Turning Thighs To Diamonds
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt,
hard rules of the game, mean to undo all
lust for dark heaven which shuns shining girls.
I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender
boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what
was given and what was to come, a softball between the
eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond
thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.
I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **
I am your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I am fat
and cannot round the bases quick. I am your inherited meek,
a burden to shake into a sliding man furious for home.
At four I pluck a wild strawberry you point to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laugh at my dawning smile
for its sweetness slowly yields, a surprise gift for
what will always unite us, your fear that I will suffer,
too, your fate, untended desire gone to wildness
brought low beneath branches, slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs entangling legs and light
between the greater shadows,
and shadows shall win the day.
In them my yearning grows yet, remains for that of edges,
what is beyond them, or beneath, for planets arcing and
comets rare, trailing lovers to come but meteors, not the
appointed stars of permanence allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.
Still, these essential things are caught
for all our mostly wasted days of practice,
wild sweetness is a stolen base,
the tongue is an untended garden.
There is a burning soft hands can know
which shall finally run some headlong
for home at the end, an inherited circle,
a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.
**Dandelion
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Alchemical Passes for Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds - In Three Passes
FIRST PASS
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt,
hard rules of the game mean to undo all
lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.
I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender
boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what
was given and what was to come, a softball between the
eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond
thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.
I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **
I am your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I am fat
and cannot round the bases quick. I am your inherited meek,
a burden to shake into a sliding man furious for home.
At four I pluck a wild strawberry you point to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laugh at my dawning smile
for its sweetness slowly yielding, a surprise gift
for what will always unite us, your fear that I will
suffer, too, your fate, untended desire gone to wildness
brought low beneath branches, slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs entangling legs and light
between the greater shadows,
and shadows shall win the day.
In them my yearning grows yet,
remains for that of edges,
what is beyond them or beneath,
planets arcing and comets rare,
trailing lovers to come but meteors,
not the appointed stars of permanence
allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.
Still, these essential things are caught
for all our mostly wasted days of practice,
wild sweetness is a stolen base,
the tongue is an untended garden.
There is a burning soft hands can know
which shall finally run some headlong
for home at the end, an inherited circle,
a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.
**Dandelion
SECOND PASS
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game
undo all lust for dark heaven which shuns shining girls.
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.
A softball between
the eyes guides.
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.
Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
THIRD PASS
Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
reveal too much,
dew wet, still
sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle boughs,
entangled legs
and light.
And shadows shall win the day.
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Alchemical Passes for Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds
FIRST PASS - The Flying-Away Boy
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules
of the game, were meant to undo my lust for dark
heaven shunning shining girls.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
I was reaching for god then - it's not your fault -
a lavender boy early befriended by crows,
already resigned to what was given and what
was to come, a softball between the eyes,
your attempt to guide me toward those
diamond thighs which you often repeated,
'were everywhere waiting.'
I blinked before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**.
I was your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I was fat
and could not round the bases quick. I was your inherited
meek, a burden to shake, a sliding man furious for home.
At four I plucked wild strawberries you pointed to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laughed at my dawning smile
for their sweetness slowly yielded, a surprise gift for what
would always unite us, your fear that I would suffer, too,
your fate, untended desire gone to wildness brought
low beneath branches, slow embrace of cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and light between the greater shadows,
and shadows shall win the day. In them my yearning
grew yet, remained for that of edges, what is beyond
them, or beneath, for planets arcing and comets rare,
trailing lovers to come but meteors, not the appointed
stars of permanence allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.
Grounding balls is the only thing to do so I did,
repeatedly. Still, these essential things were caught
for our mostly wasted days of practice,
wild sweetness is a stolen base,
the tongue is an untended garden.
There is a burning that soft hands can know
which shall finally run some headlong for
an inherited circle home at the end,
a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.
**Dandelion
SECOND PASS - Glad Son Gathered
Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes for Father and Son
.
