Lovers Jump To Death From Burning Building
From late night collapse of limes
rum lovers leap to death in each others arms.
Upon the sill they lean resigned,
dead calm revolving in a yellow light.
Neither fright nor anger nor drunken joy
calls them to this moment but habit.
Each morning settles something and so
they resolve half asleep in the window to
disturb the air. With thickened tongues
they obediently fall bidden by fire
hidden in all alarms.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Wind And Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
poem by Robert Frost
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Bridal Song
O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtue's only tire,
The reaped harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day's outfacing face;
And all thy crowned flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.
poem by George Chapman
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oO-Morning Sun-Oo
The night's calm darkness,
Is washed away with the morning light,
The light strong enough to wake up a highness,
The Sun high in the sky.
The warmth, The light,
It's all here with the Morning Sun.
The joy, the sight,
It's here with the Morning Sun.
Then the sun settles over field and sheep,
The Moon following behind.
And when the Morning light has went to sleep,
The Night and the Moon have come.
Purification
high fever
your eyes losing sight
of some images
crisscrossing your
mind
you speak names
they hear
you mumble some
facts
they understand
you don't
you are on fire
you are burning
with so much heat
your hair
smells of burnt ashes
you are charred
almost to death
that is how the
feeling goes
on this purification
you wake up
the following morning
naked
and pure and very simple
you face
the window
and greets
some birds
singing on the
window sill
your eyes meet
and they chirp
seeing
the new you
you stretch
your arms
and close your eyes
this is the beginning
of your
happy moment
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bliss Remembered....
a rose
in a white porcelain vase
on top of
a glazed
wooden table
showered with
the early morning light
from the laced
window
while you were
still sleeping soundly
in bed
two yellow birds
chirp
on the sill
of the window
i am at
peace
beside you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Memories In Yellow
In August, she hung yellow curtains in the window
She danced and sang along to the radio
She flung paint across a canvas and
Laughed when the walls were splattered
And when she awoke in his arms
They were bathed in the yellow light from the window.
In August, she put yellow flowers on the table
She smiled at the fingered shadows they cast on the floor
She sketched them on every page of a notebook and
Drew them in the margins of her newspaper
And when she looked into the mirror
She saw yellow flowers reflected in the glass.
In August, a yellow cat lived in the alleyway
She scratched its ears until it purred
She took photographs of the sunlight on its fur and
Thought about beginnings and endings
And, in the dark of the night, lost in dreams,
She journeyed with the yellow cat to desert sands.
December comes
Curtains fall,
lovers leave.
Flowers fade,
mirrors crack.
Cats wander,
and deserts
become oceans.
poem by Frumious Bandersnatch
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Late night driven by
Late night
And i´m sitting here
Watching the dark road pass me by
Trough the car window, there´s him
And then there´s me
Late night
And i´m sitting here
Thinking about the random things that cross my mind
Next to me, there´s him
And then there´s me
Late night
Driving trough the loneliness of the night
Watching my life before my eyes
There´s him and
Then there´s me
Late night
And the radio is the only thing
We can possibly hear at this moment
There´s him and then there´s me
This silence is striking
Late night
Tried falling asleep
There´s him
There´s me
I wonder if he knows that
There is you.
poem by Nina gáspari
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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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The Keys of Morning
While at her bedroom window once,
Learning her task for school,
Little Louisa lonely sat
In the morning clear and cool,
She slanted her small bead-brown eyes
Across the empty street,
And saw Death softly watching her
In the sunshine pale and sweet.
His was a long lean sallow face;
He sat with half-shut eyes,
Like a old sailor in a ship
Becalmed 'neath tropic skies.
Beside him in the dust he had set
His staff and shady hat;
These, peeping small, Louisa saw
Quite clearly where she sat -
The thinness of his coal-black locks,
His hands so long and lean
They scarcely seemed to grasp at all
The keys that hung between:
Both were of gold, but one was small,
And with this last did he
Wag in the air, as if to say,
"Come hither, child, to me!"
Louisa laid her lesson book
On the cold window-sill;
And in the sleepy sunshine house
Went softly down, until
She stood in the half-opened door,
And peeped. But strange to say
Where Death just now had sunning sat
Only a shadow lay:
Just the tall chimney's round-topped cowl,
And the small sun behind,
Had with its shadow in the dust
Called sleepy Death to mind.
