Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
Willa Cather in My Antonia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter lies too long in country towns hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
quote by Willa Cather
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shabby Doll
Giving you more of what for
Always worked for me before
Now Im a shabby doll
Whats going on behind the green elevator door
With just a shabby doll
Theres a hit man facing
A compromising situation
With just a shabby doll
And a very neat line in character assassination
Shes just a shabby doll
Shes just a shabby doll
Shes putting him off and putting you on
Shes just the shabby doll
Youre swearing upon you know in your heart
Shes gone you know in your heart
Shes just a shabby doll
Theres a girl in this dress
Theres always a girl in distress
Shes just a shabby doll
Shes so sure shes self-possessed
Then again shes half undressed
Shes just a shabby doll
The boy that I used to be
Showed no sign of sympathy
For just a shabby doll
I have betrayed you and me
And paid for my own bribery
With just a shabby doll
(chorus)
Hes the tired toy that everyone enjoyed
He wants to be a fancy man but hes nothing but a nancy boy
Hes all pride and no joy
And being what you might call a whore
Always worked for me before
Now Im a shabby doll
Untie the gag the cats out of the bag
But wont show his claws
Hes just a shabby doll
She said you must be joking
Some things are left unspoken
Youre just a shabby doll
Hes lying limp and soaking
He was openly broken
By just a shabby doll
(chorus)
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Frosty on His Flag (Clementine Sweet)
frosty is lonely
he hangs from a winter blue flag by a pink-roofed house
being blown by a salt-sea breeze
he has no snow people to talk to
he ripples his cloth edges among the sky-high palm trees and
above the candy-green grass
frosty is an outcast
to contrast the deep blue of his flag lies the pale desert sky,
shot through with bright Cali sunshine
frosty is a picture of out-of-placement:
he hangs and he hangs
he sighs and he sighs
all the while homesick
all the while thinking
that sometimes, sometimes
irony is clementine sweet
poem by Gina Prettybrowneyes
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The caged lust
A stale wife is not a stale woman.
A stale husband is not a stale man.
Woman is a magnet to a stranger.
Man is a bullet to a stranger.
12.03.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Girl From The North Country
Well, if you're travelin' in the north country fair,
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm,
When the rivers freeze and summer ends,
Please see if she's wearing a coat so warm,
To keep her from the howlin' winds.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
If it rolls and flows all down her breast.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
That's the way I remember her best.
I'm a-wonderin' if she remembers me at all.
Many times I've often prayed
In the darkness of my night,
In the brightness of my day.
So if you're travelin' in the north country fair,
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He who lies, hangs from a gallows - he who does not, hangs twice.
Country people give me more than writers, and country places than towns.
quote by Leonard Alfred George Strong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Girl Of The North Country
Well, if youre travelin in the north country fair,
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm,
When the rivers freeze and summer ends,
Please see if shes wearing a coat so warm,
To keep her from the howlin winds.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
If it rolls and flows all down her breast.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
Thats the way I remember her best.
Im a-wonderin if she remembers me at all.
Many times Ive often prayed
In the darkness of my night,
In the brightness of my day.
So if youre travelin in the north country fair,
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nothing can make a day last longer
Nothing can make
a day last longer
but being in love
with the sun.
I long to live
in Cape Town
when it’s summer time,
where at eight
the sun still hangs high
as it did at three
but in winter
when the chill sets in
give my Pretoria to me
and then you can have
your Mediterranean climate
with intermittent rain
and north of the Magaliesberg
I will bask in the sun
and look at a blue sky
unless you invite me
to your lair
and we share
a Cape winter there.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Yattendon
Among the woods and tillage
That fringe the topmost downs,
All lonely lies the village,
Far off from seas and towns.
Yet when her own folk slumbered
I heard within her street
Murmur of men unnumbered
And march of myriad feet.
For all she lies so lonely,
Far off from towns and seas,
The village holds not only
The roofs beneath her trees:
While Life is sweet and tragic
And Death is veiled and dumb,
Hither, by singer's magic,
The pilgrim world must come.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Country Towns
Country towns, with your willows and squares,
And farmers bouncing on barrel mares
To public houses of yellow wood
With '1860' over their doors,
And that mysterious race of Hogans
Which always keeps the General Stores….
At the School of Arts, a broadsheet lies
Sprayed with the sarcasm of flies:
'The Great Golightly Family
Of Entertainers Here To-night'–
Dated a year and a half ago,
But left there, less from carelessness
Than from a wish to seem polite.
Verandas baked with musky sleep,
Mulberry faces dozing deep,
And dogs that lick the sunlight up
Like paste of gold – or, roused in vain
By far, mysterious buggy-wheels,
Lower their ears, and drowse again….
Country towns with your schooner bees,
And locusts burnt in the pepper-trees,
Drown me with syrups, arch your boughs,
Find me a bench, and let me snore,
Till, charged with ale and unconcern,
I'll think it's noon at half-past four!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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One of the cries from the people was, don't forget us. They have a long road ahead of them. Operation Blessing has found those little fishing towns. They will not be getting what other towns are getting from the government.
quote by Connie Sellecca
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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White in the Moon the Long Road Lies
White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.
The world is round, so travellers tell,
And straight though reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.
