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My trumpeting sounds like a goose farting in the fog.

quote by Alex O'Loughlin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Looking For A Goose To Cook

When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Move your hoofs.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Someone's got you hooked!

When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Move your hoofs.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Someone's got you hooked!

I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
Move my hoofs.
And I don't want to be,
Saddled down...
By a lover,
Looking for a goose to cook.

I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
Move my hoofs.
And I don't want to be,
Saddled down...
By a lover,
Looking for a goose to cook.

When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Move your hoofs.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Someone's got you hooked!

I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
Move my hoofs.
And I don't want to be,
Saddled down...
By a lover...
Looking for a goose to cook.

Many looking at a saddled goose to cook.
And I don't want to be a saddled goose to cook.
Many looking at a saddled goose to cook.
And I don't want to be a saddled goose to cook.

I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Lay of a Golden Goose

Long ago in a poultry yard
One dull November morn,
Beneath a motherly soft wing
A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the shell
To view the world beyond,
Longing at once to sally forth
And paddle in the pond.

"Oh! be not rash," her father said,
A mild Socratic bird;
Her mother begged her not to stray
With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse,
And eagerly did cry,
"I've got a lovely pair of wings,
Of course I ought to fly."

In vain parental cacklings,
In vain the cold sky's frown,
Ambitious goosey tried to soar,
But always tumbled down.

The farmyard jeered at her attempts,
The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie!
You're only a domestic goose,
So don't pretend to fly."

Great cock-a-doodle from his perch
Crowed daily loud and clear,
"Stay in the puddle, foolish bird,
That is your proper sphere,"

The ducks and hens said, one and all,
In gossip by the pool,
"Our children never play such pranks;
My dear, that fowl's a fool."

The owls came out and flew about,
Hooting above the rest,
"No useful egg was ever hatched
From transcendental nest."

Good little goslings at their play
And well-conducted chicks
Were taught to think poor goosey's flights
Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

[...] Read more

poem by Louisa May Alcott
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The Christmas Goose

Mr. Smiggs was a gentleman,
And he lived in London town;
His wife she was a good kind soul,
And seldom known to frown.

'Twas on Christmas eve,
And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
When the thought of buying a goose
Came into his head.

So the next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
He jump'd out of bed,
And he donn'd his clothes,

Saying, "Peggy, my dear.
You need not frown,
For I'll buy you the best goose
In all London town."

So away to the poultry shop he goes,
And bought the goose, as he did propose,
And for it he paid one crown,
The finest, he thought, in London town.

When Smiggs bought the goose
He suspected no harm,
But a naughty boy stole it
From under his arm.

Then Smiggs he cried, "Stop, thief!
Come back with my goose!"
But the naughty boy laugh'd at him,
And gave him much abuse.

But a policeman captur'd the naughty boy,
And gave the goose to Smiggs,
And said he was greatly bother'd
By a set of juvenile prigs.

So the naughty boy was put in prison
For stealing the goose.,
And got ten days' confinement
Before he got loose.

So Smiggs ran home to his dear Peggy,
Saying, "Hurry, and get this fat goose ready,
That I have bought for one crown;
So, my darling, you need not frown."

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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My view of fog

People often view fog in one way only
I personally don't see it that way, and...
the feeling it conjures is more than just lonely
It's totally different...
as night is to day

It depends on your age and your state of mind
to be able to see fog in a different light
To see it one way only is to be partially blind
and most peoples vision is locked in...
too tight

Fog, coldly defined, is water suspended in air
And while defined so, gives no true definition, and yet
we know fog can defy easy description and,
can tiptoe soft as a kitten....or slither snake-like
from it's lair

To a child, fog's a soft, hidey-place plaything,
droplets of laughter, giggling out of the mist
hiding in nothing, giving seek a new twist..and
letting young imaginations
take wing

To young boys, almost men, fog's a tool to test mettle
in a graveyard, on a dare, all alone
fog and fear become one, and coldly come to settle
chilling young challengers
deep to the bone

To men at sea, fog's a curse and a bane
breaking out of the gloom, looms a tall prow
fog's become predator, a creature profane
bearing down on small boats
like a plow

To young lovers, a warm blanket, a caressing embrace
Soft arms of mist
massage and insist...that
limbs, fog, and lips
interlace

