Something Nicer
In the Salt River Canyon
Right on the white bridge,
Photogenic,
You stood, both knees exposed-
I clicked and clicked.
The off-white salt pillars
Could be photographed all day;
And a myriad of stars all night.
One can see the richness in the lore exposed there: rock and tree.
I envy those who first came here,
Centuries ago with no cameras
To capture the glory,
Only tongues to tell the tales.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Related quotes
Orbital Inertia
Inside a capsule of brilliant words
and silent laughter
gliding with the stars
Pulling out objects to
examine and angle a narrative
like describing the moon
I put my ear next
to your explicatives
and heard the drum
your heart
And sorted through
peices of your wit that
clicked together like
loose diamonds in my hand
I knew how close
one could get to another
without ever touching
Because when you said
'I would have liked to meet you on Earth'
I smelled soap and salt
poem by Tara Crown
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The Tiber River
The traffic ran one way
Down the old main drag
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The traffic ran one way
Down the old main drag
And I gazed at the ruins all scattered ‘round
And there were boards on the windows
Of the musty old houses
And they were ruins, all scattered ‘round
The wind was a-blowing
It was late September
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The window was a-howling
It was late September
And I gazed at the leaves on the soft, dirty ground
And I cursed on each one
That jumped down off each tree
There were ruins all scattered ‘round
The waves were rolling
If I remember
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The waves they were rolling
If I remember
And the river’s waters ran ragged and brown
The salt of the ocean
Was in my cuts and my bruises
There were ruins all scattered ‘round
I allow I’ll come back
Sometime in summer
Just to stand on the bridge of the Tiber River
I allow I’ll come back
Some day, and some summer
If I make enough money in town
And I’ll lay down and die
On the soft, dirty ground
With the rest of the ruined old things scattered ‘round
poem by Patrick O'Reilly
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Salt is Sweet
Its dessert of salt
Rains mostly in night
And rarely in light
Has day and night
Color is black and white
Black resembles night
White resembles light
But its heart is black
So pours mostly in night
Whenever heart is tight
It pours all the night
Until heart sees light
Its rain is always salty
So it is very colorful
And makes life cheerful
It makes heart light
From night to light
With its salty rain
Its salt is very tasty
So drink it with heart
It makes heart strong
And makes life sweep
All past-reaped grief
With its flowing tears
Tears salt is sweet
poem by Kranthi Pothineni
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The Beauty Of The Sky
Beauty of the sky, is the richness of the blue.
Deepness of the sky, is the richness of the red.
Darkness of the sky, is the richness of the black.
Freshness of the sky, is the richness of the rain.
Glimpses of the sky, is the richness of the stars.
Smile of the sky, is the richness of the moon.
Sparks of the sky, is the richness of the lighting.
Beauty of the sky, is the richness of the clouds...
poem by Manzoor ilahi
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Magellanic Penguin
Neither clown nor child nor black
nor white but verticle
and a questioning innocence
dressed in night and snow:
The mother smiles at the sailor,
the fisherman at the astronaunt,
but the child child does not smile
when he looks at the bird child,
and from the disorderly ocean
the immaculate passenger
emerges in snowy mourning.
I was without doubt the child bird
there in the cold archipelagoes
when it looked at me with its eyes,
with its ancient ocean eyes:
it had neither arms nor wings
but hard little oars
on its sides:
it was as old as the salt;
the age of moving water,
and it looked at me from its age:
since then I know I do not exist;
I am a worm in the sand.
the reasons for my respect
remained in the sand:
the religious bird
did not need to fly,
did not need to sing,
and through its form was visible
its wild soul bled salt:
as if a vein from the bitter sea
had been broken.
Penguin, static traveler,
deliberate priest of the cold,
I salute your vertical salt
and envy your plumed pride.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Black Satin
There, in the distance, oh so far,
We saw a big black cat,
I said it was a jaguar,
Some disagreed with that...
No, that's a leopard, there's no doubt!
No, it's a panther, mate!
And while we tried to sort it out,
We all agreed, it's great...
