Scapegoats Devour Sins
Written in The Book of Judgement
only ink, the accusing
words by drool undone,
stains their bearded chins.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Related quotes
Climbing From Ruts
Not 'who' is he?
But 'what' is he?
To know.
Before the showing?
To have that showing...
Grow.
To be known.
Not 'who' is she?
But 'what' is she?
To know.
Before the showing?
To have that showing...
Grow.
To be known.
They are the ones,
Unstung.
And freed,
From under a thumb.
They are the ones,
Unstung.
And freed,
From under a thumb.
Climbing from ruts.
Undone.
And looking up.
Undone.
And taking risks,
Unlimited...
Others may sit and resist.
Climbing from ruts.
Undone.
And looking up.
Undone.
And taking risks,
Unlimited...
Others may sit and resist.
They are the ones,
Unstung.
And freed,
From under a thumb.
Not 'who' is he?
But 'what' is he?
To know.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Eighth Book
ONE eve it happened when I sate alone,
Alone upon the terrace of my tower,
A book upon my knees, to counterfeit
The reading that I never read at all,
While Marian, in the garden down below,
Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill
The drowsy silence of the exhausted day)
And peeled a new fig from that purple heap
In the grass beside her,–turning out the red
To feed her eager child, who sucked at it
With vehement lips across a gap of air
As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame
With that last sun-ray, crying, 'give me, give,'
And stamping with imperious baby-feet,
(We're all born princes)–something startled me,–
The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks
Abruptly, as if frightened at itself;
'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above
In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh,
And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book,
And knew, the first time, 'twas Boccaccio's tales,
The Falcon's,–of the lover who for love
Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us
Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no more.
Laugh you, sweet Marian! you've the right to laugh,
Since God himself is for you, and a child!
For me there's somewhat less,–and so, I sigh.
The heavens were making room to hold the night,
The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied
In close-approaching advent, not discerned),
While still the cue-owls from the cypresses
Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse
Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually
The purple and transparent shadows slow
Had filled up the whole valley to the brim,
And flooded all the city, which you saw
As some drowned city in some enchanted sea,
Cut off from nature,–drawing you who gaze,
With passionate desire, to leap and plunge,
And find a sea-king with a voice of waves,
And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks
You cannot kiss but you shall bring away
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo-bell
Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down,
So deep; and fifty churches answer it
The same, with fifty various instances.
Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire:
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When You Rush To Judgement
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
None.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
Not a one.
Oh, oh, oh...
When you rush to judgement,
Your emotions are your worst enemy.
When you rush to judgement,
Your emotions are your worst enemy.
When you rush to judgement,
Your emotions are your worst enemy.
When you rush to judgement.
Oh, oh, oh...
When you rush to judgement.
To pass your judgements,
When you rush to judgement.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
None.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
Not a one.
When you rush to judgement,
You have no idea.
No idea.
None.
When you rush to judgement,
No one has an idea...
What they've done.
When you rush to judgement,
What one does...
Affects more than one.
When you rush to judgement.
When you rush to judgement.
You have no idea,
What you've done.
You have no idea...
None.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I. The Ring and the Book
Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.
Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Fifth Book
AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Truth and the Devil
The devil unstoppably took pride in salaciously writing; the book of
obnoxious caste-creed and venomously penalizing hatred,
The devil unstoppably took pride in acrimoniously writing; the book of
indiscriminate bloodshed and disastrously traumatizing ruthlessness,
The devil unstoppably took pride in vengefully writing; the book of
tyrannical devastation and lecherously bellicose orphaning,
The devil unstoppably took pride in fretfully writing; the book of
vindictive war and satanically criminal holocausts,
The devil unstoppably took pride in maliciously writing; the book of
coldblooded barbarism and manipulatively bizarre malice,
The devil unstoppably took pride in forlornly writing; the book of
worthless
ghosts and mortuaries brutally anointed with fresh blood,
T The devil unstoppably took pride in indigently writing; the book of
nonchalant spuriousness and fecklessly insipid meaninglessness,
The devil unstoppably took pride in torturously writing; the book of
ominous
animosity and hedonistically pugnacious illwill,
The devil unstoppably took pride in dictatorially writing; the book of
licentious bawdiness and insanely threadbare nothingness,