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
*
No blame shall stain us now, father.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game,
the heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
**
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows
A softball between
the eyes guides
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting
***
But before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I am your inherited meek,
a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
you reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky
to the touch.
Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle boughs,
entangled legs
and light.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for homeinheriting
circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes For Father and Son
.
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
*
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball, a mitt, hard rules of the game,
undo all lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.
**
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.
A softball between
the eyes guides.
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.
***
Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Alchemical Passes For Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Third Pass
THIRD PASS
Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
you reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky
to the touch.
Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle boughs,
entangled legs
and light.
And shadows shall win the day.
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Analysis Of Baseball
It’s about
the ball,
the bat,
and the mitt.
Ball hits
bat, or it
hits mitt.
Bat doesn’t
hit ball, bat
meets it.
Ball bounces
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
ground (dud)
or it
fits mitt.
Bat waits
for ball
to mate.
Ball hates
to take bat’s
bait. Ball
flirts, bat’s
late, don’t
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
(thwack) back
to mitt.
Ball fits
mitt, but
not all
the time.
Sometimes
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
meets it,
and sails
to a place
where mitt
has to quit
in disgrace.
That’s about
the bases
loaded,
about 40,000
fans exploded.
It’s about
the ball,
the bat,
the mitt,
the bases
and the fans.
It’s done
on a diamond,
and for fun.
It’s about
home, and it’s
about run.
poem by May Swenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing To Worry About!
I don't fear nothing at all,
but when nothing becomes something
and it growls with sparkling pointed white teeth,
i shake in my shoes and
my legs quake beneath;
and i run and i hide and think darkly inside
and remember (as much as i can) ,
I don't fear nothing at all; and,
nothing becomes something
and that something is tall,
and it casts a great shadow
that blocks out the light,
('cause i'm small) .
Then i run in the shadows
and tremble with fright.
until i remember
(as best as i might)
It's nothing i'm fearing
(nothing, that's all!):
but it's dark in the shadows
with ropes that can bind,
and i can't clearly see
what it is that I find.
I think it's a poisonous snake
that can hiss
until finally i get that snake
out of my head,
and wake up to find there is nothing (to fear) ,
I am alone and there really is not
something else here.
poem by David Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Memories
I remember my father’s garden
Roses grew in full bloom behind the maple tree
That has always been there, in my memory,
Its trunk seemed golden
Beneath the light of the moon and stars in the evening and
At dawn, it would capture the rays of the sun,
Turning copper beneath the shadows cast by the mountains;
I have always adored the nighttime hours-
The stars seemed magical to me, glistening within the darkness and
The moon brings me peace of mind, quietly sleeping,
As its gentle rays illuminated the sky, giving just enough light
So I could see the roses, trees and wildflowers that decorated my father’s garden.
My father passed away twenty years ago and
I can recall his love for nature and his passion for the silence of the evening hours-
So much like mine-so many memories have escaped me but
I can still hear his laughter ringing throughout the valley near our home,
And every time I look upward toward the moon at twilight,
I can nearly see his smile shining through its muted light-
As a gentle breeze would blow, rustling the leaves upon the trees-
It would remind me that my father’s soul is still alive-
I see his face in every rose and his hands grasping the branches on the trees-
And I have always believed that even though people die and
Though their bodies may never be seen again,
The love and recollection of their spirits remain
In the places that they so loved-
My father’s home was in his garden amongst the maple trees, roses and wildflowers, and
In my innermost thoughts, it is there where he remains- and
Every day and every night, when I walk amongst the trees and flowers
I can hear his voice calling my name and in my heart I know
He can still hear my voice and see my face, as in the light of the moon and stars-
We shall be bonded in spirit for an eternity.
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Theme and Variation
That summer there was no honey.
The queens led their swarms away,
the strawberry bed dried up in a day,
the berrypickers went home early.
All that sweetness, swept on one ray of light
off to sleep. Who slept this sleep before his time?
Honey and berries? He is a stranger to suffering,
the one with the world at his hands. In want of nothing.
