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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/15/2008 8:56:25 PM | i love you
Dont Do This
i love you
You'll Hurt Me
i love you
How Could You
i love you
You Think I'll Change
i love you
You're Foolish
i love you
I'm Frightened
i love you
I'm The Bikini Atoll
i love you
I'm A Razor
i love you
I Am A Door
i love you
I Am a Locked Door
i love you
I Am A White Shadow
i love you
You Don't Listen
i love you
I Am Not Your Mirror
i love you
I Am A Death Magnet
i love you
Love Is Thin
i love you
I Am Fat
i love you
Did You Take Your Medication Today
i love you
Will I Be Safe
i love you
Can I Keep My Soul
i love you
You Lie
i love you
I Lie
i love you
ILoveYouTooCanWePleaseKeepTheLightsOff | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 12:26:29 AM | met a man tonight...
he called himself bionic
legs made of metal
as well as an arm
his warmth
melts me
his eyes
reads me
his spirit
moves me
i am excited
to explore him
and him me....
if only figuratively..
or maybe literally...hmm!! | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 7:37:11 AM | oh rosie, MAKE it literally
i only dream of love
my soul falling
into the moonlight
with Ludwig
i wear his notes
in silk trailing yards
behind me
delicate sorrow fingering
the night like dark branches
wounding the moon
my soul leans into the immense love
i know was my sonata
tenderly each note caresses
arpeggios glissando
the moon sailing across my thighs
my sighs tidal flats shimmering
shallow and soft
spiraling like the conch
echoing eternal ecstasy | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 7:47:43 AM | yes
i am ravenous
i hunger with need
i am rain on
a parched ground
searing rivers of sand
aching for the wave
to lap her shore
the fish who
can't live out of water
drowning in air
open mouthed and moaning
crying to be fed | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 8:13:51 AM | oh rosie
yes
word whore
perfect
receiving them all
a flowing passion
from me to them
the constant giving
again and again
the constant wanting
more more more
the only mantra
obsession howls | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 8:25:40 AM | cliterature would make a great thread title LOL
I loved the "I love you" one and the version you posted on "just some lyrics" | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 8:34:16 AM | | LOL!!! yeah, i seriously thought of that when i got here, but didn't think i had the chops to live up to that title.... i probably don't!!! thanks for stopping by, luvly to meet you | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 10:17:59 AM | 
"CLITORATURE!!!!"
Release the hounds.......LOVE LOVE LOVE it and just for you:
Enduring the Rub by oneself
is a healthy clitorial right!!
Ecstasy at no cost or fright!!
(check out the thread "ODE TO THE CLIT"!!!
For the pleasure you seek
Men will soon be falling at your feet
Just use that "Silver Tongue"
and a little teeth!!!!
 | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 2:43:50 PM | tongue, lips, pallette
in adoring the phallic
by adding a tiny nip
right at the very tip
gives the meat more zip
now where'd i leave my whip??????????????????????
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 3:08:09 PM | laying satiated in the woods
openly wearing just our sweat and the stars
glowing like the moon
with glistening loins
sardonically she spanks
flesh sounds reverb in night air
raw beasts in explicit splendor
pulled from a dead thread | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 3:37:27 PM | god will strike me dead for this thread on a sunday no less.....
but i WAS thinking about the beast in passion too today....
and the madness in deep deep desire
someone has a thread going here on poems with opposites...and i immediately thought madness/desire...but no, they are so often one and the same thing....
this desire, this madness
this slow rolling release of
long pearls of passion strung
on knotted silk between pink petals
oh! how love devours us!
helplessly we watch as our
heart floats by
trying to clutch the shore of sanity
while surrendering to the
complete death of self
in adoration of another | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 3:53:29 PM | if passion dont drive ya mad, it aint passion, just a dry hump on a horny day, a weak fix to a dire need.. and death of self in adoration of another; what an abhoring concept, would think its quite rather the opposite , a liberation of deepest self whilst discovering one another and growing to new heights, evolving and transcending. but then what do i know, just a mongrel howlin at the moon.
what thread is that Swan? the one on opposites | |
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| reversing the spell...
