Latest quotes | Random quotes | Vote! | Latest comments | Add quote

Mark Knopfler

Each song has its own secret that's different from another song, and each has its own life. Sometimes it has to be teased out, whereas other times it might come fast. There are no laws about songwriting or producing. It depends on what you're doing, not just who you're doing.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Related quotes

There ARE Times...

There are many times I feel fully confused
And there are other times I feel completely amused
There are days I feel entirely alone
And there are feelings hidden that just can’t be shown
There is a moment that just feels like the end
By which not your mother can help neither can a friend
There are days that are just impossible to let go
Days that can disappear by just one blow
There are years that pass by so fast
Not attentive on how long you’ll truly last
There are seconds by which a person can attain
Not knowing if his actions will mislay or justly gain
There is always a time to try to forget all the bad
And start to remember all the great and exhilarating times you had.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There's Nae Luck about the House

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread
When Colin's at the door?
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure my gudeman,
For he's baith leel and true.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fire side,
Put on the muckle pot,
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw,
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the bauk,
Been fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa?
Ah, there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like cauler air,
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair!
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

If Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave--
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Are Not Too Many People

There are not too many,
Who can leave hurdles leaped.
That others seek,
To reach and stir someone within.

With a tone that is expressed,
From an honestness.
And that's how those protective walls,
Come to be shakened.
To break and awaken.

There are not too many...
Who can express,
An experience they possess.
Not one that affects,
A comprehension that connects.

There are not too many,
Who can say they have lived.
And this is believed.
From an understanding given and perceived.

There are not too many people,
Unafraid to 'be'.
Without their hearts,
Left to bleed on their sleeves...
Publicly!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Cosmic Dance - III

This attraction Shiva couldn’t resist
He wanted to have with it a tryst
Vrinda, who was managing the show
Denying entry to Shiva she said, ‘NO.’

Krishana there, no other male could go
Only ladies could be other part of show
Tempted to join by the irresistible desire
Shiva agreed for lady’s make up and attire.

She asked Shiva for a dip in Mansarovar
After dip He was in woman’s make over
In perfect woman’s dress so well veiled
In corner in Krishana consciousness sailed.

When the cosmic dance began
There were two great dance men
One, the Beloved of the Dance
Other, the King of dance in trance.

With every Gopi Krishana danced
Shiva in unique dance entranced
Inspite of the elegance of the dance
Krishana had some missing glance.

Out of the dance he had a pause
He said, “I feel violation of laws.”
He felt in the dance a missing bliss
He said, “Here another man exists.”

He said, “Lalita, go and check
If a man attired as Gopi on deck! ”
Lalita went round lifting the veils
But finding a man there she failed.

Puzzled about a Gopi three eyed
Lalita told what her surprised! ! !
Krishana said, “Bring her here.”
When saw Shiva had hearty cheer.

He said, “O Gopeshwar I am pleased.
When I see you as Gopi dressed
Your desire to partake in dance fulfilled
As Gate Keeper of the dance now you drill.

Upon you I shower my Grace
You will Gopis’ obeisance trace
They in turn my piety embrace.”
Still Shiva in Braj has Gopi face.

Then again the dance advanced
Gopis were in bliss and trance
Krishana with every Gopi in dance
That their dance in divine romance.

All base passions in the dance purge
All the Gopis in Krishana merged
Cosmos in the dance submerged
Cupid’s wings there didn’t splurge.

In Brij land since then till date
In Krishana consciousness they wait.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Are No Poems In The Land Of The Dead

THERE ARE NO POEMS IN THE LAND OF THE DEAD

There are no poems in the land of the dead
No songs-
The dead do not sing and do not write poems-
Relatives friends perhaps come,
Perhaps pray perhaps say their poems
But the dead do not hear-
They cannot really hear any more-
There are no poems in the land of the dead,
And no songs either.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Song And Dance Man

