En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Deadly Speckled Birches (Smoking/Cigarettes)

Vika and I walked in a thick forest of birches white and spotted.
And many boulders of white lime with black lichens dotted.
A thick fog rolled slowly toward like a pudding, creamy and clotted.

Something moved behind a fallen speckled log that fog and time have rotted.
A wild pack of Dalmatians ahead of the fog then trotted.
Stalking us through the birches, what evil had these dogs plotted.

We retreated down a hill toward our cabin – our stomachs were knotted.
I grabbed a fallen branch and at the nearest one I swatted
But we can’t shake the pack – was this all the time the Lord allotted?

Now, the leader jumps upon a rock and there he perches.
And I remember the lesson we had been taught at our churches.
God will grant strength and deliverance to he who asks and searches.

And so I ask “God please deliver us from this deadly glade, this pack of birches.”
And the leader howled the order and we ran for the cabin porches.
Charcoal from a smoldering campfire my white shoe besmirches.

And the fog tried to envelop us as we ran in sprints and lurches.
And I wake from my nightmare and all my soul researches.
What warning could this be - the deadly glade of pack, fog, rock, and birches?

I walk outside and light a smoke – and understand what I dreamed
The vicious foggy white and spotted birches are realer than they seemed.
Oh God, grant us the power over addiction, that we may be redeemed.

Note: It has been about a year and half since I had this dream, and I was able to quit shortly thereafter.

poem by Daniel Partlow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lone White Wolf: The Hunt

As the first day of the new moon creeps into the trees, no wolf among the pack gathers to see the light overcome the darkness to bring in the new day except the lone white wolf. This peculiar wolf is almost solid white except for the black along the length of his nose. It watches over the pack as they peacefully sleep, unaware of his eyes that could protect everything that was soon to come.

Today was the first day of the long hunt for the white wolf. He must bring down an animal that could feed the whole pack for several days, so he could become an official member of the pack, but more importantly, he must prove himself to be one with the pack instead of running alone.

The leader of the wolf pack slowly raises his head like a turtle to look around to see who’s awake. He sees all the wolves are still asleep in a tight circle except the outcast. The leader doesn’t understand why this wolf sleeps alone nor does he understand why the wolf was born white instead of gray. The white wolf stirs from his wakeful sleep. The eyes of the self-proclaimed leader stay on him before moving off to look into the distance searching for all the answers to his questions among the countless trees.

The leader of the wolf pack slowly gets up and walks to the lone wolf and nudges him to sound the morning howl. It was customary for the leader of the wolf pack to do this, but for reasons unknown to any wolf besides the leader, the wolf chose the outcast to sound the howl. The white wolf understands and gives a howl to stir the remaining wolves out of their deep slumber.

Once all the wolves are fully awake and able to comprehend what today is and what it means for the outcast, they realize it is the first day of the new moon. It is the first day of the long hunt. All of the wolves first look to the leader, then to the outcast, then back to the leader wondering who is going to give the special howl to begin the long hunt. No wolf willingly howled the beginning of the long hunt because if the howl was bad, the hunt would go badly, but if the howl was good, the hunt would go smoothly and the hunt would be short. The answer is soon apparent when the eyes of the leader look over the pack to see whose eyes would meet his. None but one pair kept his gaze.

The leader gave a sign, and the wolf began to prepare to give the special howl that would determine the outcome of the hunt. A wolf could not open its muzzle and give an ordinary howl since the hunt would also go badly. To give the special howl the wolf must pull back its hind legs and brace itself to make sure all legs are securely anchored to the ground so that the wolf, while giving the special howl would not slide backwards during the middle of it.

The lone wolf was ready mentally and physically to give the special howl. Once his feet were securely on the ground, the wolf began the howl. The lone white wolf put everything in his howl: the pain of being an outcast his entire life, the anger at his individuality, everything was put into that howl. Wolves stepped back with their fur standing on end; birds flew away squawking bloody murder. The others started yipping and snapping at nothing in particular remembering everything they’d ever felt. After the lone wolf was done, he realized the effect his special howl had on the wolves and he noticed the disarray and confusion that he had caused.

The leader is satisfied and gets the pack into order; it was time to begin the hunt. The wolves began running, their muscles rippling beneath their skin. Nothing could stop them. Their destination was a mile and a half down the road where the large game was located. Running freely among the wolf pack, the lone wolf didn’t feel like an outcast, but whenever he began to get too close, a shallow snip on the shoulder would shove him away to a safer distance.