The cat moved closer, closer still...
We got a better look...
My word, it was a wondrous thrill,
As each checked his own book...
Comparing photos for a while,
We all became engrossed...
Contrasting size, head, profile,
I pipped them at the post...
The jaguar was yards away
And we, our cameras clicked,
Then suddenly, we'd cause to pray,
As his black lips he licked!
Our cameras flew up in the air!
Who knows if each survives?
You see, we left them, lying there,
As we ran for our lives!
poem by Denis Martindale (February 2012)
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In The Darkness
Your nakedness is now exposed to us,
Because of what you did last night;
But it is very common around us and,
It is seen everywhere!
And your desire is like the mind of the masses,
But the wind came in and in the darkness you were exposed!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Don't Look Back! Don't Look Back!
the instructions are clear
like white silk on my skin
but what if i really have to
look back to pain and feel
it the way she felt it with
my own incorrigibilities
what i i really looked back
will i turn into salt like the
way Lot's wife disobeyed
the orders from heaven?
and what if i turn into salt?
do i have the sighs of the water?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Veneta Marina
The masts rise white to the stars,
White on the night of the sky,
Out of the water's night,
And the stars lean down to them white.
Ah! how the stars seem nigh;
How far away are the stars!
And I too under the stars,
Alone with the night again,
And the water's monotone;
I and the night alone,
And the world and the ways of men
Farther from me than the stars.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Tast malt
Salt is
more in food
Asalt the food...
Salt is
Low in food
Tung out...!
Salt is salt
Tasty malt...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Ode to Salt
This salt
in the salt cellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
v oice,
a mournful
song.
In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste finitude.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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The Last Waterfall
Here I am
paddling down this creek
which has turned into a river
now massively deep
Seeing the landscape, pass me by
through this river of white
I can't help, exhaling a sigh
in watching this beauty by night
My soul has left my bleeding knees
and now is dancing around the trees
For I am rapidly descending
down a mountain so tall
the river is now extending
leading to the last waterfall.
Charlie Vergara
07.10.2009
1376
poem by White Tiger
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On The Move
The elephant was on the move,
Vivaciously, of course,
As if he had something to prove,
A legend to enforce.
With ears as big as suitcases
And tusks like scimitars,
He looked fierce at all those faces
That stared from jeeps and cars.
The tourists on safari
Could scarce believe their eyes...
This giant was a sight to see...
So ancient and so wise...
Their cameras clicked and clicked again,
As if a strategem,
To overcome their fears right then,
As he looked down on them.
A sudden move and he would charge,
Unchanged, untamed, born wild.
A raging bull, unleashed, at large -
He cared not if they smiled...
He was no dog that they could pet,
No gentle pussycat...
For he could make a cool man sweat
And make a brave man scat!
I've seen him run and then gain speed,
I've felt the trembling earth
And though you may think I'm a weed,
I ran for all I'm worth!
I left my camera somewhere...
It fell upon the ground...
God heard me pray the fastest prayer
Or I'd be Heaven-bound!
I've kept my distance from that day
And that's the Gospel Truth!
Keep out of the elephant's way,
Each time he's on the move!
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'On The Move'.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Tall Trees
Watch out big ships are waiting
Salt frozen on your cheek
I saw a girl and boy arriving
And a steamer put out to sea
Tall tree
Stand in the distance
Remember
When you were green
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
You must keep running the distance
Sun sleeps on misty morning
Light years from channel three
I feel halfway to zero
Call me a hero I might just agree
Tall tree
Stand in the distance
Remember
When you were green
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
You must keep running the distance
And the roses you grow
Have a powerful scent
Theyll be breaking your heart
By the morning
I feel halway to zero
Call me a hero I might just agree
Tall tree
Stand in the distance
Remember
When you were green
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
Tall tree
Tall tree
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
You must keep running the distance
Tall tree
song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aurora Borealis
A crystallization of color spreads from the upper regions of the dark sky towards the trembling nipples of the waves. The feathering fringes of clouds fade behind pillars of green light. Transparent curtains tremble every-where. In the arctic temple, the hidden Samson of light shakes the moon-green pillars of the night.