In want of nothing but perhaps a bit,
enought to rest or to stand straight.
He was bent by caves-and shadows,
because no country took him in.
He wasn't even safe in the wood-
a partisan whom the world reliquished
toher dead satellite, the moon.
He is a stranger to sufferin, the one with the world
[at his hands,
and was anything not handed him? He had the bettle's
cohort wrapped round his finger, blazes
branded his face with scars and the wellspring
appeared as a chimera before his eyes,
where it was not.
Honey and berries?
Had he ever known the scent, he'd have followed it
long ago!
Walking a sleepwalker's sleep,
who slept this sleep before his time?
One who was born ancient
and called to the darkness early.
All that sweetness swept on one ray of light
before him.
He spat into the undergrowth a curse
to bring drought, he screamed
and his prayers were heard:
the berrypickers went home early!
When the root rose up
and slithered after them, hissing
a snakeskin remained, the tree's last defense.
The strawberry bed dried up in a day.
In the village below, the buckets stood empty
like drums waiting in the square.
Then the sun struck
and paradiddled death.
The windows fell shut,
the queens led their swarms away,
and no one prevented them from fleeing.
Wilderness took them in,
the hollow tree among ferns,
the first free state.
The last human being was stung
and felt no pain.
That summer there was no honey.
—Translated from the German by Lilian M. Friedberg
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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1975
A boy asks his father to spiral a football over a tree
to arch it, so the ball will arrive an instant before the child.
The child dives. tendons extended, heart bucking
hands opening, to clutch what descends from the sky.
Your mother left today for the institution. If the ball
hits ground, she dies.
That December afternoon the boy's mother passed away,
thirty-three times in the first hour.
Each time he grabbed her head from the snow and
ran it back to his father, promised to do better
and he did, he ran hard, focused, dove.
I caught my mother's skull thirteen times in a row
and she's still not coming home.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Child's Music Lesson
Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?
Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?
Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall!
Each note to me is like a golden glow;
Each broken cadence like a mourning call;
Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go,
Soft little hands, upon the curtained threshold set
Of this long life of labour, and unrestful fret.
Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered green:
Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat:
Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that lean
Their crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat,
The striped bees in lazy labour glean
From bell to bell with golden-feathered feet;
Yet even here the voices of hard life go by;
Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry.
Here, as I sit-the sunlight on my face,
And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes-
My heart, a garden in a hidden place,
Is full of folded buds of memories.
Stray hither then with all your old time grace,
Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain keys;
Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom,
And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom.
Ah me, I may not set my feet again
In any part of that old garden dear,
Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain;
But only at the wicket gaze I hear:
Old scents creep into mine inactive brain,
Smooth scents of things, I may not come anear;
I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn;
I cannot feel with hands the blossom of the thorn.
Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child;
The little child, that was myself, appears,
And all the old time beauties, undefiled,
Shine back to me across the opening years,
Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild,
Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears,
Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems,
With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams.
Play on into the golden sunshine so,
Sweeter than all great artists' labouring:
I too was like you once, an age ago:
God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bring
Quiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe,
No certain things at all that thrill or sting,
But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright,
No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Them Heavy People
Rolling the ball, rolling the ball, rolling the ball to me.
Rolling the ball, rolling the ball, rolling the ball to me.
They arrived at an inconvenient time.
I was hiding in a room in my mind.
They made me look at myself. I saw it well.
Id shut the people out of my life.
So now I take the opportunities:
Wonderful teachers ready to teach me.
I must work on my mind. for now I realise:
Everyone of us has a heaven inside.
Them heavy people hit me in a soft spot.
Them heavy people help me.
Them heavy people hit me in a soft spot.
Rolling the ball, rolling the ball, rolling the ball to me.
They open doorways that I thought were shut for good.
They read me gurdjieff and jesu.
They build up my body, break me emotionally.
Its nearly killing me, but what a lovely feeling!
I love the whirling of the dervishes.
