Tomb Of Life
Forgetfulness
by the flames
of embrace
and the departure
of child development
The only day in existence
when It's not
a snow day
I shall cross paths
on the iron bridge
not to be deleted
but to frolic away
in confidence
poem by Shai Cherry
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Forgetfulness
Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, --
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.
poem by Hart Crane
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Forgetfulness
Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, --
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.
poem by Harold Hart Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Paths May Never Cross
Lady I know your out there somewhere
Like me your feeling lost
Maybe right now we both need each other
But our paths may never cross
People like us never find each other
Love is our greatest loss
Baby I know you are out there some where
But our paths may never cross
Were to people that should be together
Cause were lonely at the very same time
But theres a million to many good reasons
Why your love can never be mine
Maby this song was written for you
Listen, dont turn it off
I wish you could learn it
And come sing it with me
But our paths may never cross
I wish you could learn it
And come sing it with me
But our paths may never cross
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I May Have Burned a Bridge
It was believed when I left them,
I had burned a bridge.
But from my point of view...
After receiving their undo discouragement,
For years.
A severing of ties,
Led my steps to fresher air.
And a place they were hesitant to share.
I may have burned a bridge!
However,
It is clear to me I am where I want to be!
And not one wish do I have of moving backward,
To join anyone still living in fear and doubt!
If I knew this would be my experience...
I would have burned that bridge a long time ago!
With the same confidence that motivates me now!
I did not need to cross that bridge with anyone in the first place.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Confidence
Not easily refined or defined,
Is confidence.
Nor is it cropped to pluck,
Off from a Sun drenched vine.
To slowly savor for the flavor.
Confidence is a development.
A work in progess.
Not recited from studied print.
Nor listening as lectured...
From a podium will convince,
The taking of notes...
Will provoke it into existence.
Confidence,
Similar to experience...
Is something done,
That is seldom pleasant...
When it comes as a personal delivery.
And...
Most times arrogance is misrepresented for it.
However,
It does take obedience and strength to listen.
To then comprehend that failure does not mean to stop,
To yield and repeat flops.
As a sign that ambition obtained has been dropped.
No,
It does not!
Caution perhaps,
To proceed at your own risk.
But confidence does not allow obstacles to prevent,
Progress.
Or the jumping over hurdles.
Since each hurdle cleared...
Removes the fear to face another.
Clarifying anyone's doubt about confidence adopted!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Memory
SO shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
So from the honeysuckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day:
Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath
As night they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there be
Some that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory:
But could they teach Forgetfulness,
I'd learn; and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.
poem by William Browne
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Burning Bridges
Yesterday she thanked me
For oilin that front door
This morning when she wakes
She wont be thankful anymore
Shell never know how much I cared
Just that I couldnt stay
And Ill never know the reason
Why I always run away.
(chorus)
Burning bridges one by one
What Im doin cant be undone
And Im always hoping someday
Im gonna stop this runnin around
But every time the chance comes up
Another bridge goes down.
Last night we talked of old times
Families and home towns
Whe wondered if wed both agree
On where wed settle down
And I told her that wed cross that bridge
Whenever it arrived
Now through the flames I see her
Standin on the other side
*chorus*
Like ashes on the water
I drift away in sorrow
Knowing that the day
My lessons finally learned
Ill be standing at a river
Staring out across tomorrow
And the bridge I need to get there
Will be a bridge that I have burned.
*chorus*
Another bridge goes down
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To the one who stole my poem
I had this poem
it was a particular poem
made many cry
told my story
to the person who is using my account
which i used to post my poem
which had been deleted from my computer
and only existed here in cyberspace
to this person
who added his/her poems to my name
i hope you, as a fellow poet
understand how a poem nursed
is not dissimilar to a child
i lost my child,
my poem.
if you have it please put it back
the name was 'father'
if you deleted it please write a poem
in this poem tell me that you have
i just need to know if my baby Poem is dead forever
or if it lives on your hard drive
poem by Anonymous Anonymous
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Iron Cross
THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.
'O world of men,' he seems to say,
'Behold me on your Iron Cross!
To me why kneel and tell your loss?
Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
'Have I not taught you to forgive?
And bade you from my Iron Cross
Believe, and bear your grief and loss,
That after death you too may live?
'You have not followed at my call!
You keep me on this Iron Cross,
And pray me keep you from all loss,
And save and comfort you withal.—
'You ask for love, and hate the more! —
You keep me on this Iron Cross!—
Restore to me my greater loss,
The brotherhood of rich and poor.'
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross —
The Nations, wailing of their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Burning Bridge
Come close to me.
Come cross the bridge.
I need to know what you have to say to me.
(We've been waiting all night long.)
What have you got to say to me?
(We've been waiting all night long.)
Tell me all about it.
(We've been waiting.)
Tell me please.
(We've been waiting.)
Oh, I know.
I know it works for me.
As we cross the bridge--the burning bridge--
With flames behind us,
We front the line.
It's you and me, baby, against the world.
(We've been waiting.)
I've got to know what you have to say.
(We've been waiting.)
What have you got to say?
(We've been waiting.)
Ooh--oh--oh,
(We've been waiting.)
Tell me all about it,
(We've been...)
All night long,
(We've been...)
All night long.
(We've been...)
It works for me.
It's you and me, babe, against the world.
All night long
It works for me.
Let's cross the bridge.
Oh, I know,
(We've been waiting.)
I know, I know.
(We've been...)
It's you and me, babe.
When you stand next to me, babe, it's all right.