The devil unstoppably took pride in heinously writing; the book of
lascivious poverty and baselessly crippling uncertainty,
The devil unstoppably took pride in savagely writing; the book of
despicable
defeat and lethally ballistic atrociousness,
The devil unstoppably took pride in raunchily writing; the book of
dolorous
delinquency and insidiously slandering betrayal,
The devil unstoppably took pride in preposterously writing; the book of
scurrilous lunatism and barbarously incarcerating fiendishness,
The devil unstoppably took pride in frigidly writing; the book of
jejune
mockery and impudently castigating brazenness,
The devil unstoppably took pride in heartlessly writing; the book of
ghastly
bloodshed and indefatigably bombarding politics,
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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The Best Is Yet To Come Undone
It's behind you and
It's in your face
Close your eyes
Selling years of their
Smoke and mirrors and
Open minds
And they try to find a way to make me something that
I'm not
I touched the world
I felt the sun
I know the best is yet to come undone
I looked around
At everyone
I know the best is yet to come undone
The best is yet to come undone
It's so obvious
That the promise
Keeps me here
Painting pictures where
All the colors Disappear And they try to find a way to make me something that I'm not
I touched the world
I felt the sun
I know the best is yet to come undone
I looked around
At everyone
I know the best is yet to come undone
The best is yet to come undone
The best is yet to come undone
And I find my way out
And I find my way out
It's so obvious
That the promise
Keeps me here
Painting pictures where
All the colors Disappear
And they try to find a way to make me something that I'm not
I touched the world
I felt the sun
I know the best is yet to come undone
I looked around
At everyone
I know the best is yet to come undone
Touched the world
Felt the sun
I know the best is yet to come undone
I looked around
At everyone
I know the best is yet to come undone
The best is yet to come undone
The best is yet to come undone
[...] Read more
song performed by Lit from A Place In The Sun
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Book of Annandale
I
Partly to think, more to be left alone,
George Annandale said something to his friends—
A word or two, brusque, but yet smoothed enough
To suit their funeral gaze—and went upstairs;
And there, in the one room that he could call
His own, he found a sort of meaningless
Annoyance in the mute familiar things
That filled it; for the grate’s monotonous gleam
Was not the gleam that he had known before,
The books were not the books that used to be,
The place was not the place. There was a lack
Of something; and the certitude of death
Itself, as with a furtive questioning,
Hovered, and he could not yet understand.
He knew that she was gone—there was no need
Of any argued proof to tell him that,
For they had buried her that afternoon,
Under the leaves and snow; and still there was
A doubt, a pitiless doubt, a plunging doubt,
That struck him, and upstartled when it struck,
The vision, the old thought in him. There was
A lack, and one that wrenched him; but it was
Not that—not that. There was a present sense
Of something indeterminably near—
The soul-clutch of a prescient emptiness
That would not be foreboding. And if not,
What then?—or was it anything at all?
Yes, it was something—it was everything—
But what was everything? or anything?
Tired of time, bewildered, he sat down;
But in his chair he kept on wondering
That he should feel so desolately strange
And yet—for all he knew that he had lost
More of the world than most men ever win—
So curiously calm. And he was left
Unanswered and unsatisfied: there came
No clearer meaning to him than had come
Before; the old abstraction was the best
That he could find, the farthest he could go;
To that was no beginning and no end—
No end that he could reach. So he must learn
To live the surest and the largest life
Attainable in him, would he divine
The meaning of the dream and of the words
That he had written, without knowing why,
On sheets that he had bound up like a book
And covered with red leather. There it was—
There in his desk, the record he had made,
[...] Read more
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Pelang
Pelang! Pelang! Mon cher garçon,
I t'ink of you--t'ink of you night and day--
Don't mak' no difference, seems to me
De long long tam you're gone away.
* * * * *
De snow is deep on de Grande Montagne--
Lak tonder de rapide roar below--
De sam' kin' night, ma boy get los'
On beeg, beeg storm forty year ago.
An' I never was hear de win' blow hard,
An' de snow come sweesh on de window pane--
But ev'ryt'ing 'pear lak' it's yesterday
An' whole of ma troub' is come back again.
Ah me! I was foolish young girl den
It's only ma own plaisir I care,
An' w'en some dance or soirée come off
Dat's very sure t'ing you will see me dere.
Don't got too moche sense at all dat tam,
Run ev'ry place on de whole contree--
But I change beeg lot w'en Pelang come 'long
For I love him so well, kin' o' steady me.
An' he was de bes' boy on Coteau,
An' t'ink I am de bes' girl too for sure--
He's tole me dat, geev de ring also
Was say on de inside 'Je t'aime toujours.'
I geev heem some hair dat come off ma head,
I mak' de nice stocking for warm hees feet,
So ev'ryt'ing's feex, w'en de spring is come
For mak' mariée on de church toute suite.
'W'en de spring is come!' Ah I don't see dat,
Dough de year is pass as dey pass before,
An' de season come, an' de season go,
But our spring never was come no more.
