Waxen Figures
Greasy normally solid of form
wax cold wax grey still lifeless.
Grey lifeless dead wax
though strangely sentient.
Waxen figures grouped
on mirror window’s ledge.
Light is dim flickering
in mesmerizing flame
voices husky superimposed
over crackle creaking rain.
Semi-transparent grey ghosts
undulating by light of candle flame.
Wax cold wax grey still lifeless
cold wax warm wax blistering hot
a burning nova in cosmic creation.
Wick like a vein the soul within you.
Waxen figures my hand shaped and fed
devoid of life where is inherent meaning.
Strike a match instantaneous in friction ignite
how can match give, this sharp golden light?
Breathe life into figures
figures move transformed,
to a crisp white frost through
radiant warmth of an inner sun.
My nostrils quiver, a smell
obscure but heavy hangs in air.
Beyond comprehension untouchable
like smoke it spews forth
a continuous gently wavering stream
so faint it is barely there.
Is this the smell of creation?
Creation on a lesser scale
creation none the less.
Glorious in its wonder.
Independent of me from birth
figures walk through dimensions
beyond existence,
still I catch a glimpse
of multiplied universal wonder
figures glide serenely through.
Seen and unseen by me.
So many different worlds
so many different signs
on elastic edge of understanding
play before my plasmatic mind.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Fascinating Figures In A Flickering Candle Light
The candle flickering
throws fascinating figures
to dance across the walls.
Silhouettes that move
in opulent rhythms,
which are hidden, from our ears.
Fascinating figures that capture
all our imagination can see,
dancing on a faint breeze
that wafts the candle flame
in jubilant games
into the darkened night.
We sit mesmerized by it all
as the silhouettes dance
and sway across the walls,
brought to life by
the flickering candle light.
poem by David Harris
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In the depths of the mirror the evening landscape moved by, the mirror and the reflected figures like motion pictures superimposed one on the other. The figures and the background were unrelated, and yet the figures, transparent and intangible, and the background, dim in the gathering darkness, melted into a sort of symbolic world not of this world. Particularly when a light out in the mountains shone in the center of the girl's face, Shimamura felt his chest rise at the inexpressible beauty of it.
Yasunari Kawabata in Snow Country
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fof II
Old movie barely breathes, silver & grey.
Crying dew tears, steamy smoke.
Revealing absorbing true shapes
of grey bones
Wet tongue whisper under the lamp light.
Unintelligible figures.
Not much to see of.
poem by Luca Menin
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Hymn To Eros
O Eros, silently smiling one, hear me.
Let the shadow of thy wings
brush me.
Let thy presence
enfold me, as if darkness
were swandown.
Let me see that darkness
lamp in hand,
this country become
the other country
sacred to desire.
Drowsy god,
slow the wheels of my thought
so that I listen only
to the snowfall hush of
thy circling.
Close my beloved with me
in the smoke ring of thy power,
that we way be, each to the other,
figures of flame,
figures of smoke,
figures of flesh
newly seen in the dusk.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Fog
Old movie morning...
The sun barely breathes, silver & grey colours.
Black & white grass heads, crying dew tears.
The land wakes with mugs of stemming smoke.
Revealing absorbing true shapes
Of tree grey morning bones
Wet tongue on my ears.
Whisper shadow from the lamp light.
Blind eyes draw, unintelligible figures.
Not much to see, on the walls' house.
Trapped in mimic cage.
The fog tricks silver and grey hats.
Of smoking breaths.
poem by Luca Menin
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Inevitable conclusion.
Grey figures moving in the mist
that rolls across the battlefield
Although long dead they still persist
and stubbornly refuse to yield
The can’t go back and won’t move on
perhaps convinced they’re still alive.
So they still wander woebegone
they’ve given all they had to give.
They still have hope although in vain.
That they will wake up from their dream
and be set free to live again.
To see once more the bright sun beam.
I wander with my pen in hand
I try to record how I feel
I do my best to understand.
I hear somehow their mute appeal.
On holiday in Flanders fields
I write my journal every day.
Each battlefield I visit yields
more ghostly figures in the grey
of swirling slowly fading mist.
Evaporating in the sun
I can do nothing to assist.
