The raven flies low
I hear when he is cawing
- A ray of hope there
haiku by Peter S. Quinn
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Were There Hope
I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles
To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.
But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Remember Raven
Aah! ooh!
Aah! ooh!
While youre busy trying to conjure dirt upon me,
Your ponys sucked dry by an african bee.
The muck you rake is not enough to keep your turd at sea,
Remember the raven,
Remember the raven.
While your busy trying to weigh your power,
Your boats getting into fast water.
Lifes going down the river of no return,
Remember raven,
Remember raven.
Dont try to be a warden to history,
While trying to find a seat for your posterity.
You better tend your garden for your family.
Remember raven,
Remember raven.
Judas never got the key to heaven, you know.
Raven, raven, remember raven,
Remember raven.
Raven, raven, remember raven,
Remember raven.
Raven, raven, raven.
song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Torch Bearers (extremely old) .
The storm wafted away to reveal the setting. A farmhouse painted abandoned in the wakes of the rooster in the early renaissance of spring. The sunlight hardly skimmed the surface of the horizon as it illuminated a raven’s silhouette. The bird had been through so many storms, so many hails of shotguns, and so many felines and motors that it appeared to be as ancient as the farmhouse itself. Like the falling down structure, it had patches of itself missing – torn away feathers, a chipped beak, and a wounded leg. One wing was winded and withering away, so much so that when it flew it was lopsided like a painting hung in an insensitive hurry. Despite all of this, it was alive. More alive, even, then it had ever felt in long-ago flights through the windiest of weather. And you could tell. You could see the vivacity in its sharp eyes; you could recognize the living wisdom before you even noticed the dilapidated wings.
It was perched atop a scarecrow’s decaying arm, contemplating what it would do now that the rabbit had gone. It was not exactly sure whereto it had disappeared, but it had left the sun looking so much brighter.
The raven was always watching that rabbit like a mother watches her child at a crowded amusement park, waiting for the rabbit to notice its watchful gaze. Harm was not in the bird’s mind. It was simply fascinated by the rabbit, wondering how it could hop so wonderfully fast when frightened, wishing it could feel the white fur that laced the rabbit’s back. But the rabbit, too engrossed in its own beauty and mysterious world, never noticed the raven. Sometimes it saw a black shadow out of the corner of its eye, and waved it off as hazardous – nothing it could eat – and decided to pay no heed to it. Finally the bird had been so weighed down by the wistful longing it felt that it needed to fulfill the desires it had to make contact with the breathtaking ears. It swooped down in a desperate rage, a bullet to a victim’s chest, desperately reaching out to caress the rabbit. Mistakenly terrified, the rabbit disappeared in a cloud of dirt, leaving the raven utterly bewildered and miserable as it collided with the ground like an atomic bomb.
For days it dozed in the dirt, dejected, angry at itself and the rabbit, swearing it would never become fascinated with another living thing again. One morning, as it croaked into the wind, a small figure appeared in the distance, its tiny fuzzy nose twitching as it carefully skipped along the field. The raven, forgetting all of its valuable promises to itself, lifted its head hopefully. Again, it admiringly stared at the oblivious rabbit, torturing itself little by little, until again, it soared in hopefulness, speeding towards the furry creature. This time the rabbit didn’t budge. It stared observantly at the raven, and sniffed the bird in acknowledgment. The raven was dumbfounded, and followed the rabbit around for weeks. The rabbit never paid much attention to it, yet the raven was blissful, stricken with an arrow that made it feel like it was floating somewhere in a dream.
During the angry toddler fit of a heavy rain, the rabbit had decided that it valued only its solitude, and that the raven, a decidedly pesky little thing, was becoming a nuisance. It turned around and bit the raven’s leg, forcefully, and ignorantly sped away. The raven was stranded in the throes of confusion. For months on end, it distanced itself from the rabbit, terrified to even approach it. It still watched yearningly from the stuffed scarecrow, dreaming of the day when the rabbit would finally accept it. The rabbit had plans of its own. No matter how the raven tried to approach it, the rabbit would reject the raven cruelly, and during those days that they spoke not to each other, it would hardly give a thought to the bird. These situations went on and off for months, but everything must change.