Color these crystals with sudden blood; it is dawn, or else the last consumptive saliva of the dying day. Heartless hard light!
In the crisp light of the frozen tinkling stars, no waters flow. The ice-stars are icebergs in this black ocean. When the green glass cathedrals crash, the light and the pillars of light and the green pillars of moon-green crystallized light are reflected through space and finally settle like sharp blades above the trembling nipples of the waves.
Samson moves in the glass cathedrals. Samson and the bull and Samson and the sun and the sun is the bull and Samson is the sun and is the bull.
Let crackling twigs of green-white light weave fantastic tree-patterns on the mirror of the sea. Let the deceptive sky celebrate the fall of its ice-cathedrals and its icebergs and its ice-stars when darkness hardens the black waters into the sullen black ice-pack of night.
Red Samson the arctic red sun is moving in the groves of green pillars. There is the red tinge of consumptive blood flickering behind the moon-green glass pillars of light. Blood of red Samson, red blood of Samson, the red thief is sprinkling blood on the slanting pillars of the falling sanctuary of light that is doomed to succumb soon to the black ice-pack of night. Then there will be night and, suddenly thrust into dark night, the red sex of the Samson-sun must later rise out of eastern whiteness and destroy the night.
Then the pillars of the black shattered temple of night glow with a white light and a red light of consumptive blood, but again later comes night then again the same Samson as the temples crash each time when the red thief scatters blood on the pillars of the light or the pillars of the night. And the thief is Samson and the red sun is Samson and Samson is the thief and Samson is the sun.
poem by Edouard Roditi
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Random
it was pure random
when i married
you, i thought it
was not true
it was like i was
sleeping and then
i woke up and there
i found myself beside
you and the cameras
clicked and then
we were proclaimed
as married by the
clapping of their
hands and the
clinking of their
wine glasses
pure random
i thought it was
wrong
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Daddy The Kern River And Me
When I was just a little girl
My daddy said it's time
To show you where I go to think
on a favorite river of mine.
But first you have to promise me
that no one else will know
Where this secret place is
Where nobody else goes.
We stood upon a rock that lies
just over the roaring white waters.
That's so very hard to get to and
that's why no others bother.
The river, called The Kern River has
always been our favorite spot
To go and think, and enjoy the peace
And we went there quite alot.
Some day I hope to go back to the
river where daddy took me.
And stand upon that same old rock
and dream of how things use to be.
The Kern River holds a memory of
the first man I ever loved.
And now I've found another man that
I am sure was sent from above.
I LOVE YOU DADDY
poem by Dianna Nally
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With A Roaring Sound Waves Crash
With a roaring sound waves crash
under Waenhuiskrans,
and they cave there
when gigantic tongues of spray
like white stars break mightily
drenching everything with deep water
like white stars,
like white stars
just before the red dawn comes.
With a roaring sound waves crash
deep out of the dark sea,
like a pack of hungry wolves
that does not give up territory
the water keeps hammering
where it knocks against hard rock,
the water keeps hammering.
the water keeps hammering
until it flows through the cave itself.
With a roaring sound waves crash,
hit battering blows
with endless power
into the folds of the rock
and caught you and I stand
where we see a spectacle
and caught
and caught
mightily the sea sweeps past.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Missing Couple
Beginning unknown:
Still the canoe floated
The calluses paddled.
Sunny days and moonless nights
I have watched them floating
On the river meandering.
The canoe rose and fell
On the wavelets ten thousand times
During the springs.
Black the hairs were;
Many winters passed;
Now snow white being exposed.
Narrow escapes
From the maelstroms unexpected,
And forward floated.
A long voyage; two together;
Funeral feast smells;
They drink to the lees.
A long missing; I think I see them again
Rest under the holy banyan tree;
Empty canoe tied to the tree.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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The House
Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.
What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.
Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.
poem by Richard Wilbur (1921)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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