But if I could I would have done.
Almost a century has passed
since that great war to end all wars.
Still in the mists sad ghosts are massed.
But mankind has not changed his course.
He has evolved the means to kill
in greater numbers than before.
It seems that mankind lacks the will
to live in peace. He prefers war.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Figures Don't Lie (edited)
you must understand that what costs
us sleepless nights
and these ugly eye-bags are not
really the words, but the
numbers,
yes the numbers those digits
those symbols
they are the least common
denominators
and numbers are figures and figures
as you must have been briefed by the famous adage department
figures do not lie.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We Damn The Night
Blood on my pillow
Blood on my skin
Am I going mad
Or was this a dream?
There in the depth
The hollow souls wait
Voices surround me
Tempting my fate
Then out of nowhere
Figures in white
Guarding my soul in the fight
Refrn:
We are strong we're alive
We have faith in his might
We believe in the everlasting light
Anytime, anywhere we will always be there
We will fight for what's just and what's right
We damn the night
Out in the blackness
Shivering cold
Doubt takes on shape
Fear the unknown
Eyes of the fallen
Piercing their glance
Whispers of doom
Left without chance
Then out of nowhere
Figures in white
Shield my soul in the fight
Refrn
We damn the night .
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love in Twilight
There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips
Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom
Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships --
And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,
As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;
Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,
Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round
To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.
Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease,
And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast
Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,
Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.
I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.
I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.
Only the rustle of flames like a broken song
That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.
One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,
While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.
And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky
Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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You see, 30 years ago I didn't have near the audience I have now. My tapes on the cults have reached a circulation of 15 million. those are not my figures but the figures of the people who distribute them.
quote by Walter Martin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time And Space
Time and Space existed
Before the First Creation,
Before the First Cause,
And the First Consequence,
Of The Divine Thought,
At the Dark Night of Nothingness,
When only silences prevailed,
So these are not a Creation,
If not a creation then Creator,
The First and the Last,
The Innermost and the Outermost:
The Being that stretched
Beyond limits of the man-made
Figures and standards
Billions, trillions or zillions.
These are the two Facets
Of the same Thought,
Of The same Being: The Creator,
The First and the Last,
The Innermost and the Outermost,
The Final Reality of the Universe,
And the Reality beyond the Cosmos.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Grey World
Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.
Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.
Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Harlequin
Came the night a mist dissolved the trees
And in the broken light colours fly, fading by.
Pale and cold as figures fill the glade
Grey is the web they spin, on and on, and on and on.
Through the flame still summer lingers on
Though her pictures soon shatter.
All, always the same.
But there appears in the shades of dawning,
Though your eyes are dim,
All of the pieces in the sky.
There was once a harvest in this land.
Reap from the turquoise sky, harlequin, harlequin,
Dancing round, three children fill the glade,
Theirs was the laughter in the winding stream, and in between.
Close your door, the picture fades again
From the flames in the firelight.
All, always the same,
But there appears in the shades of dawning,
Though your eyes are dim,
All of the pieces in the sky.
All, all is not lost,
And light appears in the shades of dawning
When your eyes can see
Order the pieces, put them back, put them back.
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There's a challenge to playing these fantasy figures because they are fantasy figures. You have to enter into this sort of imaginative world of the writer.
quote by Ralph Fiennes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Escape of the Old Grey Squirrel
Old Grey Squirrel might have been
Almost anything -
Might have been a soldier, sailor,
Tinker, tailor
(Never a beggar-man, though, nor thief).
Might have been, perhaps, a king,
Or an Indian chief.
He remained a City clerk
Doubled on a great high stool,
Totting up, from dawn to dark,
Figures, figures, figures, figures,
Red ink, black ink, double rule,
Tot-tot-totting with his pen,
Up and down and round again -
Curious Old Grey Squirrel.
No one ever really knew
What he did at night,
In his room so near the roof,
Up those steep and narrow stairs.
Old Grey Squirrel wasn't quite
The same as other men.
What he said was always true;
He was like a little child
In a thousand things.
Something shy and delicate,
Cold and grave and undefiled,
Seemed to keep him quite aloof.
You could never call him lonely,
Though he lived with memory there.