But ere the circle homeward hies
Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The Past's Hovering Foot Steps
An unpleasant effluvia hangs
In the stale and unmoving air
As your haunted heart loudly bangs
Into the silence, a clanging blare.
It pumps: tapping, pittering
Unlike the feet of Fred Astaire.
No ritz, just beats and blunderings
Fumbled from this: your dancing ghost.
Its transparent maneuverings
Don't disappear, though they almost
Remain long enough to repeat,
To echo back with a swift riposte.
Waltzing reverb shoe prints secrete
An ectoplasmic residue,
A souring of things that seemed sweet,
The past's hovering steps press you.
An unpleasant effluvia hangs,
An ectoplasmic residue,
As your haunted heart loudly bangs.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The soldiers did go away and their towns were torn down; and in the Moon of Falling Leaves (November), they made a treaty with Red Cloud that said our country would be ours as long as grass should grow and water flow.
A Winter Message
A flake of snow in flurry thro’ the air
Had landed as a kiss upon my cheek:
A secret message, just for me to share;
To take to heart but never dare to speak
About or presuppose to other eyes
Your open feelings – distant though they are.
And so, upon your lips, my OWN surprise:
A flake of snow returned from me afar.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
winter winter winter winter icy winter
winter winter winter winter icy winter
winter winter winter winter icy winter
winter winter winter winter icy winter
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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An Emigre
I have lived in this foreign country long, perhaps longer
then I should. Many seasons I have seen, my hair is grey
brow wrinkled from seeking understanding. I know their
culture and sing their songs. But I came here as an adult,
I have read Fernando Pessoa, know Fado and can talk
about my favourite singers. Yet, this culture is not in my
soul it does not echo in my heart. I wanted to be a part of
my new Iberian country, but when I remember a lullaby
my mother used to sing a cold Nordic winter night; when
guests have gone home and the party is over, I know I’m
forever a pretender. I have lived here long, too long, but if
I go to back to the old country I will be a stranger walking
in a town where no one knows my name and I’ll dream of
my mythical Portugal.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Winter's sun
There is something about the winter's sun,
That aspires hope after struggle
The wait for tomorrow after
long cold shivering nights;
is the optimism attached
to the winter's sun.
There is something about the winter's sun.
The Florescence of the beaming rays
the calmness of the flowing sunshine:
convinces me about the warmth,
of the winter's sun
There is something about the winter's sun.
The tender hugging of the sunbeams
on the exposed numb body:
confirms about the comfort provided
by the winter's sun
There is something about the winter's sun.
Those for whom is the winter's suffering
the warmth of the sun is also for them.
Relieving them that, a part of the
sunshine belongs to them
Of the winter's sun.
poem by Azmat Naushad Asif
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The Sullen Tide Rush
A sullen tide
rushed upon thy rock-happiness
looking at him
staring
running, hiding
I want his head
regained trust as a pond after a rainstorm
a sullen tide
rust again
Sullen Tide rushes,
soaked rocked-happiness
He came up
without me knowing
I surprised
He asked if I was doing fine
I responded better
I forgot
he reopened scar
Sullen Tide rushes,
soaked rocked-happiness
LET IT OUT!
HATRED
GLOOM KNOCKS ME OUT!
HATRED OVERCOMES
crying, hating,
in a kingdom of Tumult
Cut, cut, cut into pieces
caught in a sullen tide
Hatred overcomes once again
Like a rush of sullen tide
A sullen tide rushes upon thy rocked-happiness
poem by Alexandros Sandoval
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Mac
In every little country place, all up and down the land,
From ageing cradles of the race to Never-Never Land
From the towns about the cities to the little towns out back,
There dwells a man of all trades; and he's mostly known as 'Mac.'
He's dwelt there since the Lord knows when and never seems to die;
And everybody, now and then, when his present job is thro' -
And twenty other little jobs that he has still to do.
A plumbing job, a painting job, a bit of fence to mend;
They want him in a hurry; and he's everybody's friend.
Kettle-mending, carpentry, a bit of scrub to cut -
There's nothing comes amiss to him - a door that will not shut,
A safe that will not open, or a roof that hangs askew,
A plough to mend, a pump to tend - there's nothing he can't do.
He has never learned a single trade, yet somehow has the knack;
And, no matter what the trouble is, it's safe to send for 'Mac.'
He never makes much money, yet he never seems to care,
Tho' a dozen jobs await him, he has heaps of time to spare -
A friendly yarn, a cup of tea, a piece of sage advice,
He's willing for them every day, and never counts the price
Of half an hour or half a day spent in a neighbor's need.
He sells his toil, but not his time. For what is time, indeed,
Save for a man to labor in just as he feels inclined?
So, if Smith's job amuses him, Brown's job can lag behind.
In every little country place he's known, or once was known,
Ere the urge that men call Progress claimed the broad earth for its own,
When man found pride in labor and the cunning of his hand,
Nor set a price in money on the arts he could command.
And many a little country place with pride today can show
Some sturdy structure 'built by 'Mac' nigh fifty year ago.'
Oh, they jerry-built their palaces; but many a stout bush shack
Shall stand to honor workmanship of that proud workman, 'Mac.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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