To city dwellers, who walk the streets late at night
Fog is a stalker
pursuing the walker
Waiting to pounce..when no one's
in sight

Ask any ten people, 'what's the odor of fog? ' And...
you'll get different replies, from ten different guys,

[...] Read more

poem by David Whalen
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The Rhyme Of The Three Sealers

Away by the lands of the Japanee
Where the paper lanterns glow
And the crews of all the shipping drink
In the house of Blood Street Joe,
At twilight, when the landward breeze
Brings up the harbour noise,
And ebb of Yokohama Bay
Swigs chattering through the buoys,
In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining-Rooms
They tell the tale anew
Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight,
When the ~Baltic~ ran from the ~Northern Light~
And the ~Stralsund~ fought the two.

Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he proves with shot and steel,
When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye must not take the seal,
Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the weed-hung shelves,
And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin
and the seal they breed for themselves;
For when the ~matkas~ seek the shore to drop their pups aland,
The great man-seal haul out of the sea, a-roaring, band by band;
And when the first September gales have slaked their rutting-wrath,
The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no man knows their path.
Then dark they lie and stark they lie -- rookery, dune, and floe,
And the Northern Lights come down o' nights to dance with the houseless snow;
And God Who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe,
He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the wind along the snow.
But since our women must walk gay and money buys their gear,
The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard year by year.
English they be and Japanee that hang on the Brown Bear's flank,
And some be Scot, but the worst of the lot, and the boldest thieves, be Yank!

It was the sealer ~Northern Light~, to the Smoky Seas she bore,
With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port and the Russian flag at her fore.
(~Baltic~, ~Stralsund~, and ~Northern Light~ --
oh! they were birds of a feather --
Slipping away to the Smoky Seas, three seal-thieves together!)
And at last she came to a sandy cove and the Baltic lay therein,
But her men were up with the herding seal to drive and club and skin.
There were fifteen hundred skins abeach, cool pelt and proper fur,
When the ~Northern Light~ drove into the bight
and the sea-mist drove with her.
The ~Baltic~ called her men and weighed -- she could not choose but run --
For a stovepipe seen through the closing mist, it shows like a four-inch gun.
(And loss it is that is sad as death to lose both trip and ship
And lie for a rotting contraband on Vladivostock slip.)
She turned and dived in the sea-smother as a rabbit dives in the whins,
And the ~Northern Light~ sent up her boats to steal the stolen skins.
They had not brought a load to side or slid their hatches clear,
When they were aware of a sloop-of-war, ghost-white and very near.

[...] Read more

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Hole In My Head

Hole in my head
hole in my head
I need a boy like you like a hole in my head
I need a boy like you like a hole in my head
Let's just say we will and then don't instead

Wild goose chase
Wild goose chase
You're gonna take me boy on a wild goose chase
You're gonna take me boy on a wild goose chase
You better find somebody to take my place

You took my imagination and stomped it inthe ground
Now I can only think about you
chasin' the tracks that you left around

Hole in my head
hole in my head
Oh I need a boy like you like a hole in my head
I need a boy like you like a hole in my head
You make me feel so bad that I wish I was dead

Let the games begin
Yeah here I go again
I'm never gonna win

It must have knocked me crazy
it must have hit me hard
People must think I'm lazy
Like my shuffle's short
of playing a card

Wild goose chase
Wild goose chase
Oh I need a boy like you
like a wild goose chase
I need a boy like you
like a wild goose chase
You better find somebody to take my place

Let the games begin
Yeah here I go again

I need a boy like you (I need a boy like you)
I need a boy like you (I need a boy like you)

I need a boy like you
Like a hole in my head
Hole in my head
Hole in my head

[...] Read more

song performed by Dixie Chicks from Fly
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The Fog

The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow,
Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know
How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim.
Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots on the ocean’s rim.
Feeling the sands with its furtive hands, fingering cape and cove.
Where the sweet salt smells of the nearer swells up the sloping hillside rove;
Where the whimpering sea-gulls swoop and soar, and the great king-herons go,
The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

Then a stillness fell on crag and cliff, on beach and breaker fell,
As the sea-breeze brought on its final whiff the note of a distant bell,
One faint, far sound, and the fog unwound its mantle across the lea.
Joined hand in hand with a wind from land, and the twain went out to sea.
And the wind that rose spoke soft, of those who watch on the cliffs at dawn,
And the fog’s white lips, of sinking ships where the tortured tempests spawn,
As, each to each, they told once more such things as fishers know,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !

Oh, the wan, white hours go limping by, when that pall comes in between
The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green!
Nor sane young day, nor swirl of spray, as the cat’s-paws lunge and lift;—
On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fishermen’s dories drift.
For the fishing-craft that leapt and laughed are swallowed in ghostly gray:
Only God’s eyes may see where lies the lap of the sheltered bay,
So their dories grope, for lost their lore, witlessly to and fro,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !

Oh, men of the fleet, ’t is ye who learn, of the white fog’s biting breath,
That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn be death!
Though they on the lea look out to sea for the woe or the weal of you,
The ominous East, like a hungry beast, is waiting your tidings, too.
A night and a day, mayhap, ye stray; a day and a night, perchance,
The dory is led toward Marblehead, or pointed away for France;
The shore may save, or the sea may score, in the unknown final throw,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

Ah, God of the Sea, what joy there lies in that first faint hint of sun!—
When the pallid curtains sulking rise, and the reaches wider run,
When a wind from the west on the sullen breast of the waters shoulders near,
And the blessed blue of the sky looks through, as the fog-wreaths curl and clear.
Ah, God, what joy when the gallant buoy, swung high on a sudden swell,
Puts fear to flight like a dream of night with its calm, courageous bell,
And the dory trips the sea’s wide floor with the verve ’t was wont to know,
And the fog slinks back to Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1901)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Rime Of The Ancient Mariner, The

IN SEVEN PARTS

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum
universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et gradus et
cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera ? Quid agunt ? quae loca
habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam
attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in
tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta
hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas
cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut
certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. - T. Burnet, Archaeol.
Phil., p. 68 (slightly edited by Coleridge).

Translation
-------------------

ARGUMENT

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country
towards the South Pole ; and how from thence she made her course to the
tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things
that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own
Country.

PART I

An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and
detaineth one.

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
`By thy long beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,
`There was a ship,' quoth he.
`Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and
constrained to hear his tale.

He holds him with his glittering eye--
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child :

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner

IN SEVEN PARTS

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum
universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et gradus et
cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera ? Quid agunt ? quae loca
habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam
attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in
tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta
hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas
cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut
certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. - T. Burnet, Archaeol.
Phil., p. 68 (slightly edited by Coleridge).

Translation
-------------------

ARGUMENT

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country
towards the South Pole ; and how from thence she made her course to the
tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things
that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own
Country.

PART I

An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and
detaineth one.

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
`By thy long beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,
`There was a ship,' quoth he.
`Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and
constrained to hear his tale.

He holds him with his glittering eye--
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child :

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Mother's Opinion

Mother's opinion is that we're too young to be old
And mother's opinion is we should never do what we are told
And mothers reactions are the same as they were before
And mothers anterior she gave us all of this and much more
And mothers superior, she's been through all this before
She's got a lot of things she wants to tell you
Like who you are and what you've came here for
Mothers reaction hasn't changed much since the war
And mothers opinion is the same as it was before
And mothers anterior she's got a lot of tricks up her sleeve
And mothers superior, gave us everything that we need
And mother superior, she's been through all this before
She's got a lot of things she wants to tell you
Like who you are and what you've came here for
I say hey, it sounds familiar, but it just doesn't sound the same
I say hey, it sounds familiar, but just a million miles away, hey, hey, hey
And mothers reactions are the same as they were before
And mothers anterior she gave us all of this and much more
I say hey, it sounds familiar, but it just doesn't sound the same
I say hey, it sounds familiar, just a million miles away, hey, hey, hey
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away, away!
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away, away

song performed by Men Without Hats
Added by Lucian Velea
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As The Fog Rolls In

