Dead Robin
The inadvertent fact of a robin
Carelessly snapping its back on a glass bus shelter
Is not a major tragedy of epic proportions.
Nevertheless, today there has been a death,
Two beautiful slender legs
Are crossed, a demure crucifix of twigs.
Tail feathers, folded away
Like ironed packing.
The small red body nestles in my hand
A cold flame
Fragile as an egg.
I do not want to bury it.
I do not want to draw earth's curtain over its closed face.
This delicate two-winged coffin.
I stroke and stroke the fiery breast
The light brown back
Turning it round and round like a roasting spit,
Regret its fading essences
Its lightness and its grace
Its softly thudding heartbeat
Has sunk without a trace
Into a sealed silence.
Over morning smells of toast and tea
I have read columns of obituaries
Black lists of names on thin cheap paper
My eyes dusted the dead as lightly as swatting a fly
But today one of the winged ones
Has tumbled from the sky
And I may stroke and stroke that small stilled throat
But cannot stir one feather with my gentling.
poem by Sheena Blackhall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
My darling’s arm lies over me
My darling’s arm lies over me
and it’s as if the silence
gets a deeper new meaning.
I lie on my back and she on her side
and our heads touch hot
against each other and forever
I can stay like this against her.
I feel her breath softly
blowing against my ear
and there’s intimacy
with her hand
clinging to my breast
and the sun is already high.
Outside there’s blue air
coming through the window
and she sleeps peaceful
and the light wind
jerks and jerks leaves
of the potato trees
and there’s a cool breeze
intruding through the open window
into the room
and I lightly
stroke her soft back.
It’s nice to lie together
in bed on a Sunday morning
and to have you’re darling
lying against you
and her toes that stick out small
from under the duvet
is perfect in form and size
like those of the first woman
and her womanly beauty
pervades me strongly
while she sleeps on unaware
and I see a big pink-brown nipple
rising up and down while she breaths
and like a photograph
it’s framed into my mind.
My darling’s arm lies over me
and it’s as if the silence
that stretches out long
gets a deeper new meaning.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stroke Of Death
Do not fear the stroke of death.
Because afterwards, that’s it, there’s nothing.
You will be gone so quickly,
You wont even know what happened.
So don’t fear the inevitable stroke of death,
It will happen to all of us.
We have to understand it, acknowledge it,
But never fear it.
Never fear the stroke of death,
You will go mad just thinking about it.
poem by Rachel Brewer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stroke One
Head throbbing
Heart pumping
Neck stiffens hard
Cannot move forward
Vision now doubles
Hearing inaudible
Everything's white
Something wrong with sight
What can be done
When it's Stroke One...
Beep beep the monitor
Out goes the doctor
'She will survive'
(I'm still alive!)
Bless this good child
The stroke was mild
Of symptoms, none
Sneaky Stroke One
So if I misspell
It's my eyes, they aren't well.
(How are the two of you?)
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Riders
RHEIMS is down in fire and smoke,
The hour of God is at the stroke.
Round and round the ruined place,-
Jesu, Mary, give us grace!
There are two riders clad in mail,
Silver as the moon pale.
One is tall as a knight's spear,
The younger one is lowlier.
Small and slim and like a maid-
Steeds and riders cast no shade.
Who are then these cavaliers?
There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears.
Who are these that ride so light,
Soundless in the flaming light,
Where Rheims burns, that was given
By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven?
O our Rheims, our Rheims is down,
Naught is left of her renown.
Hist! what sound is in the breeze,
Like the sighing of forest trees?
Or a great wind, or an army,
Or the waves of the wild sea?
The tall knight rides fierce and fast
To the sound of a trumpet-blast.
The little knight in fire and flame,
Slender and soft as a dame,
Rides and is not far behind:
His long hair floats on the wind.
And ever the tramp of chivalry
Comes like the sound of the sea.
This is Michael rides abroad,
Prince of the army of God,
And this like a lily arrayed,
Is Joan, the blessed Maid.