The game was just ahead; it was time for the lone wolf to prove himself to the pack. The lone wolf went ahead of the pack and picked one of the biggest caribou he could find and slowly approached while the pack followed. The wolves lurched like a bullet from a gun onto the caribou with the white wolf clinging to the exposed flesh of the neck bringing it to the ground but not before it got one last kick in. The kill was successful; the caribou was dead. It was then that the white wolf noticed the bloody mess of the leader of the pack. The last kick of the now dead caribou landed on the skull of the leader, and he was dead instantly. The sight was a grizzly one with his skull caved in and blood gushing out of the wound.

The self-proclaimed leader was dead with no next-in-line to follow. Every wolf looked to the now dead leader, then to the outcast, then back to the dead leader, and then back to the outcast. The white wolf met the eyes of each wolf and got an unspoken request from each one. It was unanimous; the previous outcast of the pack became the leader. For the first time in history, a white wolf was chosen to lead and will lead the wolves to a prosperity the wolves have never known.

2009 October

poem by Matthew Bresette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lone Wolf Plan

I get more power,
At night time.

I am a lone wolf,
And a smart one too.

I hunt by myself,
And feed myself.

I look for love,
But I always get rejected.

I've taken my last reject,
So I hunt for blood.

I hunt the one's,
Who rejcted me.

I hunt my old pack,
To kill the leader.

Once that's done,
I'll be leader.

I can lead my new pack,
To victory.

I shall win a new love,
And win a pack.

My strength is better,
But my smarts are better.

I am clever,
So I will win.

I fight the leader,
And lose.

Now I die,
All alone.

My plans have failed,
My life has just began.

I might not breath the air,
Or run freely.

But my new life,
As a spirit,
Has just begun...

poem by Dragon Crenshaw
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Natural Selection for Friend Thad

I am a male an alpha plus.
My only purpose is to breed,
to sow the seeds of genius.
So that my offspring will succeed.

I am the leader of the pack.
No one is fit to take my place.
I have the wisdom which they lack.
I am the wolf who sets the pace.

We work together as a team
but I direct the strategy
I have the wit to plan and scheme
The other wolves defer to me.

That is the way it has to be
As long as I am best I’ll lead.
Some day some pup will challenge me
and hopefully he will succeed..

I am a male an alpha plus
but even alpha males grow old.
In nature it was ever thus
The leadership goes to the bold.

I’m not the wolf I used to be.
I’ve had my time now I must leave.
The pack goes on triumphantly
just as it should do I believe..

To lead the pack a privilege
that’s only open to a few.
Who have the strength and the knowledge
to rule the pack as they must do.

A pack that lacks strong leadership
will very quickly succumb to
lack of direction and hardship.
A leader must know what to do.

But also know he must give way.
To new leader in due course
He’s played the part he had to play
a law that nature will enforce.

Only the best is fit to lead
life is a struggle to survive.
Though a strong leader will succeed
ensuring that his pack will live.

Though leaders come and leaders go.
The pack remains an entity
Since time began it has been so
and will for ever seemingly.

11/06/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wild Pack Of Family Dogs

A wild pack of family dogs came runnin through the yard one day
My father got his gun, shot it up they ran away ok
A wild pack of family dogs came runnin through the yard
And as my own dog ran away with them I didnt say much of anything at all
A wild pack of family dogs came runnin through the yard
As my little sister played the dogs took her away
And I guess she was eaten up ok yeah
My mothers cryin blood dust now
My daddy quit his job today
I guess he was fired but thats ok
And Im sitting outside by my mud lake
Waiting for the pack to take me away
Right after I die, the dogs start running up towards the glowing sky
They will receive their rewards

song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Always Like The Northern Birches

I always s like the northern birches:
Their view, so downcast and grave,
The fever, which poor souls scorches,
Cools like the mute speech of a grave.

But yet, the willow, which branches,
With their long leaves, cast in a flood,
Is closer to a dream, that scourges,
And longer lives in our heart.

Deploring groves their own,
Their meadows – with bitter tears,
Tell birches to cold wind alone
Their common sufferings and fears.

Believing that the whole ground
Is motherland of sacred grieves,
The weeping willow all around
Inclines its branches with long leaves.

poem by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Leader Of The Pack

Is she really going out with him?
Yeah, I dont know, there she is
Lets ask her
Betty? is that johnnys ring youre wearing?
Aha!
Wow, it must be great riding with him
Yeah, is he picking you up after school today?
A-a!
By the way, whered you meet him?
I meet him at the candy store
He turned around and smiled at me
Do you get the picture?
Yes, we see
Thats when I fell for the leader of the pack
My folks were always putting him down
(down, down)
The said that he came from
The wrong side of town
(wrong side of town)
Theyd told me he was bad
But I know he was sad
Thats why I fell for the leader of the pack
One day my dad said, find someone new
I had to tell my johnny were through
He stood there and asked me why
But all I could do was cry
Im sorry I hurt you, the leader of the pack
Well, he sort of smiled and kissed me goodly
And the tears began to fall
And as he drove away on that rainy night
I begged him to go slow
But whether he heard me Ill never know
Look out, look out, oh look out!
I felt so helpess, what could I do
Remembering all the things wed been through
At school theyd all stop and stare
I cant have a chance but I dont care
Ill never forget him the leader of the pack...
The leader of the pack, now hes gone...

song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A hollow howl of a mighty wolf

Howling under the night sky,
there was a beast pride,
of his strengh and wisdom,
yet his howling was so loud,
that it could break a thick cloud
why his howling means nothing.

