Sleep Talk
Sleep talks more from not understanding it,
and while they come too see our ghost it listens,
most know we exchange passed glances knowingly.
Waiting less for those few eggs that hatched and flew,
What has raven done, with some bright shiney eyes?
And the rest outside the windows nest, sits empty.
poem by Is It Poetry
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I watched a rosebud very long
Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower:
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
It opened at the matin hour
And fell at evensong.
I watched a nest from day to day,
A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.
Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.
But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again:
Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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She Talks About Love
Once in a lifetime....
Down at the end, the end of the line
There's a girl who waits for love
She is the one he's hoping for
But there's another one she's thinking of
She doesn't know his name, doesn't know his face
She'll recognize the feeling in any case
She'll be swept away by the flies inside
Make her beautiful, make her come alive
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, nobody cares
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, she believes in love
She falls and she falls but never laughs
In the arms of the one she wants
Fights for a dream she's never seen
In a world of rocks and stones
Ands she knows it's there, knows it does exist
A feeling oh so real, almost divine bliss
Takes her breath away, a gem beyond compare
Makes her weak in the knees, she knows that love is rare
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, nobody cares
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, she believes in love
The measure of time
Will prevent what's mine
She believes in once upon a time
Once in a lifetime
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, nobody cares
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, she believes in love
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, nobody cares
She talks about love, nobody listens
She talks about love, she believes in love
song performed by by Vitamin C
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Talking.... (Who Listens?)
even the silence of the night talks,
small children talk in their dreams;
old people talk staring out windows...
trees talk shedding leaves,
empty buildings talk to ghosts;
dead bones talk to the wind...
the wind talks those who mourn.
the hungry talk to their oppressors,
the prisoner talks to the walls.
the desperate talk to the noose,
lovers talk with simple touch.
soldiers talk to their fears,
the unborn talk to our decisions.
the moon talks to the night,
and the night talks to the dawn.
the soul of man talks,
and calls it god.
the conscience talks to the heart.
death talks to the living....
who listens?
who really hears?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Front.
There's a Raven
that lives in the tree
that sit's at the bottom
of my garden
and my cat's have taken
to stalking it.
The only problem is
that this Raven
is as big
as they are.
Yet still,
everytime they slide
outside they
sit waiting for it
to land
on the grass.
And this morning it did.
It set down
straight in front
of them
and just stared
them out.
Very slowley
they backed up
and then in
a flash
came tearing through
the cat-flap,
up the stairs
and hid under the bed.
The Raven
hopped around for a few moments,
preening itself,
shaking out it's feathers
and then flew
back up to
it's nest.
And I got to thinking
if they'd rushed it
they could've probally
taken it out.
I guess the art of bullshit
isn't just exclusive
to the human animal
after all.
Waiting For A Blue Sky
He sits upon the empty sand
and gazes up to the endless grey
The weathered face
and battered hands
Protest the soul
that carried them so far this way
The beaten skin
is turning to a wrinkled smile
And his eyes light up
and give his soul away
He said, I'm waiting for a blue sky
I am waiting for a bright day
I'll be there thru the wind and rain
Don't care what anybody says
I'm waiting for a morning bright
that fills the day with all its clean bright light
I'm waiting for a blue sky
I'm waiting for a blue sky
I'm waiting for a bright day
I'll be there thru the wind and rain
Don't care what anyone else says
I'm waiting for a morning bright
that fills the day with all its clean bright light
I'm waiting for a blue sky
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lullaby of the iroquois
Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
Wrapped in your nest,
Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
Its hands are your nest;
Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.
Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
Winging to sleep,
Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
Shielding their sleep,
Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Poles apart
Dark sky
Shiney moon
You are what I have
I am what you have
And we are so much in love.
Dark sky shiney moon
You and me from mornin until evenin'
You are what I have
I am what you have
And we are so much in love.
Beautiful dark sky
Stars hanging in there
The moon bright and shiney
You and me together
I am thinking of romance
Watching your hair dance
In the soft wind
While you are staring at the moon
Talking about were-wolves.
02/06/04
poem by Arsiema Berhane
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Don't Take It Personal
I feel you there,
Waiting for me.
Anticipating something I will say...
To excite your mind.
Or put you to sleep instead.
And each time I compose,
I regard it as a blessing to do so.
There are others who think of this...
As an artform they can quickly dismiss.
However...
There is much more to this,
Than the reading of lines...
For rhyme and how those rhymes might fit.
Or the prose of it and if it makes sense.
I practice the 'science of an artform'.
And it is going to change.
Just like all of nature does.
But nothing can describe how these 'messages' begin.
A poet lets it flow.
Others throw together pieces and bits...
Hoping someone reads it with an understanding,
In their minds that lingers and sits.
You know...