Posted: 3/16/2008 4:31:45 PM | no no no
i speak of that moment, that infinitesimal parsec when you do lose yourself, meld into, melt into the other - there is no you at that moment, but the us - and of course, you are ultimately more yourself, but i do believe it is a sacred unfolding, unravelling of the one - who is never the point - (ok, i'm a bit touchy on this, i was married to a vapid narcissist) - the importance of sharing a heart, a soul is the truth of what we are.... i imagine love like that moment cavemen discovered fire - out of that dark world, the wonderful burning, burning, burning - we love flame, we love fire, we love light.
i forget, i seem to be thinking a viking thread???? i was intrigued by the strange nordic name attached to it. it should only be a page or two back. | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/16/2008 5:16:24 PM | And I have felt:
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit that impels.
THE ZIPP  | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/16/2008 5:24:00 PM | zipp, i like that - "whose dwelling is the light of setting suns"
and how often i have felt that in no man's mind " a motion and spirit that impels" - nice to finally meet them here  | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/16/2008 6:02:32 PM | I don't buy the lines in magazines
That tell me what I've gotta be
Don't base my life on a movie screen
Don't fit the mold society
Has Planned
I don't need to be 19 years old
Or starve myself for some weight I'm told
Or turn women's heads down that road
And I thank God I finally know
Just who I am
I ain't a movie star
They never see the view from where they are
And this old town may be as far as I'm goin'
What she'll hold tonight in her hands
She swears is so much better than
Anything this old world
Can show her
I'm a real live man
In love with this woman I see lyin' here next to me
Lost in the way that she's holdin'
This real live man
In the arms of a woman where I'll fall asleep knowin' there's
Nothin' on earth she loves more than
This real live man
I work 9-5 and I can't relate
To millionaires who somehow fate
Has smiled upon and fortune made their
Common lives a better place to be
And I no longer justify
Reasons for the way that I behave
I offer no apologies
For the things that I believe and say
And I like it that way
Cause I'm a real live man
In love with this woman I see lyin' here next to me
Lost in the way that she's holdin'
This real live man
In the arms of a woman where I'll fall asleep knowin' there's
Nothin' on earth she loves more than
This real live man | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/16/2008 6:06:31 PM |  I just had to come see who zippythehippy was..
great name, man. lol
nice write, too. | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/17/2008 1:44:15 PM | i am totally loving the lyrics being posted lately..... these could be great great songs!!!
in honor of this day, a few irish poems:
from ARMAGEDDON ARMAGEDDON
Paul Muldoon
When Oisin came back to Ireland
After three hundred years
On one of those enchanted island
Somewhere in the Western Seas
He thought nothing of dismounting
From his enchanted steed
To be one again with the mountain,
The bogs and the little fields.
There and then he began to stoop
His hair, and all his teeth, fell out,
A mildewed belt, a rusted buckle,
The clays were heavy, black or yellow,
Those were the colors of his boots,
And I know something of how he felt.
DE CIVITATE HOMINUM
Thomas MacGreevy
The morning sky glitters
Winter blue.
The earth is snow- white,
With the gleam snow- white answers to sunlight,
Save where the shell-holes are new,
Black spots in the whiteness-
A Matisse ensemble.
The shadows of whitened tree stumps
Are another white.
And there are white bones.
Zillbeke Lake and Hooge,
Ice gray, gleam differently,
Like the silver shoes of the model.
The model is our world,
Our bittch of a world.
Those who live between wars may not know
But we who die between peaces do
Whether we die or not.
It is very cold.
And, what with my sensations
And my spick and span subaltern's uniform
I might be the famous brass monkey,
The 'nature morte ' accessory.
Morte...!
'Tis still life that lives,
Not quick life -
There are fleece-white flowers of death
That unfold themselves prettily
About an airman
Who, high over Gheluvelt,
Is taking a morning look round,
All silk and silver
Up in the blue.
I hear the drone of an engine
And soft pounding puffs in the air
As the fleece-white flowers unfold.
I cannot tell which flower he has accepted
But suddenly there is a tremor,
A zigzag of lines against the blue
And he streams down
Into the white,
A delicate flame,
A stroke of orange in the morning's dress.
My sargeant says, very low, "Holy God!
'Tis a fearful death."
Holy God makes no reply
Yet.
HOPE
Frank O'Connor
Life has conquered, the wind has blown away
Alexander, Caesar and all their power and sway;
Tara and Troy have made no longer stay -
Maybe the English too will have their day. | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/17/2008 4:22:59 PM | SPECIAL DELIVERY
john monatague
The Spider's web
of your handwriting
on a blue envelope
brings up too much
to bear, old sea-sickness
of love, retch
of sentiment, night
and day devoured by
the worm of delight
which turns to
feed upon itself;
emotion running so
wildly to seed
between us that
it assumes a third,
a ghost or child's
face, the soft skull
pale as an eggshell
& the life-cord
of the emerging body -
fish, reptile, bird-
which trails
like the cable
of an astronaut
as we whirl & Turn
in our blubble of
blood & sperm
before the gravities
of earth claim us
from limitless space.