Last night I felt a wind
of change blow through me.
It spoke of a million things
before I die I should see.
Open up your eyes.
Life is poetry in motion.
Ride the open sky
I'll be ok as soon as I'm on my way
I am a song and dance man
Yes, I am a song and dance man
Woman. Oh, woman, sometimes I hear your voice.
It calls out to me,
makes my heart bleed.
Haven't got any chance.
Open my eyes.
Life is poetry in motion
Ride the open sky.
I'll be ok as soon as I'm on my way.
I am a song and dance man
Oh yes I am, a song and dance man
I am a song and dance man
Tokyo has rolling thunder
beautiful women and warm summer rain
Honolulu has stars of fire
words alone cannot explain
Open up your eyes
Spread your wings and fly
Oh Lord I am a song and dance man
Oh Lord I am a song and dance man
That's what I am
A song and dance man

song performed by WarrantReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Song And Dance Man

Last night I felt a wind
of change blow through me.
It spoke of a million things
before I die I should see.
Open up your eyes.
Life is poetry in motion.
Ride the open sky
I'll be ok as soon as I'm on my way
I am a song and dance man
Yes, I am a song and dance man
Woman. Oh, woman, sometimes I hear your voice.
It calls out to me,
makes my heart bleed.
Haven't got any chance.
Open my eyes.
Life is poetry in motion
Ride the open sky.
I'll be ok as soon as I'm on my way.
I am a song and dance man
Oh yes I am, a song and dance man
I am a song and dance man
Tokyo has rolling thunder
beautiful women and warm summer rain
Honolulu has stars of fire
words alone cannot explain
Open up your eyes
Spread your wings and fly
Oh Lord I am a song and dance man
Oh Lord I am a song and dance man
That's what I am
A song and dance man

song performed by WarrantReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There are two ways to extend a business. Take inventory of what you're good at and extend out from your skills. Or determine what your customers need and work backward, even if it requires learning new skills. Kindle is an example of working backward.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Are 'Rumors' That Many Are Fed Up With It!

A desecration allowed,
To outrageously disgrace...
Values of our respectful ancestors,
Should not have been permitted at all...
To have taken place,
To cause foundations to fall...
For purposes of renovating,
A facelift degenerating.

Crediting the feeding of greed,
Would be too easy to relieve many...
Of their irresponsibility.
Or those rushing to unload,
An accountability...
Few have chosen to behold.

But is greed alone,
That had been condoned...
The only factor,
One disowns a pride and dignity.
With a scolding tongue unfolding,
Obscenities...
That would come to destroy,
All of humanity?

Is one's lack of consciousness,
So intimidating...
That the onslaught of thoughtlessness,
Would diminish the minds...
Of a once advance society,
Into a helpless and disturbing swirling whirpool...
To create a decadence to breed,
Leaving the majority...
As so incline to be defined,
To become the ones observed as fools!

Who's game of pocket pool is this?
That goes unchallenged with a fixation...
Those onlookers are afraid to disqualify.
And would be stunned if suggested,
This game played with their lives...
Should be dismissed as requested.

'There are 'rumors' that many are fed up with it! '

Can those of intelligence,
Become the people blamed for this decrement?
And who championed the voices,
To extradict the demise of common sense?
And who took it amongst themselves to quiet the ones,
Who spoke against the implementation of misdeeds done?

Or,
How about this...
The rising of a steadfast ignorance.
That has all convinced...
The only way to move forward,
Is to repetitively visit...
The stagnating hold of a total darkness,
Considered by those without vision...
As the absolute experience of a bliss,
That is missed.

'There are 'rumors' that many are fed up with it!
But choose many do to keep their 'rants' private.
In a whispered and unheard silentness,
Continued to be done...
And kept as their 'secret' wish! '