Kerouac comes out of the fog & mist
a ghost smoking a joint
offers me some
finally -

what suffering I think
to scratch out a few lines
stolen from the humming dynamo
which spins the universe -

cars pass along the low road
more pass on the higher road
red & blue lights along the horizon
disappear in the thick Atlantic fog
which swallows all remaining lights
car headlights
the farmer arrives turning on the light
which floods out through the barn doors
releases the horses to wander around their corral
the big red horse moves towards the fence
eyes me wishing to speak to me
or just looking for a treat
or someone to stroke his head

a Chinese flute is playing
such sad high fragile notes
as the fog rolls in
someone is teasing a tabla drum in the distance
as the fog rolls in from the gray Atlantic
someone is strumming a sitar
as the fog rolls in
someone is playing a jig on a fiddle
as the fog rolls in
everything has its own theme music
from the fog rolling in
to the celestial bodies
rolling across the firmament -

an ancient voice in the distance bellows
an old god reawakening
rising out of the sea
of myths & dreams
turns into a prosaic electronic being
the fog rolls in stays for days
our world shrinks
the buzzing stars a delight
as if dying one by one
as the black curtain is drawn shut
the distant hills disappear
lights flicker on towers then fade

[...] Read more

poem by Gordon Coombes
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Chocked

Trees above her, below her, to each side of her
Fog obstracting her view, where should she be?
She cannot tell what day it is anymore than she can tell what time it is
which way should she turn?
The fog swallows her feet
When she thinks she has found the right path, she sees an opening...
Then the fog shollows it
She has been mislead again
...and again
......and again
She screams, shes tired, she is choked by the fog, betrayed by the trees
Feels like shes been here forever
Trees that dont talk back anymore
No one is there to guide her
She is lost
The trees and fog are making her second guess every step she makes
mocking her, humilating her, laughing at her
At one time she thought they would lead her
Following each way the breeze decided to sway the trees
Going with the fog because where there is fog there is water
water leads her to place she needs to be
If only the fog was not so thick
if only the trees would talk again
If....If....IF! !
If only she was not lost
The trees and the fog swallows her
Then spits her out when she is nothing more
Nothing is left
Besides a new start
God! Please help me!

poem by Ashley Dowdy
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Choked

Trees above her, below her, to each side of her
Fog obstructing her view, where should she be?
She cannot tell what day it is any more than she can tell what time it is
Which way should she turn?
The fog swallows her feet
When she thinks she has found the right path, she sees an opening...
Then the fog swallows it
She has been misled again
...and again
......and again
She screams, she’s tired; she is choked by the fog, betrayed by the trees
Feels like she’s been here forever
Trees that don’t talk back anymore
No one is there to guide her
She is lost
The trees and fog are making her second guess every step she makes
Mocking her, humiliating her, laughing at her
At one time she thought they would lead her
Following each way the breeze decided to sway the trees
Going with the fog because where there is fog there is water
Water leads her to place she needs to be
If only the fog was not so thick
if only the trees would talk again
If....If....IF! !
If only she was not lost
The trees and the fog swallows her
Then spits her out when she is nothing more
Nothing is left
Besides a new start
God! Please help me!

poem by Ashley Joyce Forbus
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Monkey and Goose, Snake and Bull, and Tiger Lou

Monkey and goose
Snake and bull
And there friend tiger lou
Met at hummingbird's garden
For afternoon tea for two

In hummingbird's garden
Raised the most precious colors
Be they red or blue, pink or white
To all who viewed
It was such a dazzling sight

Somewhere between succulent sips
The question of God's existance
Became more than a quip.
Where is it that God can be found?
Is he here upon Earth's holy ground?

Then goose said, 'I will fly across
This land, my wings are strong and
When it comes to tiring, I have no end
From high away I can see, so please
For certain, I am the one to send.'

Monkey said, 'I can swing from
Tree to tree all day long
So high that I can see
Every aspect of the land
So if anyone goes, let it be me.'

Snake said, 'I will slither, I will crawl
Across the swamp, across the bog
If this God exists surely
I will be the one
To bring back a certainty

Bull steps in as to be not excluded,
'I will cross the plains from end to end
I will search from dawn to dawn
If there be such a place
It will be found by me on Earth's green lawn.'

Tiger steps up with a growl,
'I will go searching in the fields of rice
I will go where the sugarcane grows
I will not stop, so cast my lot,
When I come back, it will be told.'

Then they left, each on a separate road
And they would be gone for many a day

[...] Read more

poem by Midnights Voice
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The Progress Of A Divine: Satire

All priests are not the same, be understood!
Priests are, like other folks, some bad, some good.
What's vice or virtue, sure admits no doubt;
Then, clergy, with church mission, or without;
When good, or bad, annex we to your name,
The greater honour, or the greater shame.