Like some who study for a quiz.
And 'think' they've got all the right answers?
Some submit their writings just for 'ratings'
As if to satisfy an ego.
And the greatest of those who do what they do...
Do it to let it go!
Look at Picasso's work.
Or read anything from Beck!
Haiku...?
'Two birds nestle in one nest.
Eggs yoke the heavens.
But none are white or fried.'
I...
On the other hand,
Feel extremely blessed and pleased...
God has awarded me this gift,
As a form of therapy.
And using this 'method' to release my thoughts,
To free them for others who are unsuspecting...
When I'm done with one revelation,
I am on to another one.
So if anyone anticipates what I have to say...
In the way I say it.
Don't take it personal.
I've already done that!
~Two birds nestle in one nest.
Eggs yoke the heavens.
But none are white or fried.~
*That makes absolutely no sense! *
Perhaps not to you.
But neither does this statement to me...
'Let us make man in 'our' image.'
What 'image' is that?
If the Creator is unseen.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lullaby, Go To Sleep
I'll ne'er forget the day,
When I was young and gay,
A rolling 'round the floor in Tennessee;
From th' cotton field so white,
My ma would come at night,
And fondly hold me in her arms and say:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
In winter cold and chill,
At night, when all was still,
I'd wake to find her standing over me,
A smile upon her face,
A creepin 'round the place,
She'd tuck the cover over me, and sing:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
So many years have passed,
Since we assembled last,
That dear old soul has gone away to dwell.
If this whole world was mine,
The wealth I would decline,
If I could only hear my mother sing:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
poem by James Ephraim McGirt
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Quail's Nest
I wandered out one rainy day
And heard a bird with merry joys
Cry 'wet my foot' for half the way;
I stood and wondered at the noise,
When from my foot a bird did flee--
The rain flew bouncing from her breast
I wondered what the bird could be,
And almost trampled on her nest.
The nest was full of eggs and round--
I met a shepherd in the vales,
And stood to tell him what I found.
He knew and said it was a quail's,
For he himself the nest had found,
Among the wheat and on the green,
When going on his daily round,
With eggs as many as fifteen.
Among the stranger birds they feed,
Their summer flight is short and low;
There's very few know where they breed,
And scarcely any where they go.
poem by John Clare
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The Sparrow
A sparrow
from somewhere
flew in my window
soaked and bewildered
from the storm and rain
I didnt have the heart
to drive her away
could`nt shut the window
because it was in the way
I let her be there
but could`nt keep the wind away
a thought in my mind
sent shivers down my spine
is her nest blown away?
or is there water in her nest?
where her babies rest
she looked in my eyes
and then out again
It came a little closer
and it made me feel better
when the night became calm
and the breeze little warm
It flew away
at the break of dawn,
but the stormy night
continues to haunt.....
poem by Dr Madhavi Grace
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Doing What I Can
Written by lindsey buckingham.
Falcon sits
Out on grey rock
Slow death shakes
The ticking of the tock
I go to sleep
Things left undone
I go to sleep now
And fly into the sun
Oh, the sun is bright
But too bright to see
When the darkness comes youve got to fly into the light
And what will be will be
Oh, the sun is hot
A man is just a man
When the darkness comes youre got to do with what youre got
Im doing what I can
Laughing in my sleep
Dancing on the stone
Waiting here for something
Something I dont know
Deep in the darkness
I go to sleep
I pray the lord
My soul to keep
Oh, the sun is bright
But too bright to see
When the darkness comes youve got to fly into the light
And what will be will be
Oh, the sun is hot
A man is just a man
When the darkness comes youre got to do with what youre got
Im doing what I can
song performed by by Lindsey Buckingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eyes Wide Shut
There are those with open eyes
Whose hearts are closed
What do they see?
A Material world
But someone whose love is aware
Even with eyes that sleep
He or she shall wake up thousands of others
If you are not one of those light-filled lovers
Restrain your body’s intense desires
Limit how much you eat
Sleep not from laziness
If awake in your casket
Sleep long and soundly
Your spirit is out roaming and working
To the highest levels
Your eyes may rest but love needs no rest
You have a Higher Self inside
That listens for what delights the Soul
ROTMS
(Inspired by the brilliance of Rumi)
poem by Ray Lucero
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Remember Raven
Aah! ooh!
Aah! ooh!
While youre busy trying to conjure dirt upon me,
Your ponys sucked dry by an african bee.
The muck you rake is not enough to keep your turd at sea,
Remember the raven,
Remember the raven.
While your busy trying to weigh your power,
Your boats getting into fast water.
Lifes going down the river of no return,
Remember raven,
Remember raven.
Dont try to be a warden to history,
While trying to find a seat for your posterity.
You better tend your garden for your family.
