The Young Housewife
At ten AM the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband’s house.
I pass solitary in my car.
Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.
The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Related quotes
The Keepers of Sound
The keepers of sound
Pass through a waterfall
Pass through silence, only to break it
Keep motions and movements connected
In the circle of life
The keepers of sound
Pass through solid walls
Pass through stillness, only to break it
Soothe us to sleep
The keepers of sound
Pass through worlds only they can see
The transformation
From human to keeper
Is one that takes patience,
Kindness, and honesty
That transformation
Takes strength,
Friendliness and love
To pass through the wall
That separates humans and keepers
You have to have a light heart
And be whole
On The Road To Gethsemane
on the road to Gethsemane...
i pass burned out buildings,
farm lands scorched by the bombing.
i pass the skeleton bodies
of young children who starved.
i pass the unmarked graves,
of young boys sent to war.
i pass the flag of the liars,
and the tents of mourning.
i pass vacant factories,
and houses left empty.
i pass through cocaine streets,
where all flesh is for sale.
i pass the unemployed masses,
and their desperate eyes.
i pass the baby born unwanted,
and the prison's stink.
i pass empty churches,
and hollow ringing bells.
i pass families broken,
and peoples enslaved.
i pass the moral guns of prejudice,
rank with immorality!
i pass the crippled, the sick,
and those desperately alone...
these tears of blood
are human tears,
this cross we all bear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ode to the Sadness of my Eyes
My eyes do not know
How old they are
My heart still keep time
Like the old Seth Thomas
Or a dripping faucet
My eyes precede my mind
When it is looking for a rhyme
Sad eyes such as mine
Can see an angel out of the corner
Where tears collect
My eyes are as fine as scramble umbrellas
That once was lonely
Because the rain
Ran away with the wind
These sad eyes of mine can not keep their history
They are always only about the now
What I see not what I have seen
Even in sleep they have been known to weep
What the mind keep as it midnight secrets
My sad eyes can be dug out with a copper spoon
And roll down the cobble stone streets
Pass curb side trees and little shops
Just turning on the light
Pass store front churches
Where the jealous pray to a God never seen by day
My sad eyes has seen Gods picking pizza crust
From the dumpster
My sad eyes care that there are eyes
In which to compare that the thing
I see is really there
My sad eyes has been known to be nocturnal But never solitary they see in pairs over lapping This with that to make the thing whole My sad eyes are forever going where I goes My eyes are never cold, they do not know just how old.
poem by David E. Patton
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The Ruined Homestead
White birds, frightened from silver grass,
whose blood-rose breasts and wings are thrown
like petals settling down the pass,
flower the ruined homestead’s stone.
Rise from the fallen walls and scream,
crested, from the stark dead gum;
shatter the crystal of the morning’s dream
where I, across your landscape, come.
Roofless, the broken stonework frames
red arid hills, a valley where
the ghost-gums writhe like whitened flames
and desert-oaks droop their dark hair.
And when, in the crucible of the hills
the molten day has died, there stands
under the blaze of stars that fills
its night, a house not made with hands.
poem by Roland Robinson
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Passing Through
Wet blades in the shade of an old house
Scatter as a mouse shatters the dew,
On this morning as i pass through.
A city asleep beneath a deep eastern ray
Is herlded from slumber by a trumpeting jay,
Who christens the day anew,
On this morning as i pass through.
Golden hair and a rare trace of green
Can be seen, transfigured in the treetops
By autumn’s brush as a thrush scampers from view,
On this morning as i pass through.
Dawn’s drowsiness is shaken as a baby awakens
To the city’s soft ceiling of blue,
On this morning as i pass through.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Twinkletoes
When the sun
Shines through the leaves of the apple-tree,
When the sun
Makes shadows of the leaves of the apple-tree,
Then I pass
On the grass
From one leaf to another,
From one leaf to its brother,
Tip-toe, tip-toe!
Here I go!
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Is it really like fishing?
They say there is many fish in the sea to choose from.