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Patrick White

There Are Masks

There are masks I will not wear,
backstage wardrobes I won't dress up in,
lives someone else can star in,
fires that will never feather my voice,
or sweep the shadows
from my palace of ice and eyes,
faces that will never hang like fruit
from any bough of my being,
daggers I won't bury in the wounds
they inflicted like mouths
the tongue has been cut out of,
dignities of desire
that will not circle the roadkill,
my wings linked to the foodchain.
My heart will never labour
like the ox of a bell under a yoke,
though I plough the starfields;
nor will I fill its rivers
with leeches and eclipses
and let it sip the blood of others
to nourish my own lust.
I will not smudge the clarity of my heat
with greenwood, not sacrifice
the hawk's eye for the ant's,
cloud the integrity of love with acrid reason.
I will not eat the days
like spoonfuls of my own ashes,
a martyr to my own orthodoxies,
trying to be true to a creed of fire
that moves underground like a root-fire
in a choir of cedars, the forbidden flame
smouldering, trying to bite its own tail,
trying to put itself out with its own tears
for the best of reasons,
for lost earrings in a coffin.
Anyone can see
you're a raven worthy of silver
who's roofing her wings with tin,
an urgent orchid with flare
trying to bloom in the shadow
of a nightshift toy factory.
Your wingspan
should be measured in horizons
from dawn to dusk; and you
free to ride your own thermals,
to slide yourself like a theshold or a love-letter
under the door of the wind,
to take the hood off your sky
and explore your own vastness,
all the bridges you built
to lie in the shadows
of the burning cherry trees,
true to your own emergency,
true to your own fingertips and eyes,
the impulse of the serpent at the gate
who whispers to you like skin
when the candles go out,
who comes to you like water to a witching wand
a root-god to the poppy
that shudders with black lightning
to be consumed like a torch in her own flames,
to drown in the black rose
of an exquisite oblivion,
naked in a moist parachute that blooms
like a smile you'd thought you'd lost.
The butterfly can't be
stuffed back into the cocoon,
the bird back into the egg,
the pearl back into the grain of sand
that grew a palace
out of the tiniest foundation stone.
Fire is not a flower of ashes
that sheds its petals twice
There are roads that disappear
like stray threads of hair
over our shoulders
even as we walk them,
every step farewell and arrival,
as time yeasts the envelope
with crucial stars that make things happen,
the wheatfield of an autumn letter
in the loaf of the hollow mailbox
rising like dawn out of a dark mouth
over its own harvest.
You can't live forever like a sentence
balked at the fang marks of the colon
you can't remember biting you.
Because life is not punctuated
any more than space,
things will follow
the promise of the serpent's tattoo
to die back into life,
the black lioness
of your passionate constellation,
not a nun at the stake
of a forbidden lust to live,
but a new moon at the opening gates
of the parenthetical secret
between two crescents.
Are you afraid
to let your life graze like wild horses
on the grasslands
of your own transformations,
do you desecrate a greater law
to obey a smaller;
would you tie your last lifeboat,
your last island full of moonlight
to the sunken pillars of a wharf
that aged like a palace,
an endless prelude
to a book of farewell
that collapsed under the weight
of its own hesitation
to read itself to the end?
Even now your foundation-stones
are turning into quicksand
and the abyss
of what you must jump into
to follow your wings
out of the barnyard
opens like a mouth
trying to clear a wishbone
or a song from its throat.
Are you afraid
to give up your collection of hats,
those skies and overturned nests you walk under,
a hawk behind chicken-wire
for a bough in the wild
without a return address?
I want to hear the nightbird sing
that dazzles the serpent
with the joy of her own being,
slowly ascending the tree like a stairwell
to seize her in the dark rapture
of his amorous coils
and drown her in tide after tide of transfiguring wine,
the secret oceans of bliss
that lie hidden
in every dropp of blood, every tear
that falls from the thorns
of the black star that burns like a rose
in the mouth of the dragon
that is waiting like wings
at her bruised heel
for her to wash off the old mythologies,
naked in the eye of the rain,
and mount the taboo and eclipse
of her own repealed desire
and fly from the graveyard firepits
of the grounded comets
praying for a match in hell
to light the pyres of their own cremations.
Ill omen or good,
the brush is loaded with red,
with roses, blood, fire,
and the sky is primed
like the virgin seabed of the canvas before you.
Staring will not paint the apple
you want to bite into,
install the serpent like a voice
in the tree that tempts you,
run the fingers of the nightwind
through your raven hair like a mad pianist
trying to tune your keyboard
to the crazed scales of the full moon.
If you want to dance naked
under chandeliers of black cherries,
alive enough to get away with yourself
don't turn your eyes to glass
and scan the heavens
like the small end of a telescope
to see if you can spot your own approach
like an astronomical catastrophe
that will burn the house down,
the matchbook flaring of a coffin
that docks like a death-boat
to take on a cargo of ashes;
but lay down one stroke of paint,
risk your own interstellar spaces once,
leap like a wounded dolphin
from the wave of the mirror once,
and life will strew stars in your path
that will awake the dreamer
like gardens in the furrows
of your salted fields.
You will stop living
like an arsonist in a volunteer fire-brigade
before the blaze of your own hunger
for heat and light
and run like a sudden thaw of honey
from the frozen hive
that wants to ride its own melting
like a forge pouring out the hot metals
of the enchanted swords
the dark magicians plunge into the stone
to sort the jesters from the crowns.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Patrick White