I love the beauty of rare innocence.
You dont need no crystal ball,
Dont fall for a magic wand.
We humans got it all, we perform the miracles.
Them heavy people hit me in a soft spot.
Them heavy people help me.
Them heavy people hit me in a soft spot.
Rolling the ball, rolling the ball, rolling the ball to me.
Rolling the ball, rolling the ball, rolling the ball to me.
Rolling the ball, rolling the ball...
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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King Of Baseball
As one of the best players ever lived
He is still one of the best icons standing
To him a bat was like a matchstick
Fusing the ball up in the sky burning
Back down like a burning asteroid
6'2" giant waiting to hit the ball
Before the crowd could blink he
Was already putting foot on the
Fourth base he played every game like
A training session but won every one of his games
With full passion living the other teams in concussion noting their heads like bubble heads
while he enjoyed and waved freely like a
Loose thread
Talking behind base ball truth all about Babe Ruth
poem by Atlay Mwenifumbo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wizard of Clayton Close
He's steeped in the shadows of ivy and stone,
And time is the seed that the Wizard has sown,
Has sown for the magick of weaving the night
In a tapestry taken from burning delight.
Burning delight in the eyes of the mind he has
Stolen, to conjure insight for the blind, for the
Blind are the pebbles that litter his beach, while the
Tides of his mind set the blind out of reach.
The masonry wall is caught deep in the spell that he
Conjured forgotten, in some distant dell,
And if you should peer through the ivy and stone
There's a voice whispers... 'leave me, just leave me alone.
I've wandered with Ishtar, away from your eyes
From your spying and prying, away from your lies,
In the peril and terror that lonely men speak...
Seek not the undying, whatever you seek.'
But drawn to the shadows and drawn to the stone
I could leave him not ever, not leave him alone,
And turning one day to the light and the lace
He uncovered his forehead, uncovered his face.
I froze in the instant to question my mind for
The face spoke eternities, infinite time
And the stars held their place in the lips of the man
And the cheeks and the ears, and the eyes and the hand.
The wall crumbled inward as slowly I fell
Through his eyes to the stars, to the depths of his well,
And knowledge was mine as it never had been,
In my mind, misaligned, in the things that I'd seen.
But knowledge was danger, disaster and death
To the heart that would beat, to the mind, to the breath,
To the cheek of a girl or the smile of a man,
To the whisp' of the wind, to the shift of the sand.
And nothing exists in the nothing of me
But the stars and the sky, and the sand and the sea,
The light that was night and the dark of the day
As I drift in the tides of his vision away.
And look as I might for the eyes of his mind
I believe that the Wizard is totally blind,
That once in the depths of his well and his breath
We're imprisoned in freedom, the freedom from death.
If only the way was as clearly defined
In the world of the deaf and the dumb and the blind,
I'd crawl through the stars to the lids of his eyes
To the breadth of his world and the width of his lies.
For the comfort of woman and warmth of a man
I would give all the shift and the sift of the sand,
And not all the shadows of ivy and stone
Would lure me to walk in the winter alone.
21 May 1975
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Man Standing...
the man standing
in the shadows,
held the earth
in his hands...
until time and storm
finally had their way.
the man standing
in the shadows,
plowed and planted,
season after season,
till winter grey
closed the last door.
the man standing
in the shadows,
built a house
and a bridge...
and swept room and porch
till it was finished.
the man standing
in the shadows,
picked up nests of straw,
and opened tiny cages,
blowing light from cupped hands
till the darkness swallowed.
the man standing
in he shadows,
played a wooden flute,
caught stardust in each note...
till the great stillness came,
and the wind stopped blowing...
the man standing
in the shadows,
still smells like you!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wanderer Looking Into Other Homes
A LONE, wayfaring wretch I saw, who stood
Wearily pausing by the wicket gate;
And from his eyes there streamed a bitter flood,
Contrasting his with many a happier fate.