But have you ever gone fishing?
They say do not worry they are like fish you lose one then get a fresh one.
But have you actually gone fishing?
They say you can be picky when fishing your fish.
But have you been in the sea and fished?
They even say some actually smell like fish.
But have you really smelled a fish?
They say there is plenty of fish in the sea.
But have you actually gone and counted the fish in the sea?
They say once you catch that perfect fish, you are bound for a good life.
But have you caught that perfect fish they all speak of?
They say some fish can be beautiful.
But have you seen any beautiful fish?
How can one compare a fish?
They are not alike.
How can one say it is as easy as finding a fish?
It is not a simple task.
How can they say there are so many fish in the sea?
When there are so many fishers who have yet to catch.
Can you really compare life and love to a fish?
The answer is of course not.
You can’t.
Impossible.
Unreal.
Not imaginable.
Unbelievable.
Unrealistic.
A fairy tale.
poem by ReubenJames Rodriguez
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People's Indifference
people who pass
by the house
always stop a while
taking time
to look at the window
which is closed
the whole day
the stairs still have
dry leaves
at the back of the house
a boy is screaming
the fence is closed
and a white dog is yelping
wanting to go inside
as people pass by the house
stop a while take time to
have a glimpse
and then leave
doing nothing about it
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pass The Dutch
[Intro]
Listen up everyone! we have been just informed That there's an unknown virus that's attacking all clubs Symptoms have been said to be - heaving breathing Wild dancing, coughing So when you hear the sound - WHO-DI-WHOOOO! Run for cover.. WOOOOOO! Ahh daddy! Ooooo! Ah! oh, ooh! Pass that dutch (ah), pass that dutch (ooh) Pass that dutch (ah), pass that dutch (ah) Pass that dutch (ah), pass that dutch (ah) Pass that dutch (whoo), pass that dutch
[Verse 1]
Misdemeanor on the flow, pretty boy here I come Pumps in the bunk make you wanna hurt something I can take your man I don't have to sex em Hang em out the window call me Micheal Jackson (hehehee!) I'm a pain in your rectum, I am that bitch y'all slept on Heavy hitter, rhyme spitter, call me Re-Run Hey hey hey, I'm what's happ'nin Now to get my drink (that's right!) Shake ya ass till it stink (that's right!) Mr. Mos' on the beat (that's right!) Put it down for the streets (that's right!)
[Chorus]
(WHO-DI-WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!) Pass that dutch, pass that dutch Pass that dutch, pass that dutch, pass that dutch Come on pass the dutch baby! (ahh!) Shake-shake shake ya stuff baby! (WHO-DI-WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!) Pass that dutch, pass that dutch Pass that dutch, pass that dutch Pop that, pop that, jiggle that fat (ahh!) Don't stop, get it till ya clothes get wet
[Verse 2]
Number one - drums go bump, bump, bump This beat here will make you hoomp, boomp, jump If you's a fat one, put your clothes back on Before you start putting pot holes in my lawn Oh my God, show em I'm large Shove my beat up, attack like my name was Saddam I am the bomb from New York to Milan And I can write a song sicker than Jeffrey Dahm' (Woop woop!) Don't touch my car alarm Break in my car you will hear "Viper Armed" I've been a superstar since Daddy Kane was raw I'm live
song performed by by Missy Elliott
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Silent River
The river usually runs in such a great rush,
But, today, it is still, and there is only hush.
I glance over at it, in the darkness, as I pass:
I see the river’s surface is as smooth as glass.
It’s like the river itself is feeling the great grief,
Of losing someone, whose time on earth was brief.
It appears to be grieving for its long time neighbour,
Who, for many years, in the nearby store, did labour.
Just like people, it stands in silence, to show its respect,
And its many thoughts and feelings, it wants to collect.
No more will the river, running through this restful place,
See its neighbour with her eternally happy and smiling face.
From the river, to be heard, there isn’t a single sound:
Night time has fallen, so no ducks or swans are around.