There's Nothing Cozy About Real Beauty

Theres nothing cozy about real beauty.
Thats why it scares you to death
when youre around it. You sense
that it disdains to kill you
simply because it knows it can
but that only makes you beg for the knife
even more, even deeper, until
you’ve suffered more death
than you ever knew there was to suffer.
Its the same with the truth. The truth
isn’t the act of a well-meaning
coffee-table sentiment,
a hundred dollar book
of recycled paper
to help save the Caribou,
an a chequered impressionist table-cloth
with compositionally balanced butter-knives
that have never tasted blood in their lives.
If you can’t hear the shriek
of the red-tailed hawk as it plunges
toward a mating pair of killdeer
executing an aerial ballet in May
that would make you cry its so beautiful,
you can’t hear the hummingbirds
at the holly hocks either
even if you know sign language.
And no more than the truth, poetry
isn’t a mirror you hold up to nature
with preconceived notions of what
you want to see reflected there.
In hunting season around here
the truth can bleed Bambi upside down
from the bough of a willow
that let’s its golden tresses down
all the way to the ground
until its tips are dyed in blood.
The truth can tear the heart of a wolf out
and eat it raw in front
of a classroom of schoolchildren
while its still beating.
Go ask any child army.
Go ask any street kid in Ottawa
or any bushwhacked adolescent in Lanark.
You asked me to read your poems
without holding anything back from you
and I have and I won’t.
You keep a tidy house
on the right side of the tracks
of a zodiac with astro-turf lawns.
And I see all your candles
have been dipped in scented wax
and write right-handed
with glowing nibs on the reverent air
and theres a stick of sandalwood incense
protruding from a buddha’s belly-button
that makes me wonder
whether he’s committing hiri kiri
or lowering his lance at a joust
to let a lady tie a ribbon to it
as you have most of these poems
to designate them your champions.
You’ve bomb-proofed your church so well
with so many lesser lights
in cages and black outs theres no chance
you’ll ever be struck by a bolt of inspiration.
The lightning doesn’t send messages
like sweetgrass in the beaks of doves.
You sip from the muses like bottled water
from the tears of crystal skulls.
But you haven’t yet learned how
to swallow their watersheds on the moon
or drink blood from the skull of your own
in a single gulp for fear
they’ve been contaminated by fracking.
Flying fish in a sea of shadows
thats always at full tide
but you never reveal
the constellations of dead starfish
that reek to high heaven
like the stink of enlightenment on the bottom
when the tide bleeds out
like a white-tailed doe.
Happy lifeboats moored safely in port
as if there were nothing to risk or rescue
but a new paint job
as a storm front moves in
like a curtain call of judgmental grey.
All your feral cats have been fixed
and the darkness has no claws or fangs,
and that wilderness that used to howl
in an agony of sex and longing
under your windowsill of potted herbs
all unnerving night long
now purrs impotently in your lap.
You strew your path with rose-petals
but when have you ever walked barefoot
on toxic thorns or the plinths and eyelashes
of the splintered chandeliers of the stars?
You cut the polar ice-caps off
the extremes of a hard-boiled planet
and only eat the temperate zones
you can scoop out with a silver spoon
like the front left parietal lobe
of Humpty Dumpty’s sunny brain.
Blackholes do more to enhance
the radiance of stars and fireflies,
ignite the fire of dragons
on the other side of a wormhole hourglass
into the next coincidence
of a harmoniously contradictory world
than all those sunbeams
you try to keep on
like night lights in a morgue
because youre afraid to sleep with the dead
and they don’t want to wake up without you.
And I’m not saying
you need to go out and mess up,
trample on your own garden,
turn Taurus loose
in the china shop of the Pleiades.
No one can go out and think their way
into an experience they haven’t had yet.
They merely experience their own thought.
Just another poetry book
having sex with itself
in the hopes of winning an award
to make it feel fulfilled enough
it can take whats real for granted.
But even Rimbaud who
dissociated his sensibilities rationally
and then killed a man with a stone
on a construction site in Cyprus
discovered how dangerous it is
to broach the spontaneous deliberately.
As for me, I’ve learned
to delight in the despair
of my own crazy wisdom.