* * * * *
It's on de fête of de jour de l'an,
An' de worl' outside is cole an' w'ite,
As I sit an' watch for mon cher Pelang
For he's promise come see me dis very night.
Bonhomme Peloquin dat is leev near us--
[...] Read more
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Seventh Book
'THE woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay
And easily explored. She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange,;
'Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.
'Well, after. There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller's wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,–made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant's place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up
To let them charge him with another pack.
'A few months, so. My mistress, young and light,
Was easy with me, less for kindness than
Because she led, herself, an easy time
Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass,
Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most.
She felt so pretty and so pleased all day
She could not take the trouble to be cross,
But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe,
Would tap me softly with her slender foot
Still restless with the last night's dancing in't,
And say 'Fie, pale-face! are you English girls
'All grave and silent? mass-book still, and Lent?
'And first-communion colours on your cheeks,
'Worn past the time for't? little fool, be gay!'
At which she vanished, like a fairy, through
A gap of silver laughter.
'Came an hour
When all went otherwise. She did not speak,
But clenched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes
As if a viper with a pair of tongs,
Too far for any touch, yet near enough
To view the writhing creature,–then at last,
'Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name,
'Thou Marian; thou'rt no reputable girl,
'Although sufficient dull for twenty saints!
'I think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said;
'Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month,
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Four Against the Shapeless Wind
for Selin
1
You may find me thundering in a hut
on the small of the mountain reading
poems to curious goats. They listen
patiently before eating the paper
upon which they are written.
I have now resorted, denying loneliness
(thus the always hovering goats) ,
to arguing with the sad priest twice
a week over bad sherry transported
over the mountain. The pass's old Rock
comments on the shape and weight of
each bottle carefully wrapped in soft
flannel curved the shape of the way
upon which unsteady travelers depart
and return. From such a journey it
is believed the cheap, sweet sherry
is redeemed in taste borne to the priest's
back door into his shaking hands casting
into legion swine divinations of sorrow.
As a grace, after some cups, setting aside
the card deck missing all Hearts, I hear
his confession, soul bared tearfully before
me. Pen in hand, I write sins tenderly down
on a yellowed page to be fed to atoning goats
who keep secrets well. They freely forgive
all faults for a taste of paper, a kind favor
for the priest then.
Only ink, the accusing words by drool undone,
stains their bearded chins.
Alone in the empty church I hover before
Stations of the Cross confessing poems
to believing dust, to patient corners.
How utterly and always irrelevant I have been.
2
In variations of weather and seasons
devoted dust shouts,
'Cousin! Cousin!
Come! Join us here.
[...] Read more
poem by Warren Falcon
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Why Do You Use That Accusing Tool
Slam!
Feisty baby!
Ka'bam!
Feisty baby!
Shazam!
Feisty baby!
Why do you use,
That accusing tool.
Slam!
Feisty baby!
Ka'bam!
Feisty baby!
Shazam!
Feisty baby!
Why do you use,
That accusing tool.
I'm not with a pick up mistress.
Or,
With another man...
Doing undercover!
Down,
And low,
With as many men as I can!
Slam!
Feisty baby!
Ka'bam!
Feisty baby!
Shazam!
Feisty baby!
Why do you use,
That accusing tool.
I'm not outside hunting.
Running down fresh meat.
You are what I want, babe.
Why you knocking on me?
Slam!
Feisty baby!
Ka'bam!
Feisty baby!
Shazam!
Feisty baby!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Fable For Critics
Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'
Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.
Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,
[...] Read more
poem by James Russell Lowell
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Judgement Day
Its my life, get off my ass, get outta my face
Man, I dont see no problem
Kickin back, aint kickin you, no, no
Anyway, if I make em, then I solve em
Oh, thats right, yeah, whew
Makin plans s a waste, aint no future here
Got no face, got no religion
Oh tell me why should I care or even, why should I try?
I just slide, slide on by, never bad enough to crucify me
Cry! put it out until judgement day
Ill bear the cross on judgement day
I do most anything, keep em doing anything, cos
Sometimes I just wanna do nothin
Nothin lost, tell me, how can I lose
When Im startin off with nothin
Oh tell me why should I care or even, why try?
I just slide, slide on by, never bad enough to crucify me
Oh! put it out until judgement day
Ill bear that same old cross on judgement day
Oh! hey!
(solo)
Hey man, anythings alright. yeah!