Never before, can I recall the river being so totally still;
It’s as though it has decided to stop of its own free will.
From what I can see, and this may sound just a little bit mad,
The river, just like its neighbour’s family and friends, is sad.
It isn’t in the mood to chatter cheerfully, to dance, or to run;
Now is its time of remembrance: not a time for it to have fun.
Soon, it will continue on its journey, but it will remember,
The loss of this lovely lady, on the tenth day of December.
As it journeys onwards, its surface will shimmer and shake,
And, with it, precious memories of its neighbour, it will take.
(In memory of Debbie Baptiste)
poem by Angela Wybrow
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House Wife Affair
I been having my housewife affair for awhile
which my husband doesn't even care about!
They are all performed in the comfort of the home
And I never have to ever dress up, or go out!
These men that live in our home
are Kenmore, and then that other fella, Hover!
They're my kind of secret men!
They are shakers and, real movers!
One takes me around and around the house
as he sweeps me across, clean floors!
The other pampers my clothes in bubbles
and sometimes, even helps me, clean above the doors!
Then one can be as cold as ice!
But does take me to the kitchen to dine.
And sometimes makes me coffee
Aromas, waking me up, before the stoke of nine.
I don't think I'll let my husband in on it
these other men I have in my life!
I'll just pretend, that they're my secret lovers
helping just another, imaginative, overworked, housewife!
poem by Linda Winchell
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House of Flesh
Crooked,
decrepit windows
see the world in shades of grime.
This lonely house sreaks
and groans in the rain.
Tattered
mother-eaten drapes
cover the hurt of abandonment.
People pass by
and talk cheerfully
of their own inhabited homes,
graced by the presence of a loving owner.
They are filled,
overflowing,
with friendly masses.
They are filled with people
who look in pity and distain
at this crumbling house on the corner.
These bodies pass by
with not a thought to this sad house,
all alone
begging for someone to pass it's threshhold,
to care.
Poor abandoned house on the corner,
quietly falling to pieces as the seasons pass.
No one wants you.
poem by Meggan McGuire
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Song of Myself, XI
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long
hair,
Little streams pass'd over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended trembling from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with the pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Healesville
Healesville is a smiling lass,
'Mid her encircling hills,
Where down full many a mountain pass
The gold of wattle spills.
She holds her hands out to the Spring,
E'er upon pleasure bent;
Yet knowing that each year will bring
When comes the time of blossoming
Profit for her content.
Healesville is a sorceress,
With magic gifts imbued:
For each year, with the wattles' dress,
She finds her youth renewed.
So, ever young and ever gay,
She bids, at each rebirth,
The weary toilers here to stray,
And pass the sunlit hours away
In idleness and mirth.
Healesville keeps a boarding-house
She likes to entertain;
She scorns to play the country mouse;
But, pert and rather vain.
With lip-stick, rouge and marcelled hair,
Would add to her renown
For carefree mirth; and seeks to wear
The smart, sophisticated air
Of flappers fresh from Town.
Healesville calls you to her hills,
While summer suns look down,
To join the carnival that fills
With merriment her town.
Then as late autumn's shadows creep
Across the western plain,
And winter snowfalls clothe the steep.
She settles to her beauty sleep
Till springtime comes again.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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~time~
As the hours drag on
the doctors rush to save her life
as the hours drag on
the day ends with no hope left
as the hours drag on
a nurse in forms a young girls family full of distress
as the minutes pass by
a young girl slowly dies
as the minutes pass by
a dieing girl whispers her last good byes
as the seconds tick past
she breaths her last breath
as seconds tick past
a family is struck with the truth that life does not last forever
months past in a blur
years will only dull the pain for the family
eternity till they will meet again
poem by Kairy sauerwein
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Come Down This Road
Past this place in the road,
You shall see many people carying great load,
You may think to help, or just pass by,
It is up to you to know why.
Why you pass, why you stay,
But, caeful, from this road do not stray.
They shall show you how to learn how to know.
Some shall have their load taken, yet some shall never go,
The pain of it, the pain of trying.