It's you and me, babe, against the world.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
instant of robustly blessed existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbreakably Omnipotent desire; every unfurling
instant of victoriously effulgent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unceasingly reinvigorating fantasy; every
unfurling minute of poignantly charismatic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of insurmountably intrepid enchantment; every
unfurling minute of rhapsodically unhindered existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Omnisciently tranquil serenity; every unfurling
instant of endlessly bestowing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of perpetually fragrant breath; every unfurling
instant of Omnipresently benevolent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Immortally ardent love; every unfurling instant
of limitlessly fructifying existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fantastically alleviating poetry; every
unfurling instant of boundlessly splendid existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fabulously effervescent tanginess; every
unfurling instant of spiritually uplifting existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unlimitedly enlightening Sunshine; every
unfurling instant of infallibly luminescent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of immaculately godly melody; every unfurling
instant of amiably melanging existence,
Because. And Only Because. A Mother is; has and shall for times immemorial
remain the Greatest Sculptor of every organism on this astoundingly
multiplying Universe; A Mother is the Greatest Artist….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Inside The Cross of Iron Shadow
Inside The Cross of Iron Shadow
====================
Shape to Guide Aligned by Light
Formed of Cross Divide of Shadow
Light to Darken The Cross Within
The Dark Surround The Light With Out
Shape To Confine The Shadow Caste Of Iron Cross
Pieced Together The Puzzle Within
Immediate Light of Circumstantial
Fade to Black
Cross Fade to Light
The Sound Staged Within
Shadow Sounds Free of Night
Forged Of Iron Shadow
Holier Than Thou Be This Shadow Cross of Age
Cast of Moon Beam of Light to Burn
Outline of Cross Confines The Shadow Dark
Which Binds A Mind To Light
Fore There In No Way Exist
This One Without The Other Side of Good
As Day to Blackest Night of Evil
As Sun Give Rise to Dawn To Cast Away
The Nightmare Within A Mind Of Day and Shadow
Night of Day To Darkest Cross Beam of Light
To Light A Mind Eclipsed In Shadow
Forever In Light To Dark Shade of Gray Matter
Inside The Cross Of Iron Shadow.
poem by Ricardo Antunes
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Hallowed Halls
They take each other’s outstretched
fingers and interlock them,
as they walk along much trodden paths
that have seen lovers by the score,
embrace each other along these paths before.
They come as dusk begins to fall
with the setting sun in the west.
They embrace the lovers call
to follow long-standing traditions
and amble down these hallowed halls.
(29 May 2007)
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The bridge between joy and sorrow is not long. Confidence begets confidence.
Trust, Is A Bridge...
Trust, Was A Bridge, Between Us
Now, Blown To Bits and Dust!
Scattered Upon Waters of Fear
Too Far Down, To Bring Near
Trust, Was The Bridge, Between Us
Tottering and Unsafe, Due To Rust
Its Base, Was Sinking and Cracked
Cables Snapped, No Getting Back!
Trust, Was A Bridge, Between Us
Used To Stand-Up To Raging Gusts!
We Could Cross Over To Either Side
Hold Onto The Girders … And Stride
Trust, Was The Bridge, Between Us
Repairing It Now … Is A Bust!
So, Can This RelationShip, Sail To Both Shoals
Build A New Bridge, With A Higher Toll?
… Trust … Is A Bridge, Between Us
Guard It Well … This Time, Is A Must …
poem by MoonBee Canady
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Bleak Midwinter
In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind may blow
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long, long ago
What can I give him?
Poor as I am
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb
If I were a wise man
I would do my part
Yet what I can, I give him
Give my heart
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long, long ago
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Receive The Promise
To cross the threshold,
Follow the straight paths made for your feet;
So that the lame may not be turned out of the way!
But rather be healed with my true love and care.
Do not cast away your confidence on my love,
For it has a great recompence of reward;
But you have the need of endurance so that,
You may receive the promise as prepared for you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The guardian of the flames
Always there have been
something holy to me,
about flames
that comes alive suddenly.
It’s a great thing
to see flames spread
and to see yellow licking tongs,
consume wood
and to get heat, energy
and comfort from it.
At a time human existence
surely depended on
keeping the secret
of flames
and to make sure,
that the last glowing coals
do not die.
When I was a child,
my brother and me
almost burnt a hillock
and some residences down
by misadventure.
The more I tried to kill
the small fire,
that I started in the long brown winter grass,
the more the fire spread.
It’s a fact that my behind
also burnt on that occasion
from a hiding
with a old fan belt
and I learned quickly,
what the power of fire is
and how to act responsibly with matches.
Tonight I am the guardian of the flames
at the fireplace in the lounge
and I take care of the hot coals
and have to put wood on
before the fire dies.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Retreat
One step more and another.
The next step follows fast.
Don't look behind - the bridge crumbles.
Once started, how can I go back?
I've turned just a fraction to try it.
There's flames and strong wind and I'm scared.
I see your dear eyes in a twinkling.
There's no twinkle in them I fear.
I'd ask you for help in retreating.
I know how strong and assured you can be.
You face this departure with feeling.
But none of those feelings for me.
I'd lament with your strong mind for assurance.
Why this path? I have faltering feet.
I forget it was you - set me on it.
It's from you that I turn in defeat.
poem by Meli Secret
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For me, the first fact of human existence is the human body. But if you embrace the reality of the human body, you embrace mortality, and that is a very difficult thing for anything to do because the self-conscious mind cannot imagine non-existence. It's impossible to do.
quote by David Cronenberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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