Where was his pack,
which serve him night and day,
hunting his prey like a black
shadow stalking its prey,
where was the pack now
why didn't they follow the leader's howl.

Where was his mistresses and mates,
which should stand by his side
and assisted him through the ages,
where were they now
O mighty wolf howl so loud,
yet no one answered to his call.

poem by Wicha Surin
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Six Pack Girls

Gonna find some girls tonight
My friday night has washed away
Beer bong has me wandering around
The girls that look like drugs and alcohol
Six pack girls,
Six pack girls
Six pack girls
Six pack
So you pick her up and you bring her home
And you think about it for a while
Wake up the next morning and sure enough
Its not two girls!
Version 2
Go to work, and then go to bed your friday night,
Has washed away your bummed out,
About your work cause youve already put in,
Your thousand hours theyre all
Six pack girls,
Theyre all six pack girls,
Theyre all six pack girls,
Six pack
So you pick her up,
And you bring her home
You take her out,
And thats all youre alone,
And you want it sure
Enough your, stuck with her theyre all
Six pack girls,
Theyre all six pack girls,
Theyre all six pack girls,
Six pack

song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Run With The Pack

You never give me my money
you only give me your sympathy
cause I keep on running
there Is no way to catch up with me
I'm leaving you
don't make no fuss
you want even see me oh no for dust
I'm running with the pack, running with the pack
I'm running with the pack, never looking back
you try to keep me In cages
but baby you got to catch me first
you think your law Is contagious
I'll do my best you can do your worst
I'm leaving you
now who can I trust
you want even see me oh no for dust
I'm running with the pack, running with the pack
I'm running with the pack, never looking back
I'm running with the pack, running with the pack
I'm running with the pack, never looking back
I'm running with the pack, running with the pack
I'm running with the pack, never looking back
you can hold me now......
On my own way, running with the pack
never never looking back
keep on running, keep on running
movin on, movin on

song performed by by Bad Company
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On October street
Pale leaves on silver birches
Fall slowly at dusk

haiku by Jan Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wolfpack

Howling the pack in formation appears
Diamonds and clubs, light misted fog, the dead
Waving us back in formation,
The pack in formation
Bowling they bat as a group
And the leader is seen - so early...
The pack on their backs, the fighters
Through misty the waving - the pack in formation
Far reaching waves
On sight, shone right
I lay as if in surround...
All enmeshing, hovering...
The milder I gaze
All the animals laying trail
Beyond the bough winds
Mild the reflecting electricity eyes...
Tears, the life that was ours
Grows sharper and stronger away and beyond
Short wheeling - fresh spring
Gripped with blanched bones - moaned
Magnesium, proverbs and sobs...
Howling the pack in formation appears
Diamonds and clubs, light misted fog, the dead
Waving us back in formation,
The pack in formation...

song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Light Hearted Author

The birches are mad with green points
the wood's edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething--No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips--
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!--Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?

O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch--and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours--!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you--!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.

My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me--with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes--peering out
into a cold world.

In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink--
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.

And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.

poem by William Carlos Williams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Landscape

Now this must be the sweetest place
From here to heaven's end;
The field is white and flowering lace,
The birches leap and bend,

The hills, beneath the roving sun,
From green to purple pass,
And little, trifling breezes run
Their fingers through the grass.

So good it is, so gay it is,
So calm it is, and pure.
A one whose eyes may look on this
Must be the happier, sure.

But me- I see it flat and gray
And blurred with misery,
Because a lad a mile away
Has little need of me.

poem by Dorothy Parker
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I have heard the sunset song of the birches

"I have heard the sunset song of the birches,
A white melody in the silence,
I have seen a quarrel of the pines.
At nightfall
The little grasses have rushed by me
With the wind men.
These things have I lived," quoth the maniac,
"Possessing only eyes and ears.
But you --
You don green spectacles before you look at roses."

poem by Stephen Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Forest Path

Oh, the charm of idle dreaming
Where the dappled shadows dance,
All the leafy aisles are teeming
With the lure of old romance!

Down into the forest dipping,
Deep and deeper as we go,
One might fancy dryads slipping
Where the white-stemmed birches grow.