Wow! put it out until judgement day
Ill bear the cross on judgement day
Put it out, put it out until judgement day
Ill bear the cross on judgement day
Oh! whoa, yeah, on judgement day
Oh! whoa, yeah, on judgement day
Wow!
song performed by Van Halen
Added by Lucian Velea
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De Camp On De
You 'member de ole log-camp, Johnnie, up on de Cheval Gris,
W'ere we work so hard all winter, long ago you an' me?
Dere was fourteen man on de gang, den, all from our own paroisse,
An' only wan lef' dem feller is ourse'f an' Pierre Laframboise.
But Pierre can't see on de eye, Johnnie, I t'ink it's no good at all!
An' it wasn't for not'ing, you're gettin' rheumateez on de leg las' fall!
I t'ink it's no use waitin', for neider can come wit' me,
So alone I mak' leetle visit dat camp on de Cheval Gris.
An' if only you see it, Johnnie, an' change dere was all aroun',
Ev'ryt'ing gone but de timber an' dat is all fallin' down;
No sign of portage by de reever w'ere man dey was place canoe,
W'y, Johnnie, I'm cry lak de bebé, an' I'm glad you don't come, mon vieux!
But strange t'ing's happen me dere, Johnnie, mebbe I go asleep,
As I lissen de song of de rapide, as pas' de Longue Soo she sweep,
Ma head she go biz-z-z lak de sawmeel, I don't know w'at's wrong wit' me,
But firs' t'ing I don't know not'ing, an' den w'at you t'ink I see?
Yourse'f an' res' of de boy, Johnnie, by light of de coal oil lamp,
An' you're singin' an' tolin' story, sittin' aroun' de camp,
We hear de win' on de chimley, an' we know it was beeg, beeg storm,
But ole box stove she is roarin', an' camp's feelin' nice an' warm.
I t'ink you're on boar' of de raf', Johnnie, near head of Riviere du Loup,
W'en LeRoy an' young Patsy Kelly get drown comin' down de Soo,
Wall! I see me dem very same feller, jus' lak you see me to-day,
Playin' dat game dey call checker, de game dey was play alway!
An' Louis Charette asleep, Johnnie, wit' hees back up agen de wall,
Makin' soche noise wit' hees nose, dat you t'ink it was moose on de fall,
I s'pose he's de mos' fattes' man dere 'cept mebbe Bateese La Rue,
But if I mak fonne on poor Louis, I know he was good boy too!
W'at you do over dere on your bunk, Johnnie, lightin' dem allumettes,
Are you shame 'cos de girl she write you, is dat de las' wan you get?
It's fonny you can't do widout it ev'ry tam you was goin' bed,
W'y readin' dat letter so offen, you mus have it all on de head!
Dat's de very sam' letter, Johnnie, was comin' t'ree mont' ago,
I t'ink I know somet'ing about it, 'cos I fin' it wan day on de snow.
An' I see on de foot dat letter, Philomene she is do lak dis: * * *
I'm not very moche on de school, me, but I t'ink dat was mean de kiss.
Wall! nobody's kickin' de row, Johnnie, an' if allumettes' fini,
Put Philomene off on your pocket, an' sing leetle song wit' me;
For don't matter de hard you be workin' toujours you're un bon garçon,
An' nobody sing lak our Johnnie, Kebeck to de Mattawa!
[...] Read more
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Injected Lyrically
Black ink flows
in various vibes
and original scribes
Without words
I would cease
My soul would un-ease
my hearts beat would slow
Softer Lighter almost into Oblivion
If a pen drew breath
~n~ ink spilled til death
wouldn't missin it
burn a yearn
to want it back
This welling inside it hurts
deepened incisions
imprisoned to my wounds
there dwells a fire
a desire a burning
forever absorbing
Creativity finds comfort
within the cradle of my hand
See if I penned a sonnet
would it be perceived as weak
because I placed my heart upon it
maybe I am a fool for spilling souls blood
in inks line but I fight to stave off
the deepest pain that consumes
all that haunts my mind
I am a Poet
Who Breathes in Blue
Bleeds in black ink
Scribes in blood
Creativity Spills
Like The Thickness
of Curved Water
and Falls Heavier than
the combined water
of the worlds rain
in one spot
I am a master
[...] Read more
poem by Samantha Campbell
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Who Wonders About Spellings?
who wonders about spellings?
judgement made and judgment passed
a word application flags judgement
as an incorrect spelling
but a rolling stone gathers no moss
search the word online
a kiwi familiar with both
British and American spellings
instantly searches in mind
both judgement and judgment
occur with seemingly equal frequency
one English the other American?
Dictionary English
Dictionary American
Program setting in computer?
What a bother!
If both are OK
on differing sides of pond?