But most she thought how strange it was
Two keys that he should bear,
And that, when beckoning, he should wag
The littlest in the air.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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The Wind of Sorrow
The fire of love was burning, yet so low
That in the dark we scarce could see its rays,
And in the light of perfect-placid days
Nothing but smouldering embers dull and slow.
Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw
New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze:
In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways
We missed the radiant heat of long ago.
Then in the night, a night of sad alarms,
Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears,
That drove us trembling to each other's arms --
Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,
Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came,
And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Paris
I knew when first I looked into her eyes,
And she in mine, that what has been must be,
And so let others say she told them lies:
She told no lie to me!
She spoke me fair, of lees as well as wine,
Then, with that subtlest charm of all her charms,
Half-dropped her languid lids, and at the sign
I ran into her arms!
Now it is she who flings my window wide
At dawn, and lets the perfumed morning in,
And she who walks so softly at my side,
Through noonday’s dust and din.
But, most of all, ’t is she, where blue night falls,
Whose firm, imperious fingers tap the pane,
And she whose velvet voice it is that calls,
Nor calls her own in vain!
It is as if the siren understood
How that she is so strong at this still hour,
That I could not repulse her if I would,
Nor would, had I the power:
As if she knew that, should I try to check
The strength of that enrapt, responsive thrill,
Let her but slide her arm about my neck,
And I obey her will!
So, when she speaks, I answer; when she woos,
Her voice, like wine, the slow pulse goads and spurs:
I go to meet her through the dropping dews,
And lean my lips to hers.
All the long hours run laughing into one—
The strange, sweet moment when the evening falls—
And, like a mother summoning her son,
Resistless Paris calls!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1901)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Precious Night
Precious calm lovely night fall
bringing hope for tomorrow
eradicating today’s sorrow
shipping them away with its barrow
Precious calm lovely night fall
the cotton on today’s failure
opening ventures of bright futures
that will witness no fractures
Precious calm lovely night fall
shoving away the trice of worries
terminating the moment of feeling sorry
so much in a hurry
to welcome the bright morning
Precious calm lovely night fall
springing forth to bring comfort
to the wounded wiping the day’s
tears showing them near view of greater years
Precious calm lovely night fall
closing the door on today’s losses
letting go of the gross experiences
giving you the chance to be the boss
09/03/2011
poem by Oluseyi Oluseun
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I dread the calm
I dread the calm in the morning of a mourn without a sound
It is a calm that comes to foster a greater grief
It is a calm light of dusk before ever dew was falling from leaves
It is a calm sinking in calm pattering to the ground
I fear the calm and scudding winds in the high wold
And on the dews the drench the gorse
And all the silvery gossamer
Shaken into gilded gold
Is it calm and still in the dusky light over great plains
That sweeps late and swiftly in autumn bowers
Of secluded farms and solitary towers
To merge with the bounding and the saint
Is it calm on the vast sea under the spangled silver sleep
The waves that sway in colossus to lull themselves to rest
And the dead calm in the deepening breast
Which heaves with the heaving deep
Yet calm is the mute peace in the meadow’s air
The forest gloom with loom of leaves that redden to fall
And in my chest if calm can ever dwell at all
If any calm is there, it is the calm of despair
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The Light Through The Morning Window
THE LIGHT THROUGH THE MORNING WINDOW
The light through the morning window
The small leaves of the light green tree
The pale sky waiting behind everything
The night which is gone now.
All these failures one after the other,
Other names other destinies, greater than mine
The single singing I cannot hear
The great prophecies I will not realize.
Others who are more to me
Even than I am to myself.
The morning
The morning again
Words again
Trying to live again
A poem again perhaps.
In a life of many days
In which each small day
Its own struggle
And each night
A night which ends
With morning light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Morning Night And Day
One time didn't do it
Two times didn't feel quite right
I didn't know where i was going
I just knew that i would be alright
I woke up in a druken haze
The sun shone to my window?
I said that i'd never do it again
What kind of fool do you think i am?
It happens
It always seems to happen
Morning night and day
I just want some action
Give me satisfaction
Send me to my?
Morning night and day
I had a good time late last night
I didn't think it would ever end
I walked home in a broad day light
Couldn't get a cab at half past five
One drink wouldn't do it
Two drinks are far too much
I didn't know what i was doing
I ate the floor and a pile of dust
It happens
It always seems to happen
Morning night and day
I just want some action
Give me satisfaction
Send me to my?