When he knelt beside his bed
He had nothing much to say
But the simplest little prayer
Learned in childhood, long ago,
And he didn't know or care
Whether Calvinists might call it
Praying for the dead.
Father, mother, sister, brother -
Memories clear as evening bells;
Yes, the very sort of thing
All your clever little scribblers
Love to satirize and sting,
So let's talk of something else.
He collected stamps, you know,
Commonplace Old Squirrel.
Ah, but could you see him there,
When the day's grey work was done,
Poring over his new stamps
With that wise old air;
Looking up the curious places
In his tattered atlas, too
Lands of jungle and of sun,
Ivory tusks and dusky faces,
Whence his latest treasure flew
Like a tropic moth, he thought,
To flutter round his dying lamp. . . .
Visions are not bought and sold;
But, when the foreign mail came in
Bringing his employers news
Of copper, sulphide, zinc and tin
(And the red resultant gold),
Envelopes were thrown away,
So, of course, one clearly sees
He could pick, and he could choose,
Having, as he used to say,
'Very great advantages.'
Rarities could not be bought.
Bus fares don't leave much for spending
On a flight to Zipangu.
All the same, one never knew.
All things come to those who wait -
Isles of palm in rose and blue,
India, China and Peru,
And the Golden Gate.
So he'd turn his treasures over -
Mauve and crimson, buff and cream -
Every stamp an elfin window
Opening on a boy's lost dream.
'Curious, curious, that's Jamaica,
That's Hong Kong (the twopenny red),
I've no doubt they are well worth seeing,
Well worth seeing,' Old Squirrel said.
'Curious' - curious was his word -
Old Grey Squirrel remembered a day
Sitting alone in a whispering fir-wood
(This was in boyhood before they caught him)
Writing a story of far Cathay,
A tale that his friends would think absurd
But would make him famous when he was dead.
'Curious' - thinking of all those years,
All those dreams that had drifted away -
Once, he had thought - but the years had taught him,
Taught him better, and bowed his head.
'Curious' - memory clings and lingers -
Clings - the smell of the fir wood - clings . . .
Through his wrinkled ink-stained fingers,
'Curious, curious,' trickled the tears,
Curious Old Grey Squirrel.
No, you'd hardly call it weeping.
Old Grey Squirrel could not weep.
Head on arm, he might have been
Sleeping; but he did not know.
Most of us are sound asleep;
And, that Christmas Eve, it seems,
He awoke, at last, from dreams.
Gently, as a woman's hand
Something touched him on the brow,
And he woke, in that strange land -
Where he lives for ever now.
All things come to those who wait -
Palms against a deeper blue,
Far Cathay and Zipangu,
And the Golden Gate.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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People are so afraid of authority figures and doctors are authority figures.
quote by Martha Beck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grey Windows...
grey windows, grey buildings,
grey streets, grey skies...
grey figures staring,
grey deals are done!
manipulate gas prices,
manipulate food...
manipulate the economy,
manipulate the election.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
win the war,
never raise a gun,
bodies strewn everywhere!
money makes gods,
without conscience or morals.
human lives just tokens,
that buy trinkets for demons!
flag draped caskets,
the stink of money overwhelms.
while patriots dig graves,
for their mothers and sisters.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
pick a President,
who'll stand silent,
as birds of prey pick the bodies!
grey windows...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Figures Don't Lie...
you must understand that what costs
us sleepless nights
and these ugly eye-bugs are not
really the words, but the
numbers,
yes the numbers those digits
those symbols
they are the least common
denominators
and numbers are figures and figures
as you must have been brief by the famous adage
do not lie.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Figures.
Now year five,
Hundred and seventy five not alive.
This figure, we are told,
The 'dead' figure we are 'sold'.
Yes everyone an hero,
Every praise we bestow.
However there is another stat',
Continually an 'unknown' fact.
Hundreds wounded and maimed,
People and figures hardly named.
Too much an embarrassment,
The truth is 'inconvenient.'
Figures not revealed,
They remain concealed.
The true cost of the war,
And what it is for!
20/03/08
poem by Guy Lipmore
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Grey, Grey Sky
Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.
And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.
And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.
My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.
And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.
But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.
poem by Grace Hutton
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