Yes Yes you guess
you could...
updat your dictionary?
by adding
the 'judgement'
spelling
but doing
so might
lend
it will it will
assistance...
to spelling
inconsistencies
a certain probability
yes yes a 'judgment call'
your wondering
why the two spellings?
now your saying
you would have to say
British spelling is judgement
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Judgement Day
(Ohhhh, yeah yeah yeah yeah)
[Chorus: singers]
You can turn your back and then walk away
(You can turn your back and then walk away)
Soon be comin the judgement day
(Ahh, soon there be comin the judgement day)
[Xzibit - starts over Chorus]
Yes, uhh, breathe with me
C'mon.. listen, yo
I know you're fed up, feel like you can't get up
Have faith, stay strong, keep your head up
Yo, it only gets worse; we in a world
where your status and your bank account determine your worth
There's no time to rehearse, the clock been tickin
cause we all started dyin at birth, I speak the truth and it hurts
It felt like I was dyin of thirst
'til I was blessed with my voice, I move mountains with verse
The worst thing you ever seen in your life, "The Passion of Christ"
Pregnant chicks buyin rock, hittin the pipe
It ain't like I ain't tried to tell ya; misery love company
Keepin the wrong company brings failure
Cause people use people like paraphenalia
With a scam, with a scheme, with a dream to sell ya
But I ain't got nothin but love for all my soldiers and thugs
To all of my women, we gotta keep livin, c'mon
[Chorus: singers]
You can turn your back and then walk away
(Ohh, don't turn your back and then walk away y'all)
Soon be comin the judgement day
(Soon there be comin judgement day)
[Xzibit - starts over Chorus]
Yeah! C'mon
Mr. X to the Z had to raise the stakes
Had to touch my people like T.D. Jakes
On the ground like a nigga flippin crumbs to cake
I won't stop like an eighteen wheeler with no brakes
Bein dipped in her-on so each CD's weight
Niggaz be fake, they speak what they can't create (create)
You won't, see me break, I'm built for a tough frame
One-eighty-five and I'm still on huff
I was only 15, tryin to pass that rock
Never got caught, just sat down, collected my thoughts
This is bullshit, I ain't got a plane or a boat
I'm just another nigga sellin some coke, y'know?
Had to grab life right by the throat, murder I wrote
My callin for ballin wasn't pedalin dope
It was oversea convoys, bangin out cuts
No police or government agency lockin me up, so what?
[Chorus: singers]
You can turn your back and then walk away
[...] Read more
song performed by Xzibit
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Pillage Hangman - Parody LONGFELLOW - The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, -rejoicing, -sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Light Burst, Confusion, First Thirst, Then Fusion, Flight
As nature hates a vacuum NOTHING can
be but a figment fragment second-guessed.
Reality and dreams combine, their quest
is thus to banish NOTHING then to span
creation’s vastness, scanning big bang's van,
from tao trip evolution's also-ran
to space displacement through one thousandth dan,
to Time condensing on initial jest
when request and inquest converge in gest.
Atoms void avoid, spin tails till trail's lost, rest
contest, contestants, distance, über plan,
arresting surface difference with zest.
From mess congestive to suggestive test
of chaos, universal fractal fest
patterns pitter patter, matter must
invent itself from, to, through, into dust.
./.
Before big bang rang change strange, range remaining still in flux
electrons once were strangers all to call of ‘fiat lux’.
Along came fission’s fusion, confusion first, then light
bequeathing mission’s clues upon delusion and delight.
This led to fate's conclusion, caused atoms to unite
the which, in turn, illusion lent woe_man - sum mum quite!
From chaos sprung our meeting, a marriage of convenience,
the which our rhymes are sweeting so judge linked lines with lenience.
When I was oxygenic and you two hydro genes
as dry as dust hygenic remained both Ways and Means,
as lonely and divided you me me…anderings,
unknown were helix he licks, and protoplasmic strings.
Unknown were then amoebae, or cells life's spells now bring,
like wise unfixed stoned genes' screen sticks, where species do their thing,
Thus life reached out, leached in for years before the Christian Right
decided seven days were all transforming night to right.
The Kansas Education Board's creation tale lies scored,
for aeons spun, together run, provided bread and board
for creatures wild - those really mild encountered some predators
before blind humankind assigned their carbon half-life daters.
Without our tryst few formal life forms on earth could ever
pursue existence ‘normal’, act out silly or feel clever.
When I was young and ignorant unknown to hair twins hydro
few days were spent in versing chant, reversing carbohydro
none fought for life on food chain link, existence ungalactic
they were a simple pair I think, electrons unclimactic.
But now beneath, above, beyond it is our joy to bond -
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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