One morning the raven attended its usual post, and waited for the rabbit to do its morningly routine in the field. It had another scheme to lure the rabbit, and it was as determined as a soldier at war. But the rabbit never appeared. The raven was disorientated, but decided to reason with itself, certain that this would be a wonderful opportunity to forget its past mistakes. Though it knew the dangers of the surrounding highways, and the fact that maybe the rabbit had met with one of these perils, it worried not. After awhile, it began to find the pieces of its precedent self. It transformed back into the beautiful ebony bird it once was, no longer trying to be the rabbit it could never be. It was only fearful that the rabbit would return and once more steal its identity, but it tried not to think of this.
And so there it sat once more, looking out into the endless empty canola fields, still yearning for something that maybe one day it would find. At least now it knew to never pine for one who was ignorantly content with itself when it had never fully lived. It had had marvelously perfect fur, but it had never lived the thrill of escaping a cat’s chase. Its nose was in perfect structure, and yet it had not traveled great distances and spoke wisdoms to other creatures while learning new ones. It hopped in perfect composition and yet it had never escaped a creature’s biggest fear – man.
So the raven cawed in exquisite cadence and, somewhere in the distance, another raven replied in an equally perfect rhythm.
poem by Alison Rosalie
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The Raven And The King's Daughter
King’s daughter sitting in tower so high,
Fair summer is on many a shield.
Why weepest thou as the clouds go by?
Fair sing the swans ’twixt firth and field.
Why weepest thou in the window-seat
Till the tears run through thy fingers sweet?
The King’s Daughter.
I weep because I sit alone
Betwixt these walls of lime and stone.
Fair folk are in my father’s hall,
But for me he built this guarded wall.
And here the gold on the green I sew
Nor tidings of my true-love know.
The Raven.
King’s daughter, sitting above the sea,
I shall tell thee a tale shall gladden thee.
Yestreen I saw a ship go forth
When the wind blew merry from the north.
And by the tiller Steingrim sat,
And O, but my heart was glad thereat!
For ’twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea
His sword sang sweet of deeds to be.
The King’s Daughter.
O barren sea, thou bitter bird,
And a barren tale my ears have heard.
The Raven.
Thy father’s men were hard thereby
In byrny bright and helmet high.
The King’s Daughter.
O worser waxeth thy story far,
For these drew upon me bolt and bar.
Fly south, O fowl, to the field of death
For nothing sweet thy grey neb saith.
The Raven.
O, there was Olaf the lily-rose,
As fair as any oak that grows.
The King’s Daughter.
[...] Read more
poem by William Morris
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The Raven Crows
The Raven Crows
by Charles Robert Hice on Thursday, November 22,2012 at 9: 27pm ·
The Raven Crows
The Raven stretches its wings and flies into the gray winter skies while the raven flies it Crows its rawkish voice makes aweful noise
it blows the wind it howls and sounds like a mechanical noise inside the wind
the noise pretends to be the raven as it crows it flies it crows and flies it dives down into the wind and sounds like a noise falling fast and then it sort of dies and falls away not the sound it echoes and it blows
in the middle of the night no one can see the ravens flight but they hear the voice the noise the sound even the wings they flap they glide silent and they hide
The raven seldom crows when it is in its glide it falls and hides no one can see the feathers as it plummets from the sky it moves in a silent fashion
as the raven glides it hides from the eyes of the men it has a sense of reality and a purpose as it glides it looks neither to the left or to the right finally it is satisfied with its destination in its sight the raven crows one final time and plummets like a stone into the night and suddenly a poem is come to earth as Poe hears his famous bird not the crow the rook or the blackbird as it sings but the Raven as it speaks to only him
Nevermore
The Raven Crows
poem by Charles Hice
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The Loves of the Angels
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.
Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!
One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!
Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Moore
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Raven, Raven
I took my children to the Zoo.
That was in March of 1993
And there was a sharp wind.
We saw a black
Raven who had stories.
'Are you thirsty, Raven? '
They asked him.
He said: 'Raven, Raven.'
'Are you hungry, Raven? '
He said: 'Raven, Raven'
'Do you have a family, Raven? '
I asked.
He said: 'Raven, Raven.'
We came back smiling
My children and I.
The children left.
We remained: sharp wind and me.
