Haunting Thoreau
He was burly, thick of thigh,
And could construct
Meeeting costcutting demands.
More, he could write like the devil,
Accounting the country.
And he had a Pond.
But I have a shack
And a rivulet fresh,
Only lemongrass extract
-(I smell like a grove) -
Deer are out there, and one bear
At least.
I have my music playing on Mp3.
Ravel: how did he come up with that?
Still Thoreau haunts the woods to the south.
Maybe all the woods of the world.
He can write evenly and quickly.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Related quotes
Lost In The Music
the music you write
makes my mind soar
the music you write
makes me want to dance
the music you write
is like a lullaby
the music you write
makes my heart jump
the music you write
makes me want to hear it again
the music you write
is like a shooting star
the music you write
makes me fall in love with you
the music you write
is like a shower in a drought
the music you write
is like a dream that i don't want to wake up from
i get lost in the music you write
poem by Brittney Crozier
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Why I Write?
I write poems for myself and I write for the readers
I write for the masses and I write for the leaders
I write to imprint my thoughts in people's mind
I write to make the bad guys helpful and kind
I write to light up our path to Great God
I write for everyone home and abroad
I write to preserve values new and old
I write to make my ink precious like gold
I write for peace and I write for progress
I write to make the world a better place
All major issues I want to address
I write to see smile on God's face
poem by Asif Andalib
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Johnny B. Good
(words & music by chuck berry)
Deep down in louisiana close to new orleans
Way back up in the woods among the evergreens
Stood a log cabin made of earth and wood
Where lived a country boy named johnny b. good
Who never learned to read or write at all
But he could play the guitar just like ringing a bell
Go, go, go johnny go, go, go johnny, go go
Go johnny go, go, go johnny go go
Johnny b. good
His mama told him "someday you will be a man
And you will be the leader of a big band
Many people coming from miles around
To hear your playing music when the sun goes down
Maybe someday you will be in lights saying johnny b. good
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Green Woods Of Truagh
In the green woods of Truagh we met without fear,
Your kiss on my lips, and your voice in my ear,
Your tender arms about me, and your eyes glad and clear–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the days go on wings,
On every brown branch a gladsome bird sings
And the fragrant amber blossom of the honey-suckle swings–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the bracken stands high,
And wells of spring-water in deep hollows lie,
And the red deer is browsing in the cool shadows nigh–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh no sorrow dared stay,
The lark called me early at dawn o' the day,
And o'er my sleep at night pleasant dreams used to play–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh you wait till I come–
I left home and you for the stranger's far home,
To bring a hoard of yellow gold across the grey foam–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–if God hears my prayer–
I shall reach you, O true love, my empty hands there,
For little of the yellow gold has fallen to my share–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–your heart on my own,
And your bright hair in ringlets across my cheek blown
Now where in all the wide, wide world, could greater bliss be known?
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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The Woods
My sorrow lives in the woods.
I cannot complain to anyone.
I must bear it to the woods
in the deepest loneliness.
If ever in future times
someone comes for that reason
he can find in the woods
the shy sorrow of my heart.
When he sees far off in the woods,
alone and quiet,
the deepest shadows lying,
that is my somber sorrow
poem by James Comerford
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I Write The Songs
Ive been alive forever,
And I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together,
I am music,
And I write the songs.
I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special thing s.
I write the songs that make the young girls cry.
I write the songs, I write the songs.
My home lies deep within you,
And Ive got my own place in your sole.
Now, when I look out through your eyes,
Im youg again, even though Im very old.
Chorus
Oh my music makes you dance
And gives your spirit to take a chance,
And I wrote some rock n roll so you can move.
Music fills your heart,
Well, thats a real fine place to start.
Its from me its for you,
Its from you, its from me,
Its a world wide symphony.
Chorus
I am music, and I write the songs.
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Music
And the weddings bursted out,
And the send-offs - howled.
The holidays and woes - got entangled...
And the music staves stand as a barbed wire.
I would like to write a music in the other way,
I would like to write a music,
Falling onto the clover down.
I think, I would be fond of this singing work.
I would like to write a music
On the earth furrows,
On the palm of the one-year baby.
I would sleep and then rise up.
And wouldn't eat to satiety.
I would like to dissolve in some sudden motives
I would like to write a music
On the rain spurls,
Or - better - on the flying gossamers.
I would like to write a music
In the tender lakes.
I would like to drink it,
As an intoxicating liquor.
I would like to write a music
On the wings of a swallow.
I would like to write a music
On a zebra's skin.
I would like to create the music,
To cry, to get torture!
I would like to search it,
Elevatedly and greedily...
But such music is created already.
And if you don't hear - that's a pity...
poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Sunset In the Winter
The crisp smell of the woods is beautiful when it comes to winter. Snow across the the woods sitting there fresh and clean. when it comes to sunsets you know what i am talking about, a sunset in the winter is far more beautiful the in the spring, because in the winter you have some time to sit there and think. You are just there to see how beautiful a sunset is in the winter, My, my the beautiful things. When you hear the animals whistling in the woods you know what its like to see and feel a sunset in the winter.
poem by Rosanna Florio
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Cedric's Message.
