Root Cellar
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!—
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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Related quotes
Wrong Number
Lime green lime green and tangerine
Are the sickly sweet colours of the snakes im seeing
Lime green and tangerine
Are the sickly sweet colours of the devil in my dreams
Lime green lime green and tangerine
Are the sickly sweet colours of the snakes im seeing
Lime green and tangerine
Are the sickly sweet colours of the devil in my dreams
It gets to friday and i give you a call
"you know im getting kind of worried
No she doesnt seem herself at all...
Lime green and a sickly kind of orange
I've never seen her like this before..."
I had the best laid plans this side of america
Started out in church and finished with angelica
Red and blue soul with a snow white smile
"can you dig it?"
I had the best laid plans this side of america
Started out in church and finished with angelica
And now i dig in the dirt
And i'm down here for a while...
You've got to make up your mind and make it soon
Is there room in your life
For one more trip to the moon?
Is there room in your life
For one more?
Burn red burn red red and gold
Are the deep dark colours of the snakes i hold
Burn red burn red and gold
Are the deep dark colours of the devil at home
"she pulls me down just as i'm trying to hide
Grabs me by the hair and drags me outside
And starts digging in the dirt...
For a not so early bird it's the only way
For her to get the worm..."
I had the best laid plans this side of america
Started out in church and finished with angelica
Red and blue soul with a snow white smile
"can you dig it?"
I had the best laid plans this side of america
Started out in church and finished with angelica
Red and blue soul with a snow white smile
"can you dig it?"
And now i dig in the dirt
And i'll be down here for a while...
"hello? are you still there?"
"hello? are you still there?"
...and much too late...
"sorry, wrong number
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lime and lime without manure makes the farmer rich and the son poor.
What She Said
She said: Would I might sleep
With the bulbs I plant so deep,
Forgetting all the long Winter
That I must awake and weep.
A dreamless sleepy-head,
Forgetting my Dear was dead;
Nothing caring nor knowing
While the dark season sped.
I am so young, so young,
And the years stretch out so long,
The weeks and the months so endless;
The long life does me wrong.
I would grow old and grey,
As though 'twere only a day,
Till his voice came calling, calling
To me under the clay.
Then I should spring to the sun,
Life done with, Life begun,
And run where he waited to lift me
Over the threshold stone.
She sighed in the Autumn weather: --
Would I and the bulbs together,
For Spring lay quietly waiting;
I and the bulbs together.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Key Lime Pie
Ocean breeze, tire swing
Coconut fall if you shake that thing
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Not too tart, not too sweet
My baby loves to watch me eat
Her key lime pie
Her key lime pie
Tall green tree, yellow bird
Bikini bottom and a tie-dyed shirt
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Big white sail, red sunset
Lobster tail and don't forget
My, my, my - my key lime pie
A six string, ten shots
Of Cruzan rum, hey, I like it a lot
With my, my, my - my key lime pie
Tortola, a full moon
Shining down on a blue lagoon
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Not too tart, not too sweet
My baby loves to watch me eat
Her key lime pie
Her key lime pie
We got Ginger and Mary Ann
Cookin' up a real good tan
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Key lime pie, key lime pie
Key lime pie, my my my
My, my, my key lime pie
Key lime pie, key lime pie
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black Mamba
Hand in the snake pit - black mamba chase.
Head through the lions cage - head on a plate.
Two feet on the hot coals - last dance at the ball.
Blindfold on the tightrope - whenever you call.
Be my slippery slider, black mamba crawl over me.
Dark thoughts of the sleepless - hung out to dry.
Slip through the bedclothes - unblinking eye.
Long tongue flickering - fixed stare grip.
Sweet venomous potion, held to my lip.
Be my slippery slider, black mamba crwal over me.
A tropical whisper. a sibilant kiss.
Soft strike teasing. dangerous bliss.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evil Darkness
Slowly darkness decends as the sensible run and hide,
because with the dark comes the mist, like a dank chilling tide.
The moon shines weakly through the haze as though very afraid,
in the darkness of the night, a new terror will be concieved and made.
The mist moves slowly but for a moment and then is very still,
in the dim light stands a creature, tall and coldly evil.
No form does it have to touch or kill, no way to pull it down,
but ice cold power does it hold, and in your own terror you will drown.
Now one sensless fool puts aside his fear, he will face this evil foe,
this night he will stand his ground, but the out-come would not be so.