We went to my apartment:
My memories and I.
Unbearable loneliness.
I went to a pub.
The waiter asked:
'Are you thirsty or hungry?
You are not with your kids tonight? '
I replied: 'RAVEN, RAVEN.'
poem by Jankovic Zoran
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The Four Seasons : Summer
From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry Hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom;
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptured glance
Shot on surrounding Heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the Poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful Muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite:
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius, and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastised; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combined;
Unblemish'd honour, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and Man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men,
And all their labour'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course;
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect hand!
That poised, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek'd-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east:
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
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The Corsair
'O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our soul's as free
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
whom slumber soothes not - pleasure cannot please -
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint can only feel -
Feel - to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and Its spirit soar?
No dread of death if with us die our foes -
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will - we snatch the life of life -
When lost - what recks it but disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away:
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours - the fresh turf; and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang - one bound - escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!'
II.
Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while:
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,
They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand:
[...] Read more
Time Flies
Aint much time left in my life
I'm all stressed out time to fly
Im on my way
Im on my way
I cant let go
I cant wake up
Time flies...
Flies...
One more step and im falling off the mountain
One more pill who cares nobodys counting
They told me to sing it to the birds
Sing it to the birds
Noones listening
One more step and im falling off the mountain
The mountain sang to me
Love...
The mountain sang to me
Love...
Sitting up on this little bitty hill
Will i make something out of myself?
Sitting up on this little bitty hill
Will i make something out of myself?
I can't let go
I can't wake up
Time flies...
Time flies...
Yeah
Time flies...
Yeah (dont you know)
Time flies...
Aint much time left in my life
I'm all stressed out time to fly
Im on my way
Im on my way
I cant let go
I cant wake up
Time flies...
(dont you know time flies)
Flies...
Yeah
Time flies...
Yeah
Flies...
Yeah
Time flies...
Yeah
Time flies...
Yeah
Flies...
Yeah
[...] Read more
song performed by Puddle Of Mudd
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
[...] Read more
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Black raven, White dove
When it's black,
Like the raven,
The well is full, but full of what?
My sun is shining in a half pale burst,
With toxic, red hot guilt
And as if in stark contrast,
The white dove just hits home-
And its what I've always wanted alive,
But then when I give some brainpower,
I decide that maybe it could be dead-
And it took the black to show it.
But then the black of the raven,
So beautifully stunning,
I look at her and all I see,
Is the storm in her eyes,
And the dove
Should be crying
For it doesn't know
That my white heart is dying
Replaced by the black of the right
"Home is where the heart is"
Then my home's firmly with the white,
It's where I've lived,
For six months past,
And I feel like I belong
I feel like I am home there
But then I see,
Cupid's stupid decree-
With one black wing and one white,
But which is wrong?
Which right?
But is the dove ever going to surrender?
Wave its' flag and give in to the raven?
Cause the raven's a-pecking,
And so far she's winning,
And with a fight,
And a laboratory,
The boy of white has slim chance of winning.
Cause now that it's out,
I'm secretly devout,
So secretly, darkly obsessed,
With the black of the girl,
And the light blue of the raven's eye,
But then its' always been white,
The dove the keeper of my heart,
[...] Read more
poem by Ally Gunther
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The Death of a Raven
As I was taking a tour today
I saw a raven lying dead by the side of a bank
He lay there lone, cold, dead
Nobody to bury, cremate, or carry him away
I felt sad
I felt life is so sudden, so short
A couple of ravens kept circling the dead
They tried to tell me something of the raven dead
But I couldn't understand them
Because I don't know as how to interpret the language of the raven
The raven lay dead by the pavement of the bank
He lay sideways
His feet up
His dead beak closed and dead
I felt a sudden rush of hopelessness, a sudden rush of undefined pain
I didn't stop there to mourn the raven's death
I ran away as fast my legs would pace
The raven is dead
Everything around him goes as usual
Life is a continuous process
Time, tide, space flows on their own pace
Nobody notices the death of the raven
Except me
My soul saddens by the death of the unknown raven
The sky is dark and cloudy
It threatens rain
A few drops dropp here and there to make the scorched ground a little
wet
I cry for the dead raven
Please spare a pray for the dead raven
poem by Ujjol Kamal
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The Colony Of Slippermen
The arrival
Leaving by the same door from which he had come in, he finds some sort of freaks ghetto on the other side. when they catch sight of him, the entire street of distorted figures burst into laughte
E of the colony approaches him.
