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
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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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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!
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
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
Vote! | Copy!
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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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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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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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
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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Too High
Oh your bones are brittle
Inside you
Wrap so soft your blood is running
Ill be there
If youre moving slowly
Will you still get there
Ill be there
Such a strong desire
Hunger
All you need
To hope you keep your head yeah
As the slow hand quickens
What youve done with all those around you
Hope for always that someone
Will come and see you
Well Ill be there
To watch you saltry turning
Seething
Ill be there
Minutes hold on to hours
Gets you twisting
All you need
To hope you keep your head yeah oh
The slow hand quickens
Howd you leave it
With the love you lost
You made them crawl to be without you
The slow hand quickens
Yes
Sand is empty
In the hourglass
Ill be there
To turn it over and over
In your head
So you keep the hope
You get your day yeah oh
As the slow hand quickens
Oh you see
Too hard to break
Too cold to burn
Afraid your chance is gone
The wires are crossed
Your mouth is lost
You fear youve left it far too long
The minutes pass
The hours are gone
So hard to find your way alone
As the slow hands quicken
The slow hands quicken
These slow hands quicken
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Turn To Stone
The city streets are empty now the lights dont shine no more
And so the songs are way down low turning turning turning
A sound that flows into my mind the echoes of the daylight
Of everything that is alive in my blue world
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
The dying embers of the night a fire that slowly fades till dawn
Still glow upon the wall so bright burning burning burning
The tired streets that hide away from here to everywhere they go
Roll past my door into the day in my blue world
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
Turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Yes, Im turnin to stone cos you aint comin home.
Why you aint comin home if Im turnin to stone?
Youve been gone for so long and I cant carry on,
Yes, Im turnin, Im turnin, Im turnin to stone.
The dancing shadows on the wall the two-step in the hall
Are all I see since youve been gone turning turning turning
Through all I sit here and I wait I turn to stone I turn to stone
You will return again some day to my blue world
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
Turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
Turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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A Glimpse Of Home
When I was very young so many songs were sung
So much wasted time on an uphill climb
But you where always there, a feeling in the air
There was nothing to fear you were so near
Now you are here once again
As I stand in your presence
I can feel the quiet patience of your gaze
Like an old superstition
You are haunting all my dreams and waking days
(Chorus)
All my life I knew you were waiting, revelation anticipating
All is well, the search is over, let the truth be known
Let it be shown (give me a glimpse of home)
There's no resisting you among the chosen few
It's hard to be sure, it's hard to endure
And when I hear your voice
I know I have the choice
To pursue an ideal, something so real
Now I've got nothing to lose
As I see your reflection
All the answers I desire become so clear
Like a page that is turning
I can look into the future without fear
You're in my rock and roll, you're in my very soul
Though it's heavy to bear, it's a feeling so rare
And it's a mystery, the way it's meant to be
Can we ever know, we're moving so slow
There ain't enough time in the world
As I reach up the ladder
There is something ever higher to perceive
Like a fire that is burning
In my heart I know I surely must believe
song performed by by Kansas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Under the Violets
HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;--
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
And gray old trees of hugest limb
Shall wheel their circling shadows round
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,
The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.
For her the morning choir shall sing
Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel-voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise!
If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Theres Nothing Soft About Hard Times
By: jimmy buffett
1970
Every day held a new surprise
I watched the hunger burning in my sisters eyes
The paste-board shack we called a home
Would haunt me in my dreams
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
We never knew anything groovy
A dime meant bread and not a movie
The muscles that controlled my smile were rarely ever used
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Chorus:
I had to go cause I could see
I wasnt meant for poverty
The family ties were broken soon
I went off to find the moon
So I sit on a bench in jackson square
I drink my wine and I breathe the midnight air
Tomorrow Ill just hit the street and bum another dime
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Chorus:
I had to go cause I could see
I wasnt meant for poverty
The family ties were broken soon
I went off to find the moon
So I sit on a bench in jackson square
I drink my wine and I breathe the midnight air
Tomorrow Ill just hit the street and bum another dime
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about
No, no, no, no hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
No, no, no, no those hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Im going to tell you about the hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
No, no, no, no hard times
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Untitled: The Blue Night
The blue night has softly risen on our foreheads.
Quietly our putrid hands touch
Sweet bride!
Our countenance became pale, moony pearls
Melted in green pond-ground.
Petrified ones, we contemplate our stars.
O painful! Culprits wander in the garden
The shadows in wild embrace,
So that tree and animal sank about them in immense anger.
Soft harmonies, when we ride
through the still night in crystalline waves
A rosy angel steps from the graves of the lovers.
poem by Georg Trakl
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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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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