Drawn into this evil he was absorbed but for one dropp of blood,
for there upon the ground that night, a new evil grew from the mud.
Now a new evil has been concieved and together on dark nights will roam,
so when it's dark and dank outside.....be sure to stay at home!
poem by Ruth warren
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The Lime Tree
That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
poem by John Freeman
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Mother is the root
.
Mother is the root.
Children are the shoots.
Roots take care of the shoots.
Shoots have no care for roots.
They have other things to care.
Roots don’t bother. Can mother?
17.07.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hunting or Fishing?
Hunting or fishing – which is better?
That is what I am thinking about!
In business many hunt for customers;
Some men prefer casting net to catch fish!
Even for poets the position is the same
In poetry websites to catch readers!
Some lay wise traps to catch readers!
I use fishing rod with a needle and bait
To catch readers who can understand!
Whether the rank is high or low it is
Immaterial but the true comment is!
Hunting readers to comment and rank
Or fishing readers to comment and rank
Are not really going to enhance one’s status;
For, voluntary comments are indeed valuable!
Poets are jealous to appreciate others’ merit
But some poets raise the status of others!
So, letters to such poets increase sans end!
This is the status of poetry websites now!
So, it is left to you to hunt or fish or lay trap
As you wish to catch readers for rank, etc.!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Be With Those Who Help Your Being
Be with those who help your being.
Don't sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.
A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don't try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it's too late for all you could become.
Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?
Song Seven
Song Seven
you cant sit up
you fell too fast
you come at the right time
you come too fast
you bloom in spring
you move the sky
youve come in singing
you call me a liar
you were like a cloud
yes you are a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
you were like a flower
you were just like a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
dont give up (I owe you)
no dont give up
oh dont give up
dont give up (I owe you)
you were like a cloud
yes you were a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
you were like a cloud
you were just like a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
here I feel I wish I could just see it
the love the hate the things that separate
forcing conscious to conscious every small attack
it takes a small man to notice but not to act up
confrontation complication needs a foundation
I'm calm baby, I'm calm
you were like a cloud
yes you are a flower you move i love life is all we need
then you were a lime
now our love is so sour you move i love life is all we need
so sour
so sour
dont give up
no dont give up
oh dont give up
no dont give up
start again butterfly
start again butterfly
start again butterfly
start again, start again dear
song performed by by Interpol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Window
All night long, by a distant bell,
The passing hours were notched
On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell,
And the spark of life I watched
In her face was glowing or fading, -- who could tell? --
And the open window of the room,
With a flare of yellow light,
Was peering out into the gloom,
Like an eye that searched the night.
Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do you fear?
"I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear:
Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in the night-wind's breath,
And low in the leafy laurels the larking shadow of death."
Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird
Told of the passing away
Of the dark, -- and my darling may have heard;
For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray
Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word,
Till the splendor born in the east outburned
The yellow lamplight, pale and thin,
And the open window slowly turned
To the eye of the morning, looking in.
Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes you so bright?
"I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and white,
With the rose of life on her tips, and the breath of life in her breast,
And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes her rest."
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Ah Sweet Breath of Life
Ah sweet breath of life
I take for granted you'll always be
inhaling and exhaling,
giving life to me.
I can't remember my first breath.
It was so long ago.
Rapid little heart beats
making my life flow,
Never thinking of my breath
while taking on some years
my breathing did slow itself
as my body changed its gears.
Little things like hiccups
made me more aware
of how my breath took a pause
in its need of air.
Now that I am older
I slow my breathing down,
never rushing as I move,
never rushing 'round.
But breathing we cannot control
and yet we are aware
it's our one connection to this life.
one that we all share.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Yet
Hang him from a tree he hasn't hung from yet.
Fling him off a bridge no one's been flung from yet.
Send succor, in whatever dark disguise:
a hornet's nest he's not gone running, stung, from yet.
Early fall, and not one branch the wind
has not stripped every leaf that clung from yet.
Recess. Winter. Second or third grade.
A frozen pipe he hasn't freed his tongue from yet.
The drought seems endless. Spring. No dropp of rain.
Just parched soil no shoot has sprung from yet.
Find it in some corner of the workshop,
some damp rag no last dropp has been wrung from yet?
Probe the dank recesses of the cellar-
not one cask he hasn't yanked the bung from yet.
