps of gray,
Would frame her countenance,
So young and beautiful, and
Her hands, thin, delicate and pristine, as
Those of an artist…
Rain would fall in torrents the day
I decided no longer to fear the
Raucous sounds about our home-
She would bake bread and sing tunes,
Leaving me to wonder why
She had stayed in bed for days and nights past-
Those days went by quickly as
The second hand spun around the clock
Above the kitchen table- under which
I would play-
Though always in solitude,
I was an Indian, a princess or
On the best of days a queen-
It was a wonder that
Years later
I was the same laughing child
Weeping tears of despair,
Dark shadows cast upon the walls of
My bedroom would
Obliterate any sunlight left in our lives…
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadows,
Now tear filled as her hair,
Now gray in the dark of the world outside …
Her laughter, now was transforming to deadly silence;
Flowers stood limply in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table where
She would sit, her head resting between her hands-
Long and thin as those of an artist,
Wrinkled, now, years later-
A tear cascading down her cheek-
I hardly understood
Life’s meaning-
My life was far from under that same table-
My world so very small,
But all mine and mine alone-
I had picked those flowers-
Wilted dandelions- and a single rose
From father’s garden-
Though always alone,
Never laughing, never weeping,
Never smiling-
At night, stars were falling and
My thoughts were screaming
“Come back! Come back! ”
That was the moment I first heard them-
The unfamiliar voices-
She would sit at the same table,
Not noticing the dandelions, but only the rose-
The second hand spun as quickly around the clock as
My world was spiraling out of control-
And she would sit on the edge of her
Wrought iron framed queen sized bed
Her head resting in her hands
Still long, thin and like those of an artist-
Frozen
Still…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Bush Fire
Let's have a tiny little bush fire.
It's a cold, cold night tonight.
We are sick of this long session
Of the darkness of depression.
And a fire would make things bright.
Just a teeny, weeny little bushfire;
It's easily controlled.
We can sit around and watch it;
If it spreads we'll simply scotch it.
But we must keep out the cold.
Oh, let's have the smallest little bush fire;
It's a fair thing in this storm.
There are plenty here to fight it,
So just strike a match and light it. . . .
Ah! Now we'll all get warm.
Hey! Watch there! The blooming thing is spreading!
Don't let it catch those trees!
Now that clump of scrub has caught it!
Well who ever would have thought it?
There's a change, too, in the breeze.
It was only just a tiny little bushfire,
But it's leaping, roaring now
And we can't hope to defeat it,
Better grab your traps and beat it
For we must get out somehow.
It was only just a harmless little bushfire
But, gosh! How it did burn!
Now the old homestead is blazing.
Well it's certainly amazing;
But a man must live and learn.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Movement Of The Soul
'All the passions can be reduced to four: joy, hope, fear, and grief.
These four are so closely connected that, when one is controlled,
the others all obey. Consequently they can be reduced to one: joy.
And desire is the movement of the soul seeking joy.'
Thomas Merton, The Ascent to Truth
Fear
is knowing
that the dark cloud
bearing down
on thrashing trees,
sending calling birds
to awkwardly flee,
holds both
life
and death,
but not knowing
which it will be.
Fear
can lead to grief
when tumors increase.
Blood grows
thick
until, together
at last, we stand
coffin-side
and wonder
why.
This is the line that splits heaven from hell.
We comb his hair
and shave his face,
carefully fold a rosary
into his cold hands,
and wonder that
his chest is
so still.
But his eyes are safely
sealed against the
terror of the grave,
so we lay him to rest
and slowly go
our separate ways
Remember
those cold March days
when we stood, our
backs to the rising sun?
Too bright
to see, the sun
strokes us
with a lover's warmth,
and rekindles in us
life's desire.
Thus will it always be.
Death can never win
though his illusion is strong.
The mortal body succumbs
but the soul ascends,
like birds, joyfully rising
to the morning sun.
poem by Steven Federle
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I sit alone...
I sit alone
In this cold dark room
No windows no doors
Just icy cold air
I live alone
In this cold dark room
No family no friends
Just loneliness to share
I stay alone
In this cold dark room
No voices no sounds
Just nobody to care
I probe alone
In this cold dark room
In my mind in my world
Just a room filled with despair
I roam alone
In this cold dark room
No way in no way out
Just a worn but rigid snare
I rust alone
In this cold dark room
Not because there is no other way
Just because its easier that way....
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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