Cedric approached you
in the playground and said
My sister Christina
wants to see you
on the playing field lunchtime
and he said it
in a quiet voice
as if he didn't want
the other boys to hear
he ran messages for girls
and off he went
to play with some other boys
leaving you to stare out
onto the empty playing field
and so lunch time
after you'd eaten dinner
you went onto the playing field
beneath the summer sun
and there she was
over by the wire fence
waiting for you
and you said
Cedric said you wanted to see me
and she said
Yes do you mind
if we walk off alone together
I don't want other's ears
to move in on our conversation
No sure
you said
Let's go over by the woods
by the far fence
and so you walked off with her
across the playing field
by other kids who were playing
football or sitting talking
or playing skip rope
or whatever
and when you came
to the woods
you sat down with her
and she said
You do love me
don't you?
I mean you're not
seeing anyone else?
You looked across
the playing field
to where you'd sat
with another
some months before
and she had asked
the same question
but since then
it had turned
momentarily sour
Yes and no
you said
looking back at her
taking in her dark hair
and deep eyes
and how her hand
lay on her thigh
covered by grey skirt
and her naked knees
just visible
to the eye
What do you mean
yes and no?
she asked
you watched
her lips move
and replied
Yes I love you
and no I'm not
seeing another
and she smiled at you
and put her hand on yours
and waited for a kiss
and so you did
her lips on yours
out by the woods
on that summer day
out of doors.
poem by Terry Collett
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The culture demands writers?
What for do you write?
For an applause.
What from do you write?
From borrowings.
Why should you write?
To get pleasure in catharsis.
Why do you chose writing>
Most suited to an idler.
Do you write to cure the society?
No.
Do you write to save the society?
No.
Then, why?
Writings to people
Are cosmetics to women.
The culture demands them
16.05.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Johnny B. Goode
Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans
Way back up in the woods among the evergreens
Stood a log cabin made of earth and wood
Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Good
Who never learned to read or write at all
But he could play the guitar just like ringing a bell
Go, go, go Johnny go, go, go Johnny, go go
Go Johnny go, go, go Johnny go go
Johnny B. Good
His mama told him "someday you will be a man
And you will be the leader of a big band
Many people coming from miles around
To hear your playing music when the sun goes down
Maybe someday you will be in lights saying Johnny B. Good
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Questions
Write me what you're wearing! Is it warm?
Write me how you lie! Do you lie there softly?
Write me how you look! Is it still the same?
Write me what you're missing! Is it my arm?
Write me how you are! Have you been spared?
Write me what they're doing! Do you have enough courage?
Write me what you're doing! Is it good?
Write me, who are you thinking of? Is it me?
Freely, I've given you only my questions.
And I hear the answers, how they fall.
When you're tired, I can't carry it for you.
If you're hungry, I have nothing for you to eat.
And so now I leave the world
No longer there, as if I've forgotten you.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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I Write And Write And Write And Write
I WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE
I write and write and write and write
I write and write and write and write
I write.
And all this writing and all these words and all I am
Forever unheard.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What I want to write
What I want to write
I could not write.
I could not write
Tiger tiger cat cat
And the difference they behaved.
I could not write
The sky and its fall
On our forehead.
What I want to write
I could not write.
I write how I loved
How flower blosom
How fruit ripe
How stream flow.
I could not know
How I write
And I write
What I want to write
I could not write.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer. But if he spends his days as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is deemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.
quote by Henry David Thoreau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Write Me
Aerosmith
Write Me
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
I said, the ways of the night are evil with eyes that love the day,
but I'll never never never never never get so far away.
I said write me, write me, write me.
I said write me, write me, write me.
Well there's nothin' I can see that'd ever make
me want to be without her she's good, she's good to me.
Said there's no way to explain the kind of feeling
that you get out in the rain she's good, she's good to me.
See this emptiness inside it makes me scream
it make me crawl out of my high, she's good, she's good to me.
I love her.
Write me a letter, write me a letter, write it today, I'm goin' away.
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
Well I've been so many places hidin' from the wind and the rain,
But you could write me a letter for to save me from a goin' insane.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Don't write me baby.
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Write
Write, keep writing lot
Write, write before you forget
Write, make it as reminder
Write, write before words disappear
Write, for you to contemplate
Write, write before your mind changed
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Writers Are Born Not Made
Ocean is dry
And fount not secreting
Wind still rove the dry land
In its usual way
I want to write
Everything in me want to write
Even though ocean is dry
And fog too thick i can't see remote place
I must write
I must make thess two lovers
Starring at each otherexpressionlessly
Make love to yield readables
Writers are born not made
Writers write and write
When ocean overflow its limit
When ocean overdry that feet could
Navigate the way of ships
Writers write and write
For is in them to write.
poem by Alade Abayomi IdrisWhite
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Johnny B. Goode
way down louisiana close to new orleans, way back up in the woods among the evergreens... there stood a log cabin made of earth and wood, where lived a country boy name of johnny b. goode... he never ever learned to read or write so well, but he could play the guitar like ringing a bell. go go go johnny go go go johnny b. goode. he use to carry his guitar in a gunny sack and sit beneath the trees by the railroad track. oh, the engineers used to see him sitting in the shade, playing to the rhythm that the drivers made. people passing by would stop and say oh my that little country boy could play his mama told him someday he would be a man, and he would be the leader of a big old band. many people coming from miles around to hear him play his music when the sun go down maybe someday his name would be in lights saying johnny b. goode tonight.
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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