He'd have it be a tower, not a steeple-
the height in him no bell has rung from yet.
Not by wit or rhetoric alone
will Eric find a voice he hasn't sung from yet.
poem by Eric Torgersen
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Money Money Money Can't Buy
Years of toil sweat and struggle
Looking for gold in all that rubble,
Now Jock and I struck it rich
In the middle of a no where ditch.
Now it's all safe in the bank
An' put us up a little in life's rank,
Being so perplexed I sent to Jock a text,
"Now what on earth are we going to look for next? "
NB Money does not bring happiness,
but you can buy a yacht and moor next to it.
Then sail away to find another no where ditch,
But it's in the bottom of your head, which
If you listen it's your happiness shouting
WAITING ONLY TO BE LET OUT!
poem by Ken e Hall
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A New leaf
There’s a new leaf upon the Tree
A thousand, thousand have been before
In the life of this great tree
Yet, the Tree rejoices, and is glad
For there is a New Leaf upon the tree
The roots are deep, and hidden
Tis one tree from root to branch
And lives in and through each leaf
The hearts’ smile resurrected
Through the New leaf upon the tree
Like the stars of heaven
New leaves have been many
And so they all are One
For they all share the same root
Bless the New leaf upon the tree
Perfection in the Blessing
Joy released in tears of love
The strength in life will comfort
From root to God above
A New leaf upon the tree
Beauty, Truth, and life
Complete from root to branch
When life’s cycle turns
Leaves fall to nourish roots
And behold, a New leaf upon the tree
poem by Adrian Wait
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My Red Dirt World
Did you ever see a red dirt road
With a red dirt pond ‘long side?
Brilliant yellow sunflowers
In the grass where burrs might hide?
Oil wells thriving endlessly
White gobs from a cotton patch
Bolls in the patch ready to burst
Sweet blooms like a bird that hatched
All my red dirt rides in the country
Are laced with these wondrous things
They sum up the life I’ve lived so far
Kinda tug at my worn heart strings
Ah yes, such red dirt memories
As I wonder through life’s plan
But I do my best along the way
For I’m just a red dirt man!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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The Yellow Ribbon On The Old Oak Tree
who can forget the yellow ribbon
on that old oak tree? tell me.
tomorrow, i shall wear my yellow cap
my yellow shirt, my yellow brief,
my yellow pants.
my jaundiced eye, my golden yellow ring.
tomorrow, in my country, the sky is yellow.
all steps lead to the yellow brick road.
all fruits are ripe and mellow and yellow.
Tomorrow, the country is yellow.
Yellow for integrity, Yellow for change.
Yellow for justice. Yellow for truth.
One day more, and the sun shall rise
Yellow as ever.Yellow forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Breath Life Into Me
Your breathing life to me.
Don't you see its exactly who I wanted to be.
A world so small and I'm on top of it all.
To the fullest here it comes.
Your breathing life into me.
Don't you see its exactly who I want to be.
Angel of my nightmares.
Destroying all the despair.
Happiness is in the air.
Weather the storm.
Riding in my rust bucket of a ship.
When it sinks, can I swim?
I was on the brink but now.
Your breathing life into me.
Don't you see its exactly who I want be.
The truth has traveled so far.
Page tattered and torn.
With wisdom so worn.
Breath life into please oh oh oh please.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Journey Of A Poem Compared To All The Sad Variety Of Travel
A poem moves forward,
Like the passages and percussions of trains in progress
A pattern of recurrence, a hammer of repetetiveoccurrence
a slow less and less heard
low thunder under all passengers
Steel sounds tripping and tripled and
Grinding, revolving, gripping, turning, and returning
as the flung carpet of the wide countryside spreads out on
each side in billows
And in isolation, rolled out, white house, red barn, squat silo,
Pasture, hill, meadow and woodland pasture
And the striped poles step fast past the train windows
Second after second takes snapshots, clicking,
Into the dangled boxes of glinting windows
Snapshots and selections, rejections, at angles, of shadows
A small town: a shop's sign - GARAGE, and then white gates
Where waiting cars wait with the unrest of trembling
Breathing hard and idling, until the slow~descent
Of the red cones of sunset: a dead march: a slow tread and heavy
Of the slowed horses of Apollo
- Until the slowed horses of Apollo go over the horizon
And all things are parked, slowly or willingly,
into the customary or at random places.
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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