As for you, you might start
by turning the light and around
and looking into the darkness within you
not as a smudge on the reputation of your lilies
but as a chunk of coal
that didn’t let your diamonds down.
A suggestion I suggest you ignore
if you’ve understood anything I’ve said
about the nature of poetry
that makes any petty sense at all to you.
And the next time you
you run into your own clarity
like Galileo trying to show you
through his telescope
there are sunspots in your field of view
like bruises on a banana
and the moon is pock-marked
by one too many facelifts,
don’t try to paint the lens
as if you were airbrushing
the imperfections out of your own eyes
just realize how important it is
to open them from the inside out.
And as for those little black ants,
that keep inciting a riot of words
you’ve got no crowd control over
you keep setting honey-traps for,
to keep them from running all over
the planetary orb
of your moonlit peony in bud
like a chaos of minutes
looking for a fixed place
on a spherical waterclock
as if they were all
running out on time simultaneously.
Trust me, or don’t, they’ll let you know
when the sun shines at midnight
and your hour’s come round to bloom.
Meteors cry like diamonds
for the species they make a big impact upon.
And volcanoes eventually
weep their way into islands
that will be seeded by birds and castaways.
The eye of the rose
looks into the secret heart of the worm
and sees the wings of tearful loveletters
being born like butterflies in the rain.
And then the sun appears
and dries them out
like laundry on the line.
Or the negative of an eclipse
hung up in a dark room
like a flypaper map of the stars
in an alternative universe
on the other side of your eyes
that hasn’t come up with a name,
a fixed place, or a myth of origins for you yet
until you’ve passed
like the tiny planet of a firefly
through the gravitational eyes
of a constellation of black holes
without going out
like a flashlight you keep shining
nervously into the dark doorway
of a dragon’s mouth when you write
to see what was making the noise
like the universal cosmic hiss
of a flamethrower in a snakepit
of oracular wavelengths
that keeps you from going
downstairs to find out.
As a Zen master once said.
The stone is lustrous
but theres nothing inside.
The ore is different
but from it comes gold.
And as any poet knows
whos ever been inspired
you polish gold in fire.
You don’t write white noise
to block the darkness out
as if you were afraid
of things that go bump in the night.
Don’t fall like a snowflake on a furnace
then try to sip your tears like spit
from its prophetic mouth when you melt.
Be a star, be a Chinese lantern,
be a fire-kite of burning insight.
Light upon light means
the darkness shines as well
on the inside as it does without
whether you see it or not.
The moonrise of an emotion
follows the sunset of a thought.
Two tides of the same ocean,
the highs and the lows
the crest and the trough
of the same wavelength we’re all on.
And the mountain youre trying to climb
is only as high and white
as the valley is deep and dark.
Not two is the furthest thing
you can say in a universe that isn’t a lie.
Theres a lot of shadowless noon
in your impeccable poetry
but where’s the starless midnight
on the other side of of your eyes?
Don’t orphan your first born
to legitimize your poems
like a forged birth certificate
you hope everyone will recognize
as your rightful place
in a table of contents
with the good taste of a menu.
A suggestion I suggest you ignore
if you’ve understood,
deeply understood
anything I’ve said
about the nature of poetry
that makes any petty sense at all to you.
And I don’t say this to be kind or cruel.
You know how
to harvest the full moon
like a sparrow
the gleanings of the light,
twelve grain whole wheat bread,
but you don’t know how to sow stars
on the dark side of an eclipse
that will sprout and bloom,
a phoenix feathered in wild fire
that will catch on and spread
like life itself
like the syntaretic spark
of the timeless with the fruitless dead.
Out of the dark abundance
of watersheds and roots,
the phoenix energy of your cells,
the bright vacancy of the full moon,
a blossom on a dead branch,
the new moon of a crow in autumn
on a green bough of night birds
that are never at a loss for words
when the truth and the beauty
of the light coming out of the darkness
leaves them as speechless
as a starmap of fireflies
where the constellations have no names,
going up in flames.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There are Places (From, To Oscar Act III)