Bleak howled the wind, the sleety shower fell fast
On his bare head, and scanty-covered breast;
As through the village with quick step I past,
To find sweet shelter in my home of rest.
'Oh! that I too could call a home my own!'
Said the lone wanderer, as he wistful gazed
Through the clear lattice, on the hearth's wide stone,
Where cheerily the jocund fire blazed.
'Oh! that I too, in such a cot might dwell!
Where the bright homefire blazeth clear and high:
Where joy alone my grateful heart might swell,
And children's children bless me when I die!'
Little he deemed what bitterness was there,
Who murmured thus his aspirations vain,--
Little he deemed that one as fond as fair
Lay faintly sighing on a bed of pain:
And by her side, a restless vigil keeping,
One who had deeply wronged that gentle heart--
Knelt with clasped hands; now praying, and now weeping;
Dreading, each hour, to see the soul depart.
They were two sisters jealous love had twained;
And one had slandered he who faded lay,
Because she deemed her slighted love disdained:
And he they both had loved was far away:
And from that hour, the younger drooped and pined,
Like a pale snowdrop bowing down her head;
Joyless of life--to slow disease resigned--
The heart within her was already dead.
Here, for her sake, they woo the mountain gale,
If, haply, change may yet prevent her fate.
But he, the wanderer, knew not of this tale,
And humbly sues admittance at their gate.
He enters--what hath met his eager eyes?
Pale as the white-fringed drapery spread beneath,
His early loved, his sorely slandered, lies,
Heaving with pain her faint and quickened breath.
O'er her soft arm her long, dark, glossy hair,
Floats in unbraided beauty,--and her cheek,--
Ah, me! the deeply-crimsoned tinge is there,
That of sharp woe and early death doth speak.
How beautiful, beneath her drooping eye,
The glowing hectic of that cheek appears,
Where the long lashes like soft shadows lie,
Seeking in vain to prison back her tears.
She gazes--shrieks--'tis he! at length 'tis he,
Whom dreams and waking thoughts have brought in vain!
And must she die, e'er yet from sorrow free,
Her head hath rested on his heart again?
A few slow, bitter words of wild appeal--
Of earnest explanation faintly given--
A pressure, which his hand can scarcely feel,
And her freed soul is on its way to heaven!
So, wanderers in the world may pausing gaze
Upon some radiant form with smiles of light,
And seeing but the outward beam that plays,
Envy their joys--and deem that all is bright.
The homes of other hearts! oh! yet beware,
Ye, who with friendly guise would enter in,
Lest all be false,--and ye be doomed to share
Their guilt or woe--their sadness or their sin!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The County Jail
Men late at night cook coffee in rusty cans,
just like in the hills, like in their childhoods,
without rules or guidance or authority, their fathers
dead or wild as gypsies,
their mothers going down for five dollars.
These are the men who surface at night,
The sons of faceless parents,
the sons of brutal days dripping blood,
the men whose faces emerge from shadows,
from bars,
and they join in circles and squat on haunches,
share smokes, and talk of who knows who,
what towns they passed through;
while flames jump under the coffee can,
you see new faces and old ones,
the young eyes scared and the old eyes
tarnished like peeling boat hulls,
like wild creatures they meet,
with a sixth sense inside of them, to tell them
who’s real and who’s the game;
and their thoughts are hard as wisdom teeth,
biting into each new eye,
that shows itself around the fire.
The coffee is poured steaming hot into cups,
and the men slowly sip.
Shower stalls drip bleakly in the dark,
and the smell of dumb metal is inflamed
with the acrid silence, and once in a while,
a cab horn will sound from outside the windows,
and the man with only a cheek illuminated by the fire,
the rest of his face drenched in shadows,
will get up and leave the circle,
return to his bunk.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At The Minor's Field
The Li'l Leaguer's now in uniforms,
And the ball game is ‘bout to begin.
My young hero in position one,
For the Orioles against the Indians;
Kevin stepped on the pitcher's plate,
"Go! Orioles, " the parents cheered.