Yet none shall know what it's like to be dying,
The laod shall never be gone, yet it could be lifted.
Each is different, each is gifted,
To your mind it is a burden, to your sould it is a part of you
You can not trade, for your soul is who you are, you can't start new.
As you travel down this road you will see,
That where it ends,
is eternity.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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A Wet Whiskered Fishured Cat Caught Nothin' But An Empty Paw.
Tis' be fish-a fish of mine...
One that flips inside a pan o'thine.
That cat that swatted at a fish astray...
That cat had not caught a one'a fish that day.
Into the watery drink that cat did fall....
Kitty Kat-Kitty Kat is what he'd heard one call.
Inside the house he found me stearn...
But with fish in a pan he found to me to of learn.
Right off to market had i gone...
The Kitty Kat ate his share of fish b'fore fallen to
a sleep aft' last let out tired out, yawn.
Do you see? ...
Ssshhhhh!
ZZZZZZZeeee Zeee Zeee zzzz
zzzz
zzz! ! !
poem by Michael Gale
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The Gardener IV: Ah Me
Ah me, why did they build my
house by the road to the market
town?
They moor their laden boats near
my trees.
They come and go and wander at
their will.
I sit and watch them; my time
wears on.
Turn them away I cannot. And
thus my days pass by.
Night and day their steps sound
by my door.
Vainly I cry, "I do not know
you."
Some of them are known to my
fingers, some to my nostrils, the
blood in my veins seems to know
them, and some are known to my
dreams.
Turn them away I cannot. I call
them and say, "Come to my house
whoever chooses. Yes, come."
In the morning the bell rings in the
temple.
They come with their baskets in
their hands.
Their feet are rosy red. The early
light of dawn is on their faces.
Turn them away I cannot. I call
them and I say, "Come to my garden
to gather flowers. Come hither."
In the mid-day the gong sounds
at the palace gate.
I know not why they leave their
work and linger near my hedge.
The flowers in their hair are pale
and faded; the notes are languid in
their flutes.
Turn them away I cannot. I call
them and say, "The shade is cool
under my trees. Come, friends."
At night the crickets chirp in the
woods.
Who is it that comes slowly to my
door and gently knocks?
I vaguely see the face, not a word
is spoken, the stillness of the sky is
all around.
Turn away my silent guest I
cannot. I look at the face through the
dark, and hours of dreams pass by.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Fallen Star
I am like the fallen wish
So lonely as a fallen star
My bed a pool of tears I cry
Alone! ' I cry myself to sleep
'Alone I am with me!
Lonely in a world of mist
Alone, I reach to touch your wrist
And see if I am thee.’
To be alone beside a soul
Afloat, adrift; an empty ghoul
Alone in woe; the yearning flesh
To fill a thin, contorted mesh
Diffuse atop an icy floor
All alone I am alone
Too much stare much nightmare
Only thee walls
Can speak and share
loneliness a disease
Thee only cure is care
I am a song without a tune
Alone
A greying sky in June
Alone
I am a wedding without a groom
Alone
I am a ring without a hand
Alone
The blueness of a sullen moon
waning in a starless night
Alone
Coasting down a weedy pass
Alone
No rainfall no fallen leaves
Alone
The only image in the glass
Alone
I am so alone!
Alone like a fallen star
poem by Khalifa Mustapha
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Gary Granada’s definition of a house
A shanty of cartons as walls
Some tin for roof
Several cuttings of tin
And some worn out rubber tires
To keep the tin roofs
In place
Ten persons reside there
Too crowded
Smell of dead fish
Smell of decayed fish
And dried urine
Rodent and human urine
Hotter than the
Temperatures of
An Arizona desert
Patches of wasted wood
Planks of leftovers
Undefined window frames
There is no comfort
Room or living
Room or bed or
Sala
Every floor
Every patch
Is a bed, a room,
A kitchen
All in one
For ten people or more
Is this what you call a house?
Gary Granada is singing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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