Rheims is down in fire and smoke
And the hour of God's at the stroke.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
For My Maker
Salty as fire and bland as ice
I stroke my hand on the wood
This wood talks to me with narrow heart.
Homeless tables spring to the exit
After my hands and feet are gone
From me
Obedient limbs stroke the glass
Of the window, of this grateful object
Inside is home and house for all.
I am high for my body immensely forgets
Its chance to stay alive
For I am obeying my Maker.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Bloke Is Broke
The bloke is broke
Takes a coke and lots of smoke
Stroke a joke and leaves the yoke
Spoke and poke and went back folk
Remembering baroque
With a golf stroke
Scrubs an oak with
Another sick joke
Woke and evoke
And even provoke
A gun smoke
Goes amok
With a butterfly stroke
Wild with a James Knox
Towards valley oak
spoke a practical joke
Ending with a choke
that broken bloke
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Nymph quiet not known
such a stroke
you played
in the mandatory over
shit
a cold
I dodged cruelly
to imprint
my footprint
on the board
quiet sure
unnecessary clipping
of such ignited
paraphrase
basically
carries no meaning
not in life
and no actual winning
till today
recorded on the scoreboard
of infinite time-stand
yet I appreciate
your tactical stroke
which made you
much meaningless
to exist...
Pranab k c
02/11/2012
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Milk For The Cat
When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.
At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be
sour,
She is never late.
And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.
Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
One breathing, trembling purr.
The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
The two old ladies stroke their silk:
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.
The white saucer like some full moon descends
At last from the clouds of the table above;
She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
Transfigured with love.
She nestles over the shining rim,
Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
Is doubled under each bending knee.
A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
Then she sinks back into the night,
Draws and dips her body to heap
Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
Lies defeated and buried deep
Three or four hours unconscious there.
poem by Harold Monro
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
One More Chance
Verse one:
First things first, i poppa, freaks all the honies
Dummies, playboy bunnies, those wantin money
Those the ones i like cause they don't get nathan
But penetration, unless it smells like sanitation
Garbage, i turn like doorknobs
Heart throb, never, black and ugly as ever
However, i stay coogi down to the socks
Rings and watch filled with rocks
And my jam knock in the mitsubishi
Girls pee pee when they see me
Navajos creep me in they tee pee
As i lay down laws like alan coppet
Stop it - if you think they gonna make a prophet
Don't see my ones, don't see my guns - get it
Now tell ya friends poppa hit it then split it
In two as i flow with the junior m.a.f.i.a.
I don't know what the hell's stoppin ya
I'm clockin ya, versace shades watchin ya
Once ya grin, i'm in game, begin
First i talk about how i dresses this
In diamond necklasses - stretch lexuses
The sex is just immaculate from the back i get
Deeper and deeper, help ya reach the
Climax that your man can't make
Call him, tell him you'll be home real late
And sing the break
Chorus:
One more chance
Biggie give me one more chance
Verse two:
She's sick of that song on how it's so long
Thought he worked his until i handled my biz
There i is; major payne like damon wayans
Low down dirty even like his brother keenan
Schemin, don't leave ya girl round me
True player for real, ask puff daddy
You ringin bells with bags from chanel
Baby benz, traded in your hyundai excel
Fully equipped, cd changer with the cell
She beeped me, meet me at twelve
Where you at? flippin jobs, playin car notes?
While i'm swimmin in ya women like the breast stroke
Right stroke, left stroke was the best stroke
Death stroke - tongue all down her throat
Nuttin left to do but send her home to you
I'm through - can ya sing the song for me, boo?
Chorus
Verse three:
So, what's it gonna be? him or me?