"Batter's in, " the umpire yelled,
He pitched, the ball went wild.
"Ball, " the umpire called. Again,
He pitched to the batter's shin.
Hit by pitch, the batter walks on base,
Still at first when the catcher missed.
"Ball, " 2 and 0, the umpire signed,
And some parents began to whine.
Bases are loaded but all walks,
And their slugger is up to bat.
Pitch by pitch, she tried to hit,
A foul, a tip, the third, she missed.
With one out on the score board,
The outfielders are getting bored.
The next batter, my neighbor's son,
He tried the same as hard as he can,
Swing after swing, he lost his chance;
The ball was caught, two out at once.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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The Churchyard
HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock’s green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour
Makes green God’s sleeping-ground.
All moves, but nothing here is swift;
The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot;
From east to west the shadows drift;
The earth feels heavenward underfoot;
The slow stream through the bridge doth stray
With water-lilies on its marge,
And slowly, pil’d with scented hay,
Creeps by the silent barge.
All stirs, but nothing here is loud:
The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries;
Faint, far up, under a white cloud,
The lark trills soft to earth and skies;
And underneath the green graves rest;
And through the place, with slow footfalls,
With snowy cambric on his breast,
The old gray Vicar crawls.
And close at hand, to see him come,
Clustering at the playground gate,
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb
And bashful, hang the head and wait;
The little maidens curtsey deep,
The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile,
The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.
Slow as the hand on the clock’s face,
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by:
Smother’d it stands in ivy leaves,
Laurels and yews make dark the ground;
The swifts that build beneath the eaves
Wheel in still circles round.
And from the portal, green and dark,
He glances at the church-clock old—
Gray soul! why seek his eyes to mark
The creeping of that finger cold?
He cannot see, but still as stone
He pauses, listening for the chime,
And hears from that green tower intone
The eternal voice of Time.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Stone Alone
Stone alone hide the unity of the soul
Self centre chiseled in many a form
Partake the centre of the universe
Alone
Stone alone
The griffins grave keepers opening the jaws
Partake shadow in a
Stone
Stone alone
The Sphynx upside down
Clinging to the edges of a smile
Ice frozen on the mysteries
Of centuries Centaur raging at Minotaur
Now laugh all around
Winking cunningly
Gioconda mocking
Drop a glove on the floor
Flirting with death
A black hand will lift
White gloved touch of
Stone
Alone
Stone alone will carve the face
Cut the faces into a living wound of the stone
Rocked in the cradle swinging left right
Tectonically
To the ground
To the stone
Absolutely discentred
Alone
Summon the unity
Aloneness hanging from the rope
Bitter ends of days
Edges crying for the summits
And the summits seeking the edges
In the hide and seek of the soul alone
Stone alone hide the unity of the soul
First ray shattered upon the horizon
Horizon rise
At night alone by day alone
Soul alone stone alone
Carved
YOU
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stone
Stone alone hide the unity of the soul
Self centre chiseled in many a form
Partake the centre of the universe
Alone
Stone alone
The griffins grave keepers opening the jaws
Partake shadow in a
Stone
Stone alone
The Sphynx upside down
Clinging to the edges of a smile
Ice frozen on the mysteries
Of centuries Centaur raging at Minotaur
Now laugh all around
Winking cunningly
Gioconda mocking
Drop a glove on the floor
Flirting with death
A black hand will lift
White gloved touch of
Stone
Alone
Stone alone will carve the face
Cut the faces into a living wound of the stone
Rocked in the cradle swinging left right
Tectonically
To the ground
To the stone
Absolutely discentred
Alone
Summon the unity
Aloneness hanging from the rope
Bitter ends of days
Edges crying for the summits
And the summits seeking the edges
In the hide and seek of the soul alone
Stone alone hide the unity of the soul
First ray shattered upon the horizon
Horizon rise
At night alone by day alone
Soul alone stone alone
Carved
YOU
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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