Rael:
I wandered lonely as a cloud,
Till I came upon this dirty street.
Ive never seen a stranger crowd;
Slubberdegullions on squeaky feet,
Continually pacing,
With nonchalant embracing,
Each orifice disgracing
And one facing me moves to say hellay.
He is grotesque in every feature, a mixture of ugly lumps and stumps. his lips slip across his chin as he smiles in welcome and offers his slippery handshake.
His skins all covered in slimy lumps.
With lips that slide across each chin.
His twisted limbs like rubber stumps
Are waved in welcome say please join in.
My grip must be flipping,
Cos his handshake keeps slipping,
My hopes keep on dipping
And his lips keep on smiling all the time.
Rael is a little disillusioned, when the slipperman reveals that the entire colony have one-by-one been through the same glorious romantic tragedy with the same three lamia, who regenerate thems
Every time, and that now rael shares their physical appearance and shadowy fate.
Slipperman:
We, like you, have tasted love.
Dont be alarmed at what you see,
You yourself are just the same
As what you see in me.
Rael:
Me, like you? like that!
Slipperman:
You better watch it son, your sentence has only just begun
You better run and join your brother john.
Amongst the contorted faces of the slippermen, rael recognises what is left of his brother john. they hug each other.
A visit to the doktor
John bitterly explains that the entire life of the slipperman is devoted to satisfying the never-ending hunger of the senses, which has been inherited from the lamia. there is only one escape ro
A dreaded visit to the notorious doktor dyper who will remove the source of the problems, or to put it less politely, castrate.
They discuss the deceptively-named escape for a long time and decide to go together to visit the doktor.
Slipperman:
Youre in the colony of slippermen.
Theres no who? why? what? or when?
You get out if youve got the gripe
To see, doktor dyper, reformed sniper - hell whip off your
Windscreenwiper
Rael:
John and I are able
To face the doktor and his marble table.
The doktor:
Understand rael, thats the end of your tail.
Rael:
[...] Read more
song performed by Genesis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Obstacle 1
I wish I could eat the salt off of your lost faded lips
We can cap the old times, make playing only logical harm
We can cap the old lines, make playing that nothing else will change
But she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
She can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
Oh, she's bad
But it's different now that I'm poor and aging, I'll never see this face again
You go stabbing yourself in the neck
And we can find new ways of living make playing only logical harm
And we can top the old times, clay-making that nothing else will change
But she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
She can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
Oh, she's bad
It's different now that I'm poor and aging, I'll never see this place again
You go stabbing yourself in the neck
But it's different now that I'm poor and aging, I'll never see this place again
And you go stabbing yourself in the neck
It's in the way that she posed, it's in the things that she puts in my head
Her stories are boring and stuff, she's always calling my bluff
She puts, she puts the weights into my little heart
And she gets in my room and she takes it apart
She puts the weights into my little heart
I said she puts the weights into my little heart
She packs it away
It's in the way that she walks
Her heaven is never enough
She puts the weights in my heart
She puts, oh she puts the weights into my little heart
song performed by Interpol
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Zenana
WHAT is there that the world hath not
Gathered in yon enchanted spot?
Where, pale, and with a languid eye,
The fair Sultana listlessly
Leans on her silken couch, and dreams
Of mountain airs, and mountain streams.
Sweet though the music float around,
It wants the old familiar sound;
And fragrant though the flowers are breathing,
From far and near together wreathing,
They are not those she used to wear,
Upon the midnight of her hair.—
She's very young, and childhood's days
With all their old remembered ways,
The empire of her heart contest
With love, that is so new a guest;
When blushing with her Murad near,
Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,
E'en the beloved past is dim,
Past, present, future, merge in him.
But he, the warrior and the chief,
His hours of happiness are brief;
And he must leave Nadira's side
To woo and win a ruder bride;
Sought, sword in hand and spur on heel,
The fame, that weds with blood and steel.