There are places so far away
Where the ocean has its spell
And dark doesn't leave the day
When the night says its farewell
There are times of lasting things
Further out in unknown nowhere
Where a different world sings
Remote from all the reality here

Something no one listens too
For the dreams are very brief
Wishful themes and quite new
That so soon must split and leave
Every heart is what you'll know
Nothing else to reach there out
Wandering waves in tides flow
Reaching to those shores about

There are pleases in the sea
Further on and tenebrific now
Where we all would want to be
But never can reach to somehow
For in reality we must hearken
Holding on to what we're seeing
If there's some somewhat darken
We are not suppose to believing

There are places so far away
Where the oceans has its spell
And dark doesn't leave the day
When the night says its farewell
There are times of lasting things
Further out in unknown nowhere
Where a different world sings
Remote from all the reality here

(Inspired by a whale that came up the Thames)

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Are No Returns

As children, we shared each others games,
and grew up thinking we would never change.
At eighteen duty called to go to a far off place,
we said we’d always wait for each other,
no matter how long, we would have to wait.
The year turned into five, before I came home.

Things had changed, someone else you had found,
while my life was moulded to, and I saw a different you.
The carefree life we both had,
disappeared as the years came round,
our goals were now different bound,
and too many things had passed before our eyes.

I smiled sweetly when I saw you;
your smile back was just as sweet.
He stood at your arm to let the world know,
you were spoken for, not free anymore.
I just nodded as I passed on by,
and you could not see the tears leak from my eyes.

War is not a beautiful thing,
with heroes in a Hollywood show.
It makes men age each day,
their eyes will testify, how I know.
The youthful zest no longer smiles,
only the old man’s sorrowing soul.

They come back a broken person,
whose lives have been altered so.
They come home only to find,
the old life has been robbed as well,
that old torches they used to carry,
are gone from them as well.

I moved on hoping never to return,
saying I’ll keep in touch, but will never do.
Like a nomad, I begin my endless trek,
as I want to get away from here and you.
More years pass on the way;
I find someone and settle down.

Then comes a letter to say you are free,
will I come and see,
but I look around at all I’ve got,
my life that on a solid rock stands,
but the calling is so great,
I have to go back to where I’ve been.

At the station, I see your face,
time has hurt you so,
worse that the war hurt me,
but I just had to know.
I smile, but it is only a courtesy call,
I’ve got a new life elsewhere.

We talk about the old times,
long before I went away.
You know its not the same between us,
that soon I’ll be on my way.
You’ve been hurt the way I was once,
but you also know, that I can’t stay.

The day goes on and we reminisce,
we smile and laugh about the days we miss.
Soon the train is in the station;
our hands linger to the touch.
I have a new life now; we will never be the same.

She stands there with our son,
with open beckoning arms;
we rush to meet each other,
our bodies held in an embrace.
She asks how things went;
I smile and simply say, there are no returns.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Take Me To That Place

Oh take me to that place where the sun never sets
and the warmth of your smile mind never forgets.
Where the light from your eyes kindles a secret fire in my soul
as the love hidden there begins to reach out towards life's goal
and how much one does appreciate of your grace and pleasure
when knowing as I do that you hold the key to love's treasure.