Remember raven,
Remember raven.
Judas never got the key to heaven, you know.
Raven, raven, remember raven,
Remember raven.
Raven, raven, remember raven,
Remember raven.
Raven, raven, raven.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fly Me Away
Fly me away, Raven, fly me away
To some far-off land where I can stay.
Here there once was laughing and gladness.
Now there is only regrets and sadness.
In your feathers make a nest
So while you travel I may rest,
...So I may have peaceful sleep never-ending
Where no more am I exposed to grief descending.
Let me stay in your sweet sable feathers
For in time unlimited measures.
Send me to the land of jewels and flowers
Where only good magic resides and it may be ours.
Fly me away, Raven, fly me away
To some distant land where I may stay.
poem by Patricia Wulf
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I Am A Raven
I am a raven
Freer than a breeze
Beholding to no one
Doing what I please
I am a raven
Watch me fly
Aeries are for eagles
Not me!
Don’t ask me why
I am a raven
Eating what I please
Sleep anywhere I want
Have no one to appease
I am a raven
You’d better let me by
I’m a bit combative
Might pluck out an eye
I am a raven
Better left alone
Unless inclined to marry
Have ravens of mine own
I am a raven
Feathers black as coal
Robbery my stock in trade
So stay clear
Or I may steal your soul
poem by Ray Lucero
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Ghost Bear, page 1 of 4
Long ago, in a small village
Where the Great River meets the
Limitless Salt Sea, lived Muin Manitu,
An aging shaman.
Ghost Bear had two good wives
Who gave him four fine daughters
And many grand-children.
But now both wives were dead.
Ghost Bear was getting old,
So old that he made his death song
Mumbling it often under his breath
So he would not forget it.
One night, Raven came to Ghost Bear
In a dream, bringing an important message.
“You must leave wigwam and village,
before the sun rises again.”
“This must be my time, ” thought
Ghost Bear, “My time to die.
I am glad. It is a good time
to leave this world.”
And so, taking only his knife and
His Medicine Bag, Ghost Bear pushed
His canoe out into the river while
All the village slept.
“I will go west on the Great River, ”
Thought Ghost Bear to himself, “Then,
When it is my time to go, I will be
pointed in the right direction.”
All morning long, Ghost Bear paddled
Westward on the Great River, and when
Sun was directly above him, he saw
A raven flying high above.
“I am going true, ” he thought, “Raven
Has sent me an unmistakeable sign.”
And Ghost Bear kept paddling with
Neither food nor drink.
As day became night, Ghost Bear
Continued on, for the full moon was bright
And showed him the right path on the
Great River clearly, brightly.
poem by John Bliven Morin
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Alexandrines
There is a house that most of all on earth I hate.
Though I have passed through many sorrows and have been
In bloody fields, sad seas, and countries desolate,
Yet most I fear that empty house where the grasses green
Grow in the silent court the gaping flags between,
And down the moss-grown paths and terrace no man treads
Where the old, old weeds rise deep on the waste garden beds.
Like eyes of one long dead the empty windows stare
And I fear to cross the garden, I fear to linger there,
For in that house I know a little, silent room
Where Someone’s always waiting, waiting in the gloom
To draw me with an evil eye, and hold me fast—
Yet thither doom will drive me and He will win at last.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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The Lonely Dove
A lonely dove struggled above
an ocean without a shore.
Weary of crying, "I am dying,
help me, I can fly no more." He wept alone and tried to wing on
but was too spent with pain.
He had no nest, or place of rest,
and fell, never to rise again. Now there is an empty space
where the lonely dove once flew.
For on one at all heard his haunting call
and only the Father his anguish knew. Now there is an empty space
where the lonely dove once flew.
For no one at all heard his haunting call
and only the Father his anguish knew.
Now just an empty silence falls
where the lonely dove cried alone.
For his calls ceased as he made his peace
and a deaf and blind world turns on.
poem by Kathy Dyer
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A Canticle
Like darkness descends an old raven
A fog obscures both banks
of the girl's eyes
Ah what a prolonged sleep
A red-eyed pigeon on the cornice sits
September nineteenth a flimsy telegram
Ah what a prolonged sleep
The storm dies down
on the tired mast
The storm uncoils
its eight tentacles
And a huge dance-hall looms into sight
And a red-eyed pigeon on the cornice sits
what’s the news now
Ah what a prolonged sleep
The storm dies down
on the dream book of Jung
The storm drops dead
from anaemia
But who will make that girl understand but this
There’s little profit in searching for the one
That is by now wood-dead from fasting an Adam’s lifetime
Ah what a prolonged sleep
Ah what a prolonged sleep
(Translated from Bangla by the poet)
poem by Subrata Augustine Gomes
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