We can cruise the world with pearls, gator boots for girls
The envy of all women, crush linen
Cardea wrist-wear with diamonds in em
The finest women i love with a passion
Ya man's a wimp, i give that ass a good thrashin
High fashion - flyin into all states
Sexin me while ya man masturbates
Isn't this great? your flight leaves at eight
Her flight lands at nine, my game just rewinds
Lyrically i'm supposed to represent
I'm not only the client, i'm the player president
Chorus
song performed by by Notorious B.I.G.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Mi Hermosa Fay
There is a girl for who I care
With deep brown eyes
And long blonde hair
A natural beauty to behold
The love she has can not be told
Oh how I wish that I was there
To see those eyes
And Stroke that hair
To keep her safe and free from pain
Something she'll never feel again
One day my Fay this will be true
And I will give my love to you
I'll see those eyes
And stroke that hair
And prove to you how much I care
poem by Alex Dixon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sacrificial Lamb Basted Lambasted
Lambasted for the sacrifice by some
A final throe, brown eyes forever stilled:
Mist where whistful look had, peaceful, willed
Beatitude, not butcher's knife. Voice dumb,
Alas no longer heard by herd, become
Silent alike to day and night. Fulfilled
Time lent, throat rent, knife strife with sharp stroke killed:
EDifying insight on what Man has become.
(4 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Flying back from New York, the flight attendant said 'God, I wished you were here yesterday, we had a stroke on the plane. I said, if I have a stroke on a plane, I hope the pretend doctor isn't the one on the plane. I want a real doctor.
quote by Anthony Edwards
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The light's in my head - Villanelle
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead,
Though daylight is dimming, through the still open curtain-
But the light's in my head; the light's in my head!
He lies in a stupor, but calls out from his bed;
And he never complains, but you fear that he's hurting-
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead.
She doesn't sleep nights, but sleeps daytimes instead;
Her breathing's still even, but death's near for certain-
But the light's in my head; the light's in my head!
First they said stroke, and then heart attack- dread!
With the new diagnosis, with death he is flirting-
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead.
There's cancer and heart disease, so lightly we tread;
It's bad news for sure- her aneurysm bursting! -
But the light's in my head; the light's in my head!
It's all here inside me now, all that I've said,
Now what's left in memory's darkness, I'm cursing;
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead-
And the light's in my head- the light's in my head!
poem by Patti Masterman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The more you stroke the cat's back the more set sets up her tail.
Market Day
With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke
That urges switching tail nor mends his pace,
On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse,
The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair.
Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke
Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground
With urging bark and hurries at his heels.
His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned close
Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face
Red as the morning sun, he takes his round
And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done
And Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack,
He drinks success to corn in language hoarse,
And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Courage is setting yourself free
As she maneuvered
her entourage
of a motorized wheelchair
trained assistance dog
and personal assistant
into the Olympic size swimming pool
at the health club
I thought that it was
a nice idea
to come and sit
at the edge of the pool
and that it would probably
be therapeutic
or at least a refreshing
change of place
for someone in a wheelchair
but she scooted her vehicle
into front of the first swim lane
and as she was chatting to her assistant
the dog just sat there by the door
resting
her assistant reached behind her and
lifted her torso up and placed
her at the edge of the pool
as I was sitting in the
nearby whirlpool
at 4: 30 in the afternoon
I became curious
about what they were going to do next?
was the parapaligic
going to just go in the water
and sit or was there something more in store
when she was tossed in the water
I realized she must have been a swimmer before
you could tell by her upper body
that she had once had a sleek form
that swimmers have
powerful shoulder muscles
she started with a back stroke
her thick arms making a V stroke
her clenched fists
providing an engine to paddle her body
down the lane
since she had no control over her legs
the graceful placement of her head
during her swimming stroke
face up in the pool
forced her knees to come up
to the surface
this improvised technique
had half her body moving furiously
and the other half
the useless half
being dragged behind
she had an unusual turn
in which instead of using the wall
of the turn to propel off
she turned first sideways
and then circled back
and went on her way
but as she finished the turn
I saw a peaceful look
on her face
she had found
freedom of movement
once again
in a swimming pool
one of the most dangerous places
to be in
when you have lost control
of most of your body
poem by Oscar Mireles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Soft And Gentle Motions Of Eudora
Divine Thalia strike th' Harmonious Lute,
But with a Stroke so Gentle as may sute
The silent gliding of the Howers,
Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers;
Th' ascending or the falling Dew,
Which none can see, though all find true.