Oh take me to that place where the sun does always shine
and the fragrance of your love intoxicates like good wine.
Where the bliss of your presence removes all sorrow from the heart
as tears of joy well up from within acknowledging we're never apart
and the words that you do speak are heard and lodged within the mind
when it is thinking of you only wondering why and how you're so kind.

Oh take me to that place where no darkness ever comes
and the glory of your being illuminates like a million suns.
Where everything is perceived being perfect because it really is
as the hidden beauty in all of nature is thus revealed to be of this
and the atmosphere around you is so peaceful everywhere
when the working mind has gone no troubles remain there.

Oh take me to that place where there is always light
and the stars seen in that sky are so invisibly bright.
Where all division into form does not exist or is known
as the illusion of separation like a mist away has blown
and the unity of all life is the permanent true vision of the eyes
when seeing the all pervading Spirit there can be no compromise.

Oh take me to that place where the source of elusive light is in being
and the days of the past, present or future only in ignorance are seen.
Where there is no birth or death and shadows never actually fall
as they do in duality which is false and hiding Reality behind it all
and the essence of Your being is the only underlying eternal existence
when living in accordance with Thy will all is a harmonious subsistence.

Oh take me to that place which is the abode of peace within
and a kingdom of the soul about which all true religions sing.
Where one comes face to face with God and experiences ecstasy
as there isn't any greater happiness that can overcome all misery
and the meaning of all life is known after achieving that goal
when realising the divine nature of which an image is our soul.

Oh take me to that place where we belong or should all really be
and the feeling of oneness with all creatures is just right for me.
Where there is no beginning or ending in the everlasting now
as the world of name and form exists only in illusion somehow
and all that we could ever hope to get we have already secretly got
when experiencing our true infinite nature all the universe is our lot.

Oh take me to that place to which the mind without light cannot go
and it's only by intuition that what's beyond the mind one can know.
Where infinite love, bliss, power and wisdom are always residing
as ever ripe fruit on a tree hang for those people who're desiring
and whom by Thy grace and blessing have dissolved all their ignorance
when doing what You tell them to do implicitly trusting their obedience.

Oh take me to that place which is free from all worry and fear
and the light of knowledge shines in the mind bright and clear.
Where there is no lust, greed or anger and neither any hunger nor pain
as these are all to do with the lower self which has passed away in vain
and actions performed aren't binding being for the ultimate good of all
when having supreme faith in oneself and God the ideal is had for sure.

Oh take me to that place which is at the end of the long weary road
and life's being is Light Effulgent without any dark or unknown load.
Where whatever is in Reality is what one really forever will be
as an Eternal consciousness in which nothing but Itself can see
and in which everything evolves and dissolves in its own time and space
when existing as One without a second does there can't be another place.