Now, light years later
your nostalgic letter
admitting failure,
claiming forgiveness.
When fire pales to
so faint an ash
so frail a design
why measure guilt
your fault or mine:
but blood seeps where
I sign before tearing
down the perforated line.
WINDHARP
John Montague
The sounds of Ireland,
that restless whispering
you never get away
from, seeping out of
low bushes and grass,
heatherbells and fern,
wrinkling bog pools,
scraping tree branches
light hunting cloud,
sound hounding sight,
a hand ceaselessly
combing and stroking
the landscape, till
the valley gleams
like the pile upon
a mountain pony's coat.
CAVE
John Montague
The rifled honeycomb
of the high rise hotel
where a wind tunnel moans.
While jungleclad troops
ransack the Falls*, race
through huddled streets,
we lie awake, the wide
window washed with rain,
your oval face, and tide of
yellow hair luminous
as you turn to me again
seeking refuge as the
cave of night blooms
with fresh explosions
* between the Falls and Shankill Roads were the legenday battles waged in Belfast during the "troubles"
ALL NIGHT
John Montague
All night spider webs
of nothing. Condemned to
that treadmill of helplessness.
Distended, drowning fish,
frogs with lion's jaws.
A woman breasted butterfly
copulates with a dying bat.
A pomegranate bursts slowly
between her ladyship's legs.
Her young peep out
with bared teeth;
the eggs of hell
fertilizing the abyss.
frail skyscrapers incline
together like stilts.
grain elevators emlt.
cities subside as liners
leave by themselves
all radios playing.
a friendly hand places
a warm bomb under
the community centre
where the last evacuees
are trying a hymn.
Still singing, they
part for limbo, still
tucking their blankets
over separating limbs.
A land I did not seek
to enter. Pure terror.
Ice floes sail past
grandly as battleships.
Blue gashed arctic distances
ache the retina and
the silence grows to
a sparkle of starlight-
sharpened knives.
Lift up your telescope,
old colonel, and learn
to lurch with the penguins!
In the final place
a solitary being begins
its slow dance....................
FALLS FUNERAL
John Montague
Unmarked faces
fierce with grief
a line of children
led by a small coffin
the young
mourning the young
a sight beyond tears
beyond pious belief
David's brethren
in the Land of Goliath.
THE YELLOW BITTERN
Tom MacIntyre
Sickens my gut, Yellow Bittern,
To see you stretched there,
Whipped, not by starvation
But the want of a jar;
Troy's fall was skittles to this,
You flattened on bare stones,
You harmed no one, pillaged no crop,
Your preference always, the wee drop.
Sours my spit, Yellow Bittern
Thought of you done for,
Heard your shout many's the night,
You mudlarkin' - and no want of a jar;
At that game I'll shape a coffin,
So all claim - but look at this,
a darlin' bird downed like a thistle,
Causa mortis: couldn't wet his whistle!!!
Snads my bones, Yellow Bittern, that's fact,
Your last earthlies under a bush,
Rats next - rats for the waking,
Pipes in their mouths, and them all smoking;
Christ's sake, if you'd only sent word,
Tipped me the wink you were in a bind,
Dunt of a crow-bar, the ice splitter-splatter,
Nothing to stop another week on the batter.
Heron, blackbird, thrush- they've had it too,
Sorry friends, I'm occupied,
I'm blinds down for the Yellow Bittern,
A blood relation - on my mother's side;
Whole hog merchants, we lived it up,
Carpe'd our diem, hung out our sign,
Collared life's bottle, disregarding the label,
Angled our elbows, met under the table
While the wife moaned with the rest
'Give it up - you're finished- a year'-
I told her she lied,
My staple and staff for the regular jar,
Now - naked proof - this lad with a gullet
Who, forced on the dry, surely prayed for a bullet,
NO, men, drink it up - and piss it down,
Warm them worms waitin' under the ground!
JOHN DONNE
James Simmons
When you lost touch with lover's bare skin
how could textures not get thin
in your verse. The real blood the fleas sucked
that sang through your and her veins when you fvcked
was lost for God's magic bargain drops
and life was teasing torture, nice when it stops.