For thus alone,
Can be shewn,
How downie, how smooth,
Eudora doth Move,
How Silken her Actions appear,
The Aire of her Face,
Of a gentler Grace
Then those that do stroke the Eare.
Her Address so sweet,
So Modestly Meet,
That 'tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String,
Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing!
O This to express from thy Hand must fall,
Then Musicks self, something more Musical.
poem by Anne Killigrew
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Journey
Snake River Country
I now remembered slowly how I came,
I, sometime living, sometime with a name,
Creeping by iron ways across the bare
Wastes of Wyoming, turning in despair,
Changing and turning, till the fall of night,
Then throbbing motionless with iron might.
Four days and nights! Small stations by the way,
Sunk far past midnight! Nothing one can say
Names the compassion they stir in the heart.
Obscure men shift and cry, and we depart.
And I remembered with the early sun
That foul-mouthed barber back in Pendleton,
The sprawling streets, the icy station bench,
The Round-up pennants, the latrinal stench.
These towns are cold by day, the flesh of vice
Raw and decisive, and the will precise;
At night the turbulence of drink and mud,
Blue glare of gas, the dances dripping blood,
Fists thudding murder in the shadowy air,
Exhausted whores, sunk to a changeless stare.
Alive in empty fact alone, extreme,
They make each fact a mortuary dream.
Once when the train paused in an empty place,
I met the unmoved landscape face to face;
Smoothing abysses that no stream could slake,
Deep in its black gulch crept the heavy Snake,
The sound diffused, and so intently firm,
It seemed the silence, having change nor term.
Beyond the river, gray volcanic stone
In rolling hills: the river moved alone.
And when we started, charged with mass, and slow,
We hung against it in an awful flow.
Thus I proceeded until early night,
And, when I read the station’s name aright,
Descended—at the bidding of a word!
I slept the night out where the thought occurred,
Then rose to view the dwelling where I lay.
Outside, the bare land stretching far away;
The frame house, new, fortuitous, and bright,
Pointing the presence of the morning light;
A train’s far screaming, clean as shining steel
Planing the distance for the gliding heel.
Through shrinking frost, autumnal grass uncurled,
In naked sunlight, on a naked world.
poem by Yvor Winters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My hands are tied
my hands are tied
i paint with fingers
safely stored in
my heart chambers
and an ever ready canvas
at the back of my mind
to dribble you down
into surreal, realist,
impressionistic and
modernist lines
there are so many
parts of you that inspire
your soft lips are
a tube of pastel pink
it dissolves and
runs through my body
an engaging spasmodic
touch and shade
your eyes are apples
gleaming dew on grass
glittering diamonds
your round shapely fingers
to put magic into them
is to work the bristles
the way lips would run through them
your ears are celestial drums
reverberating through
a landscape of creation
that revels in a world of art
your gait is a realist's fetish
it works step by step
inch by inch
a savoir faire
my heart pines to pour
into everybody's cup of tea
such blurry fiery
simmering
dreamlike night
who would i paint but you?
the fireworks bursts in
blue, pink and green
over an ocean of
longings and fantasies
stroke and stroke of red
trail thick and thin
over an insurmountable field
that eventually spirals
and spills into an
impressionistic ecstacy
i die to commit them all
onto a masterpiece
for a lifetime of memory
of youth trailblazing at its prime
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song Of Autumn
we have become old...
and have earned this time
of turning... turning wind,
turning leaves.... day turning
to night with a suddeness.
every stroke of color,
every shade of black and white...
and this sudden chill brings
a warmth that our lives define!
our passion is falling
like leaves to carpet the earth....
our bare limbs reach heavenward...
to God, or the next page...
we wait on the snow,
and the small fires the living
build to light the way....
we are the song of autumn...
the wind that fills the empty
pages of forever with human hands....
old warriors, and lovers,
whose touching defines the night!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!