------------------------

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Patrick White

And There Are People

And there are people with glass blood and chalk hearts
who ask you to believe that razorwire is a grape vine,
and the moon nothing but a cold stone, half-people
in stolen straitjackets with secret agendas of blackflies
disguised as the smile of a leaf, passionless people
with the emotional life of an insecticide
who cannot understand they’re as transparent as larvae in a canning jar
though you’d think the way they verbally profess the light
they were apostolic butterflies. Look at a Dutch elm
smothered in the smog of gypsy moths to see what I mean.
From a mineral point of view, life lives off of life,
a type of organic perpetual motion machine,
a biological conservation of energy principle enacted
by the brutal genius of the uncompromising creatrix,
whatever form or name you attribute to that
which is without attributes, like starlight invisible until
it encounters an object, as we know the wind
by what resists it, as we know a lie
by the opposition of the truth. And just as I do a garden
where I always leave a little for the jays, deer, raccoons,
I don’t mind being a mobile bloodbank once and awhile
for the midget ladles and syringes, probosci and tiny ice-picks
that want to drink a rose or two of healthy haemoglobin,
puncture an eye of weeping iron to saturate their bloodlust,
and, by all means, thrive in the game of I eat you now you eat me.
In one way or another, each after our own taste and fashion
we’re all food for one another. Even the stars eat
and there are black holes without bodies
that devour the radiance like open mouths
and love affairs that are nothing
but bone and bloodmeal by the end, and even that,
in the chronic flux of consumption, a fertilizer,
the furtherance of another kind of sentient appetite
as roots turn into mandibles, the lotus into a praying mantis,
the dead rat into a million maggots fattening into flies.
You get the picture. It isn’t really a foodchain with fixed links,
a rosary of interlocking orbits that replicate the ripples of the rain,
its more like a clepshydra, a transformative waterclock,
a womb that gives birth to a gravestone
in the hidden harmony of the natural flow of things, time, too,
not visible until its expressed by an object, a skull,
the fallen tent of the lily crisp with shadows,
and all the grass in the world a kind of slow green fire
that cooks the grazer from the inside out. Who can look
at what a spider really does for long, or a garden snake
the sparrow’s egg disgorged like a used condom? Civilized,
we insist on caring cannibals
boiling over with the milk of human kindness
to buff the impersonality of being unmarrowed straight,
we always talk of love and friendship just before we eat,
homophagoi, we sugar the brain and pamper the sacrifice
with elegant cutlery, soft forks and pleading spoons,
rituals of grace and gratitude
that obviate the obvious with culinary indirections,
menus in an abattoir. We harness our blood
to the horse of a gun
and die of a decent obesity of body and mind,
a wallet, the ultimate mouth and orifice, altar and shrine
of our obfuscated appetites. We even eat our gods
trined on the fork in the devil’s hand
to expiate the bloodguilt of the butchery we refined from a garden
of violated apples. But theres just as much meat
in the belly of the believer as the atheist,
and the lion may be grateful but the gazelle is just as dead,
and you may call that napkin tucked under your chin friendship,
and the fangs in your hand a fork,
and think you can carve forever with immunity,
bartering new famines for old cornucopias,
believing youre a lamp that lives on its own light,
but there will come a day, soon, I promise you
when you’ll look in my eyes to see who you are
and all you’ll be is the black dwarf of your own appetite,
the morsel of a star between the teeth of a ravenous night,
the last bite.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Are The Poems That Are Not The Real Poems

There are the poems that are not the real poems,
And the poems that are-
And the poems that are seem to come out of their own saying
With a rhythm and a meaning which makes a music so deep,
Even the most lonely soul feels them as a singing inside.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Once Its Value Has Been Absorbed

The meaning of each season,
Soon gives up its influence
To drift away,
Once its value has been absorbed.
Like a fad.
Or one who relinquishes,
A hold onto youth.
That passes fast.

There are those who would love to,
Keep things preserved.
Even if it means.
Squeezing the life out of it.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Is A Poem About Poetry

THERE IS A POEM ABOUT POETRY

There is a Poem about Poetry
That has never been written
It waits somewhere hoping to be heard
It has in it all the Beauty of words
And all the silence no sounds can ever bring
Its Beauty has a Laughter and a Love
Only exuberant and exalted words can know
It is sacred and holy as psalms of praise
And was written by the Creator
Long before Writing had a Name.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Is Something About That Done

When people begin to believe,
Any kind of lie to tell is okay?
There is something about that done,
That diminishes them as a human being.
Can anyone like this ever again be trusted?

Well...
It really doesn't matter how you respond.
I know for myself,
Someone like that...
Becomes erased from my memory.

And that seems to happen automatically.
Experience is the teacher.
And the student in me,
Has completed successfully...
All testing for this lesson.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There are things that you cannot avoid

There are things that you cannot avoid
like the call-up instruction which cruelly
brings you to another world and measure you out
for whom you must become and be and stay
and you can never find escape
from violence, killing, guilt and grief.

There are things that a soldier cannot avoid
like war that cruelly let people suffer
with flames, bullets and bombs
and there are events that you cannot forget,
although you and you comrades freed the innocent
and at night its sweated out in dreams
and there are things that you cannot avoid.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
 

Search


Recent searches | Top searches