Mark how a country Curate once could rise;
Tho' neither learn'd, nor witty, good, nor wise!
Of innkeeper, or butcher, if begot,
At Cam or Isis bred, imports it not.
A Servitor he was-Of hall, or college?
Ask not-to neither credit is his knowledge.

Four years, thro' foggy ale, yet made him see,
Just his neck-verse to read, and take degree.
A gown, with added sleeves, he now may wear;
While his round cap transforms into a square.
Him, quite unsconc'd, the butt'ry book shall own;
At pray'rs, tho' ne'er devout, so constant known.
Let testimonials then his worth disclose!
He gains a cassock, beaver and a rose.
A Curate now, his furniture review!
A few old sermons, and a bottle-screw.
A Curate?-Where? His name (cries one) recite!
Or tell me this-Is pudding his delight?
Why, our's loves pudding-Does he so?-'tis he!
A Servitor;-Sure Curl will find a key.

His Alma Mater now he quite forsakes;
She gave him one degree, and two he takes.
He now the hood and sleeve of Master wears;
Doctor! (quoth they)-and lo! a scarf he bears!
A swelling, russling, glossy scarf! yet he,
By peer unqualify'd, as by degree.

This Curate learns church-dues, and law to tease,
When time shall serve, for tithes, and surplice-fees;
When 'scapes some portion'd girl from guardian's pow'r,
He the snug licence gets for nuptual hour;
And rend'ring vain her parent's prudent cares,
To sharper weds her, and with sharper shares.
Let babes of poverty convulsive lie;
No bottle waits, tho' babes unsprinkled die.
Half-office serves the fun'ral, if it bring
No hope of scarf, or hatband, gloves, or ring.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Savage
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Fog

As I walk along the coastal road, to the neighbouring bay,
A curtain of thick fog suddenly comes swirling my way.
Through the dense haze, I can spot the odd car headlight,
But everything else is now completely hidden from sight.

With my journey, I decide it isn’t wise to carry on,
As my sense of direction has now completely gone.
I begin to retrace my footsteps back towards the town,
Unable to believe how quickly the fog has come down.

With familiar sights now totally obscured from view,
I feel a little bit lost, and, I admit, a little anxious too.
All around me, there is a dense veil of consuming whiteness,
But it is tinged with a gloomy grey, so there is no brightness.

I spotted the fog earlier, obscuring the nearby hilltops,
But, I carried on, assuming that’s where it would stop.
But the fog came tumbling down, on to the land below;
There wasn’t any nook or cranny, where the fog didn’t go.

As I walk through the fog, I feel cold and get very wet,
But, unfortunately for me, I have a mile or so to go yet.
A seafront shelter, which I passed earlier, looms up ahead;
From this point, there aren’t too many more steps to tread.

As quickly as it came, the thick fog begins to roll away,
Leaving, in its wake, a, fairly decent, midsummer’s day.
Back within the boundary of the town, I feel safe at last,
And feel glad that the thick fog, has now drifted on past.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Fog, Yet Another Point Of View

Fog, Yet Another Point Of View

Near Fisherman’s Wharf, quite late at night
Tendrils of music and mist mix together
Slim young ladies and slender young men
Street musicians, with grand aspirations
Dressed a bit tattered, on lonely street corners
Used as impromptu stages
While fingers of fog probe…searching tentatively…
Testing and tasting

Self-written songs ghost into the night
Tremulous voices, hopefully singing
Few people stop, even less truly listen
Some dropping change in foam cups at their sides
All the while fog sniffs like dogs, at ankles and feet
Touching, licking, testing and tasting

Too young to truly know of their songs deep emotions
Thinking they’ve suffered already most sorrows
More mist now…then music, swirling together
Grey miasma pulling shroud over sound and
The fog slowly thickens,
like pudding congealing
Rising up, bubbling
groping and grasping. Testing and tasting

Some on their corners, in the fog, stay too long
Feral fog surrounds them and bodies dissolve
Then slowly resolve, as if undecided
whether to stay or become haze
Fog softens their sad songs, seems to pull them away
Absorbing them in it’s tentacles
Sucking and pulling, testing and tasting