Genius is tempted to ingenious lying,
to brazening out betrayal, justifying
such acts as that old interfering king
forced you toward. You could do anything!
After a brave attempt to marry free,
gaoled and neglected, yo chose piety,
turned an encrusted back on sweet enjoyment,
and - FVCK YOU JOHN - made love to your employment
improvising belief after the fact,
acting in bad faith, living the act,
faking a hot lust for the Holy Ghost!
dare dispute because I loved you most,
They'll say I want you to write more like me,
with truly liberal consistency;
but your young self, your verse, condemns defection
from the erection to the resurrection
bullying congregations like a bawd
for Him, then grovelling, Gawd!
It was a difficult position,
like Galileo's with the Inquisition;
but he at least had grace to stay indoors
and not make weapons for the torturers,
You, having once made such a lovely fuss
on Love's behalf, betrayed her, worse than us.
HISTORY
James Uddy
"Tell us, streaming lady,
The cause of your wave travel
Have you left your man
You're certainly in a bad state."
"I have no husband I have
not touched a man, Fenian
King of character, I have
the fondness for your son."
"To which of my sons, sexual
Blossoming flower, are you giving
Passion the opportunity
Tell us the whole story, girlie."
"I'll tell you, Finn, it's that
Witty blonde son of yours
Oisin with his beautiful
Bright arms that are so long."
"You're strong for him I see,
Virgin of the unstroked hair,
Why him - there are many
Youths with wealth of skin."
"The cause is, Fenian father
I came all that distance
because his soul's a mansion
His body has a bedroom in
Many king's chit and courtling
Offered their browness to get
My love - I never gave my lips
I warmly dreamed of Oisin's."
Laying my hand on you, Patrick,
It's no shame to a sensual pagan
Every inch of me was panting
for the tresses none had rifled
I clasped her soft sweating hand
Gasped in trembling sweet talk:
"I thank you for saying all that
About me, lovely little lady
You are the nicest girlie I've met -
I would prefer to be marched off
By you in chains than by any
Others I've danced with."
"I have my spell on you, Oisin,
You are a hero and now my husband
Get up on my nag and we'll ride
To the cosmetic suburbs of rejuvenation."
On the horse's back I was put
The untouched feminine in front;
"Let us steal softly out of town,
Oisin, until we reach my place."
(translated from the Gaelic)
PROOF
Brendan Kennelly
I would like all things to be free of me,
Never to murder the days with presupposition.
Never to feel they suffer the imposition
Of having to be this or that. How easy
It is to maim the moment
With expectation, to force it to define
Itself. Beyond all that I am, the sun
Scatters its light as though by accident.
The fox eats its own leg in the trap
To go free. As it limps through the grass
The earth itself appears to bleed.
When the morning light comes up
Who knows what suffering midnight was?
Proof is what I do not need.
LIMBO
Seamus Heany
Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,
A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I'm sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly
Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.
She waded in under
the sign of her cross,
He was hauled in with the fish,
Now limbo will be
A cold litter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ's palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.
REQUIEM FOR THE CROPPIES*
S. Heaney
The pockets of our great coats full of barley
No kitchens on the run, no strking camp
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people, hardly marching - on the hike -
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August, the barley grew up out of the grave.
* a sarcastic term for the rebels of 1798, there is also a patch called the Croppy Acre along the Liffey where the mass graves of the executed were discovered
from A NORTHERN HOARD
S. Heaney
Leaf membranes lid the window.
In the streetlamp's glow
Your body's moonstruck
to drifted barrow, sunk glacial rock.
And all shifts dreamily as you keen
Far off, turning from the din
of gunshot, siren and clucking gas
Out there beyond each curtained terrace
Where the fault is opening. The touch of love,
Your warmth heaving to the first move,
Grows helpless in our old Gomorrah.
We petrify or uproot now.
I'll dream it for us before dawn
When the pale sniper steps down
And I approach the shrub.
I've soaked by moonlight in tidal blood
A mandrake, lodged human fork,
Earth sac, limb of the dark;
And I wound its damp smelly loam
And stop my ears against the scream.