Morning night and day
So if you think that it won't get you
Well think again friend 'cause it's not true
In my case, it was not my fault
Other people made that call
One time didn't do it
Two times didn't feel quite right
It happens
It always seems to happen
No matter what i say
Morning night and day
I just want some action
Need some satisfaction
Before it gets too late
Send me to my?
Morning night and day
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Calm In The Pain
I AM CALM IN THE PAIN
I am calm in the pain,
And calm in the rejection,
And calm through the insult,
And calm through the anger,
And calm calm calm,
Though I feel so deeply
How I have failed
I am calm
Very calm
So calm
Until suddenly
In the middle of the morning prayer
I begin to cry to God
Cry with a terrible crying
And then when the prayer done
Calm calm calm calm calm.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Interactive Poetry
when i wake up this morning
sleep is still sleeping
and i slip out of the blanket
not to disturb sleep which
is still soundly snoring
last night we did not pretend
that we were two dead people
sleep was tightly curled upon itself
its arms were not around me
and i could not remember anymore
exactly
whatever happened
to me
or us
if there ever be
this morning
sleep is dead
and i survive
to meet another face of death
in the kitchen
and also in the rest room
and also outside the house
into the road and in the office
where i am working
there are so many faces of death
in my own world
and i am not the loyal subject of sleep
which is death's younger sister
neither am i a friend of death
nor its foe
for out of this everyday encounter
death becomes nothing
but another furniture in the hall
another rock in the garden
part of the numerous leaves in the air
one of those many ' its'
that does not
really disturb me anymore
tonight i will sleep with sleep again
(it is dead and unburied)
i do not name sleep for you
since i too does not know about its true details
or identity
its name its age
when it was born
though i know exactly when it really died
as i have already told you
and what totally is it exactly
the whole truth about its snores and sleep walks and talks
its secrets inside those thick blankets
for in truth in this journey
we sleep with sleep
most of the time
(do i hear ninety percent approving?)
we do not know much of it anyway
or frankly
much less
perhaps
at any rate
(and this may have bored you
to an ending that
bears no significance to your present work)
how can we be interested with such an ordinary matter
that occurs
every minute of the hour?
and what is it that is really worth
writing and
understanding in this world
that does not listen?
(do i hear 95% of you screaming?)
poem by Sebastian Soberania
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Lamp Of Love
Light, oh where is the light?
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame--is such thy fate, my heart?
Ah, death were better by far for thee!
Misery knocks at thy door,
and her message is that thy lord is wakeful,
and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night.
The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless.
I know not what this is that stirs in me--I know not its meaning.
A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight,
and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me.
Light, oh where is the light!
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void.
The night is black as a black stone.
Let not the hours pass by in the dark.
Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Morning
The morning mourns the death of the night
In its queer language of light
The buses tram cars
The Babel where cuountless fragments
vie with each other
in lamenting the death of their mother
We are put into the hell
where the devil of the self-and - the- other
ceaselessly eat into each one of us
Oh Mother Oh Nothingness Oh Primordial Night
Turn off the windows
And resurrect
I want to leap into your arms
and forget the language of the binary
Om
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Why There's No Peace
Too many people are half asleep.
With one eye closed,
And the other that peeks.
When they are alone,
They hear a door that creaks.
And maybe to their feet,
They just might leap!
Where is that peace,
We've been praying to believe in?
And where do gossipers at night go?
The ones who claim to see,
Everything from their windows?
Too many people are half asleep.
With one eye closed,
And the other that peeks.
When they are alone,
They hear a door that creaks.
And maybe to their feet,
They just might leap!
Nobody's feeling safe behind doors anymore.
And those who snore loudly,
Are told they bore!
Where is that peace,
We've been praying to believe in?
Too many people are half asleep.
Where is that peace,
We've been praying to believe in?
Too many people are half asleep.
And where do gossipers at night go?
The ones who claim to see,
Everything from their windows?
Nobody's feeling safe behind doors anymore.
And those who snore loudly,
Are told they bore!
Too many people are half asleep.
And bored with each other,
That is why there's no peace!
Too many people are half asleep.
And bored with each other,
That is why there's no peace!
Too many people are half asleep.
Too many people are half asleep.
And bored with each other,
That is why there's no peace!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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