Lurking gnome and freakish fairy
In the fern may peep and hide . . .
Sure their whispers low and airy
Ring us in on every side!

Saw you where the pines are rocking
Nymph's white shoulder as she ran?
Lo, that music faint and mocking,
Is it not a pipe of Pan?

Hear you that elusive laughter
Of the hidden waterfall?
Nay, a satyr speeding after
Ivy-crowned bacchanal.

Far and farther as we wander
Sweeter shall our roaming be,
Come, for dim and winsome yonder
Lies the path to Arcady!

poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Lyric four bulls

Woman walked in forest alone
Met man
Man aroused appetite for her
Man ran and knocked his head on tree
Tail grew out
Hairy jaw grew in mouth
Hind legs grew
Man metamorphosed because was
Lion cannibal
Tried to attack man

Woman asked cannibal
‘’where’re your four
red and white bulls’’
‘’Do you know them’’
‘’Yes, you sing their
Oldest lyric’’
Cannibal laughed
In hoarse voice
Sang,
‘’One red and white spotted bull is sold
One red and white bull spotted is stolen
One red and white spotted bull is swallowed
One red and white spotted bull is scattered
On earth, scattered on earth, on earth, on earth……………….., cannibal sang tune of ‘’scattered on earth’’ happily for long and until
He napped and woman disappeared.

poem by David Aoloch Bion
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The Ballad of the Carpet Bag

Ho! Darkies, don't you hear dose voters cryin'
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must get to de Poll, you must get there flyin';
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must travel by de road, you must travel by de train,
And the things what you've done you will have to explain,
And the things what you've promised, you must promise 'em again.
Pack dat carpet bag!
Hear dem voters callin!
Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!

You must pack up a volume of Coghlan's Figures,
Pack dat carpet bag!
And a lot o' little jokes to amuse those niggers.
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must wheedle all de gals with a twinkle of your eye,
You must bob down your head when de eggs begin to fly.
Oh! those eggs what they're saving, and they'll throw 'em by and by.
Pack dat carpet bag!

Hear dem voters callin'!
Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!

You must get upon a stump, you must practise speakin',
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must follow Georgie Reid or Alfred Deakin.
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must come to de scratch, or you're bound to fail,
For it ain't any time to be sittin' on de rail,
Or de votes that you'll get -- they won't keep you out o' jail.
Pack dat carpet bag!

Hear dem voters callin'!
Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!

And supposin' that you're beat, and you feel like cryin',
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must hustle back to work -- just to keep from dyin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!
You must travel second-class when you travel by de train,
For you haven't got a pass on de end of your chain,
While the other fellow's packing for de great campaign.
Pack dat carpet bag!

Hear dem voters callin'!
Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's a Pack Thing

My puppies may be racist.
The white ones,
Do not sleep with the black one.

But, being the first out,
I'd say it's the black one,
Not sleeping with them.

Dogs see in black and white and grey,
And never notice,
The different shades.

You have to be human, to be racist,
Basing hundreds of years of slavery, murder and hate
On something as meaningless as color.

With puppies,
It’s a pack thing.

poem by Sandra Osborne
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At Hiroshima's rock

I had to do a project on Hiroshima for school and I came across a poem about helping the victims at Hiroshima. That one poem inspired me to go and write this about a victim of Hiroshima.
P.S. For those of you who don't know the Enola gay was the plane that bombed Hiroshima

In solitude I walk
Down at Hiroshima’s rock
With the wind at my back
The sky itself was jet black
As I walk
At Hiroshima’s rock
I, the white soldier

Down at Hiroshima’s rock I watch
Waiting on the world
Something will occur
For if nothing were to happen
The world would just arrest
As I walk
At Hiroshima’s rock
I, the white soldier

I hope for the best
But hoping has done nothing
It has killed my friends
It has destroyed my country
As I walk
At Hiroshima’s rock
I, the white soldier

I knew the war was on
All our support had been withdrawn
Peace was on the way
This could well be the last day
We all just want this to be over
As I walk
At Hiroshima’s rock
I, the white soldier

I saw in the distance
The gray Enola gay
I knew right then
The war wasn’t over
As I was running to the ground
I saw little boy fall from the sky
I saw a huge flash of light
Then, I saw no more
As I walked
At Hiroshima’s rock
I, the dead soldier

poem by Dillon Crawford
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Early Works - Writers

We sit around the table
elbows poised and hands on chins
as airy voices ring in our ears
first about dogs
a pack of them chasing some poor deer
then we hear of a black and white
spotted monster
from there to Rabby Burns
who’s breeding like rabbits!
Then on to the poor misses who has everything
but doesn’t know what to do
and then a serenade
about people standing on their heads,
ah but it doesn’t finish there
my lurid tale is yet to befall their ears.
Heaven help them!

2 May 1985

poem by David Harris
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