MOSSBAWN: for Mary Heaney
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternooon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
THE SMALL HOTEL
Michael Longley
The back of the mind is a small hotel
And when the residents go on picnics
Or take buckets and spades down to the sea
The betrayals begin: each crumpled sheet
Its own story; and the dressing table
And the chest of drawers open like books,
So that no one escapes the chamber maid
Who becomes a waitress at dinner time,
Or the night porter's knowledgeable smile.
NORTHERN IRELAND: TWO COMMENTS
Seamus Deane
ONE: A HUSBAND
History, the angel, was stirred
To turn her face upon us. Bird
Or beast, as she turned,
The streets split and burned.
Homeward she glanced and we cried
At the feathery rush of her wide
And spreadeagling wings
Which the wind has split and flings
So severely back that it seems
She cannot fly. In her face the wind screams.
TWO: A WIFE
We seem them kill as they have always done,
Imperialists in their khaki slum;
Men who hold a watching brief
For the permanence of grief.
See the street consumed by wind,
Blurred by fire and thinned
To those cadaverous bones
Which the Norwich Union owns?
There is the gaunt power
That sucks men for their marrow.
FOR MY GRANDMOTHER, BRIDGET HALPIN
Michael Hartnett
maybe morning lightens over
the coldest time in all the day,
but not for you: a bird's hover,
seabird, blackbird, or bird of prey
was rain, or death, or lost cattle:
the day's warning, like red plovers
so etched and small the clouded sky,
was book to you, and true bible.
you died in utter loneliness,
your acres left to the childless.
you never saw the animals
of God, and the flower under
your feet: and the trees change a leaf:
and the red fur of the fox on
a quiet evening: and the long
birches falling down the hillside.
A SMALL FARM
Michael Hartnett
All the perversions of the soul
I learnt on a small farm.
How to do the neighbours harm
by magic, how to hate.
I was abandoned to their tragedies,
minor but unhealing:
bitterness over boggy land,
casual stealing of crops,
venomous cardgames
across swearing tables,
a little music on the road,
a little peace in decrepit stables.
Here were rosarybeads,
a bleeding face,
the glinting doors
that did encase
their cutler needs,
their plates, their knives,
the cracked calendars
of their lives.
I was abandoned to their tragedies
and began to count the birds,
to deduce secrets in the kitchen cold
and to avoid among my nameless weeds
the civil war of that household.
VISITING THE DEAD
Ciaran Carson
When she was found
Her tongue protruded from her gums;
Her face was knuckled,
Her hands clenched on the sheet.
Now her skin has eased out,
New washed cloth in shich the wrinkles fade
Beneath the iron's hiss.
They have laid her in clean linen.
We drink tea from her best china.
A knot of mourners unravels upstairs;
A maiden aunt descends, weeping softly
Into her starched handkerchief.
When they brought down the body,
The coffin stuck in the crooked staircase.
We hesitated, awkward in our best suits,
Then rushed to help, and freed her.
THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE
W B Yeats
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ’twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
AEDH TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS HEART
W B Yeats
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart
THE HOST OF THE AIR
W B Yeats
O'Driscoll drove with a song,
The wild duck and the drake,
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
INTO THE TWILIGHT
W B Yeats
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/17/2008 7:54:02 PM | "yes it's true, yes it's true,
you are ugly"
and oh how we scratch
at the light of a moon
or pry at the yellow
of a sun
Hadn't had a chance to read your last posts^^there
But yours, Great reading here, Silverswan!.
Thanks for sharing you with us. | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/18/2008 3:44:40 AM |
my soul falling
into the moonlight
with Ludwig
i wear his notes
in silk trailing yards
behind me
Absolutely beautiful | |
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| The Quilt
Posted: 3/18/2008 12:30:18 PM | goodday om and salty, thanks for stopping by
here is the emptiness
to which this day has led
this heavy void
an airless peace
it is very quiet on the moon
even though the flag planted there
seems to be in a howling gale
America hates limpness
be in it in wrists on the
sensitive temperment
or in dikks on the macho men
too bad viagra won't pump up
the limp excuses of men
who sold our power to the lords of oil
ignored our votes, condoned waterboarding
spit on our bill of rights by tapping our phones
and monitoring our internet usage
and to make sure we ex flower children
don't wake up from our SUV loving haze
and get ideas of dissent seeing boxes
lined up on airfields again, banned
all pictures of returning coffins.
yes, this is a very thick and heavy air we breathe
the better not to see what is really happening
on the news...how else did they find all that
extra air time for Britney's latest breakdown
or some dead sluts little angel in an eyepatch? | |
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