Grey billows pull capes to their eyes and slink back unwillingly
To the bay as the sun slowly rises
Slowly, so slowly, as if draggiing resistant, reluctant, victims
Wrapped within it’s folds and furls
While appearing still to be
Groping and fondling, testing and tasting

The fogs final retreat, the last vestiges dissipating
Revealing hand-written, hopeful, scattered, sheet music
Strewn on a few empty corners
A few melancholy musicians less tonight
No one will miss them
The fog has found them to it’s liking
has tested and tasted…and taken

poem by David Whalen
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Hemingway's Bizarre Dream: The Oldman And The Fog,1st.Episode

..no longer, the fog..
could see the man
because, another fog..
made of man..
in between
and..no longer, the man..
could see the fog
because, another man..
made of fog..
also in between
so they decided..
the oldman,
and the youngfog..
to have a battle against..
the man made fog,
and the fog made man
and if they won the battle..
they'd exchange their names,
the fog would be the man,
and the man would be the fog..
but if they lost....? ?
turn lights n..
dream's over....
so wait for the next episde..
of Hemingway's bizarre dream, ,
till that decided, , ..
gdspeed, , , ...
and gdsleep....

poem by Ahmed Khaled
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Execute The Sounds

I'm on a mad style
Underground, we come cool and deadly
With that natural sound
It make you feel so free, you no turn it down
Vibe 6-19 from the Southtown
And Jah know, what I and I wanna do
Because Jah know, I am man stay true
You know Jah know, the real who is who
Ain't no time to fake it, make ya feel brand new
It goes 1,2,3. The crew is called P.O.D.
And if you wanna go to the tip top
Break it down, with that one drop - Whyoo
Execute the sounds, and positive come around
Impact the sounds, positive all around
Execute the sounds, and positive come around
Impact the sounds, positive all around
Now why mess me, try to take his crown.
Babylon test me, we gonna smash em down
Original O.G. this is my playground
Don't take me seriously, you gonna feel it now
I man, you know the harder they come
Because I man, I'm gonna get the job done
You know I man, no they don't want none
Me never have to cheat cause me already won.
19'04, home to the real hardcore.
And you don't wanna sleep, don't talk
I'll break you down with that one drop - Whyoo
Execute the sounds, and positive come around
Impact the sounds, positive all around
Execute the sounds, and positive come around
Impact the sounds, positive all around
Execute the sounds, and positive come around
Impact the sounds, positive all around
Execute the sounds, and positive come around
Impact the sounds, positive all around

song performed by P.O.D.
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Tale of the Tiger-Tree

A Fantasy, dedicated to the little poet Alice Oliver Henderson, ten years old.

The Fantasy shows how tiger-hearts are the cause of war in all ages. It shows how the mammoth forces may be either friends or enemies of the struggle for peace. It shows how the dream of peace is unconquerable and eternal.

I

Peace-of-the-Hea rt, my own for long,
Whose shining hair the May-winds fan,
Making it tangled as they can,
A mystery still, star-shining yet,
Through ancient ages known to me
And now once more reborn with me: —

This is the tale of the Tiger Tree
A hundred times the height of a man,
Lord of the race since the world began.

This is my city Springfield,
My home on the breast of the plain.
The state house towers to heaven,
By an arsenal gray as the rain...
And suddenly all is mist,
And I walk in a world apart,
In the forest-age when I first knelt down
At your feet, O Peace-of-the-Heart.

This is the wonder of twilight:
Three times as high as the dome
Tiger-striped trees encircle the town,
Golden geysers of foam.
While giant white parrots sail past in their pride.
The roofs now are clouds and storms that they ride.
And there with the huntsmen of mound-builder days
Through jungle and meadow I stride.
And the Tiger Tree leaf is falling around
As it fell when the world began:
Like a monstrous tiger-skin, stretched on the ground,
Or the cloak of a medicine man.
A deep-crumpled gossamer web,
Fringed with the fangs of a snake.
The wind swirls it down from the leperous boughs.
It shimmers on clay-hill and lake,
With the gleam of great bubbles of blood,
Or coiled like a rainbow shell....
I feast on the stem of the Leaf as I march.
I am burning with Heaven and Hell.

II

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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