And while from Delhi far away,
His youthful bride pines through the day,
Weary and sad: thus when again
He seeks to bind love's loosen'd chain;
He finds the tears are scarcely dry
Upon a cheek whose bloom is faded,
The very flush of victory
Is, like the brow he watches, shaded.
A thousand thoughts are at her heart,
His image paramount o'er all,
Yet not all his, the tears that start,
As mournful memories recall
Scenes of another home, which yet
That fond young heart can not forget.
She thinks upon that place of pride,
Which frowned upon the mountain's side;
While round it spread the ancient plain,
Her steps will never cross again.
And near those mighty temples stand,
The miracles of mortal hand,
[...] Read more
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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I Hear The Raven Sing
I can hear the raven sing,
I can hear the raven sing,
He calls out my name,
I can hear the raven sing,
He calls out to me,
His song is singing in the wind,
I can hear the raven sing,
Thunder breaks a silent moment,
Then he calls out my name,
A spiritual glow envelops,
Medicine power develops,
As the raven sings,
A rainbow doubled,
My minds not troubled,
As I hear the raven sing,
It’s time to go home,
My ancestors wait for me,
The welcome hand is extended,
My place around the council fire reserved,
I hear the raven sing,
There, all that was, is preserved,
And the message of the raven heard.
My Vision my Dream.
Osceola Birdman Waters.
Copy rights pending.
Dedicated to Billy White Fox.
poem by Osceola Waters
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Villanelle: Blackbird
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill,
In autumn after other birds had fled,
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
I stood and listened, savoring the thrill
And wondered why the superstitious dread
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill.
Perhaps they’d better reckoned why the shrill,
Outspoken, charcoal guardian of the dead
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
A witness of the seasons, it could fill
A tome or tomb with woe: I heard, instead,
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill.
The raven’s kin, it played the brazen shill
And, morbid incantations having plead,
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
But as I yearn to hear the robin’s trill,
I think of when, now comforted in bed,
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
poem by Richard St. Clair
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Tortures Of Life
Late one night, almost twelve midnight
I sat alone on my bathroom floor.
The cool air brushed my skin.
Old habits coming back to haunt me.
Slowly I slipped into a fog, where I was not sure if I was awake, or asleep.
I awoke - at least I thought I did.
Strange noises came from my shoulders.
I looked up and on my shoulder
I saw a
Raven
and a
Dove
But something was strange about these birds.
They talked. They talked to me, with words.
The Raven told me to reach up and grab what it knew I wanted.
Whispering how my world was slowly falling apart, whispering words of evil.
The Dove talked in a peaceful voice, no evil detected.
The Dove whispered in my ear, all the good things I had to live for.
The Raven stepped off my shoulder and glared at the Dove.
It spoke, in a language I could not understand.
The Dove,
disappeared.
Now it was only I and the Raven
I kept quite quiet.
I needn't speak.
The Raven's eyes peered into my soul.
All the memories of my past I had tried to forget
Flooded back.
I thought to myself, still not saying anything
'Why? Why is this Raven using these memories to torture me to insanity? '
The Raven spoke, in a very hushed tone.'Never again.'
I pondered by what he meant.
Before I could speak, the Raven explained.
'Never. Again. Will you feel the joys of life for life is over. Never. Again.'
I kept quite quiet.
The Raven then left.
Leaving me with my scars on my wrist burning.
Never Again I whispered.
Never Again.
poem by Roxanne Grady
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A Stave Of Roving Tim
(ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)
I
The wind is East, the wind is West,
Blows in and out of haven;
The wind that blows is the wind that's best,
And croak, my jolly raven!
If here awhile we jigged and laughed,
The like we will do yonder;
For he's the man who masters a craft,
And light as a lord can wander.
So, foot the measure, Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.
II
You live in rows of snug abodes,
With gold, maybe, for counting;
And mine's the beck of the rainy roads
Against the sun a-mounting.
I take the day as it behaves,
Nor shiver when 'tis airy;
But comes a breeze, all you are on waves,
Sick chickens o' Mother Carey!
So, now for next, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.
III
Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer,
To make a man consider.
If you were up with the auctioneer,
I'd be a handsome bidder.
But wedlock clips the rover's wing;
She tricks him fly to spider;
And when we get to fights in the Ring,
It's trumps when you play outsider.
So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.
IV
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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