Quotes about wove, page 12
Merlin and Vivianne
How fickle is your woman's heart
To so closely hold my regard
Only for you to carelessly thwart
The love of this old tired bard
I had set my mind to retire
Deep in the mists of Avalon
Yet you elicited my desires
With your wiles and womanly charm
I was content just a lonely mentor
But imagination can take you far
When into the mind idle fancies do enter
Of such a coy damsel from afar
You appeared to be a lady true
Delighting in my unearthly tales
And many were the secrets I gave to you
For promises of your love so frail
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poem by Sheri Hockman
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North And South
Of the North I wove a dream,
All bespangled with the gleam
Of the glancing wings of swallows
Dipping ripples in a stream,
That, like a tide of wine,
Wound through lands of shade and shine
Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine.
And where orchard-boughs were bent
Till their tawny fruitage blent
With the golden wake that marked the
Way the happy reapers went;
Where the dawn died into noon
As the May-mists into June,
And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon.
Of the South I dreamed: And there
Came a vision clear and fair
As the marvelous enchantments
Of the mirage of the air;
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Soldier's Dream
Last night as I toasted
My wet feet and roasted
A small bit of beef by a similar blaze,
While nought but the wheezings,
The snorings, and sneezings
Of comrades grouping in Dreamland's haze
Disturbed the fine vision -
The picture Elysian -
That Fancy's weird wand conjured up to my thought,
As she stood like a spooke,
In a garb of blue smoke,
And amid the hot embers her wonders she wrought.
Adown a highway
We were marching so gay
An army with banners bedecked o'er and o'er
With the brightest garlands
Wove by fairest of hands,
While a flaming bouquet stuck in each musket bore.
Each triumphal arch
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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Holes In The Tapestry
Like a maudlin brooding
yarns unwoven for the bones
exhumed from the cold stones
I confabulate with the night
and her ashen moiré locks
falling like strings unfettered
from her enigmatic bleakness
fingers interlacing, knotting
vying for the lost linkage
of the sequestered nocturnes
And there is nothing more alone
in rivaling loneliness
stuck in a crossroad of footsteps
chasing their tapping heels
and the slithering pavement
only coiled to a vertigo
of ribald blatancy unfolded
from the clutters of perchance
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Trance of Time
'Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!'
IN childhood, when with eager eyes
The season-measured year I view'd,
All garb'd in fairy guise,
Pledged constancy of good.
Spring sang of heaven; the summer flowers
Bade me gaze on, and did not fade;
Even suns o'er autumn's bowers
Heard my strong wish, and stay'd.
They came and went, the short-lived four;
Yet, as their varying dance they wove,
To my young heart each bore
Its own sure claim of love.
Far different now;—the whirling year
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poem by John Henry Newman
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On Not Flying To Hawaii
I could be the waitress
in the airport restaurant
full of tired cigarette smoke and unseeing tourists.
I could turn into the never-noticed landscape
hanging identically in all the booths
or the customer behind the Chronicle
who has been giving advice about stock portfolios for forty years.
I could be his mortal weariness,
his discarded sports section, his smoldering ashtray.
I could be the 70-year-old woman who has never seen Hawaii,
touching her red lipstick and sprayed hair.
I could enter the linen dress
that poofs around her body like a bridesmaid,
or become her gay son
sitting opposite her, stirring another sugar
into his coffee for lack of something true to say.
I could be the reincarnated soul of the composer
of the Muzak that plays relentlessly overhead,
or the factory worker who wove this fake Oriental carpet,
or the hushed shoes of the busboy.
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poem by Alison Luterman
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Flower-De-Luce: Hawthorne
How beautiful it was, that one bright day
In the long week of rain!
Though all its splendor could not chase away
The omnipresent pain.
The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,
And the great elms o'erhead
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms
Shot through with golden thread.
Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,
The historic river flowed:
I was as one who wanders in a trance,
Unconscious of his road.
The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;
Their voices I could hear,
And yet the words they uttered seemed to change
Their meaning to my ear.
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Butterfly
A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.
The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Tom Zart's = Freedom & Our Flag = 2012
FREEDOM
In their new uniforms
The young march off
Not knowing who shall return.
With a proud devotion
They brandish their flag
Leaving loved ones to wonder and yearn.
May we all be buried
By all of our children
Is an ancient tribal prayer.
They're so easy to lose
But so hard to forget
Such a burden for a parent to bear.
Oh, the taste of victory
Shall soon be forgotten
But, never that which was lost.
For those rows of white headstones
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poem by Tom Zart
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Woman
Woman,
You must be led by your husband around always;
For the tiller of the ground is stronger in the mud of your love,
And like the sole of your feet in the day of the heat.
Cole, hole, mole, pole, bole, sole, dole, role;
On the face of the waters of love to read out your letter,
For the message is very clear to my ears and i am ready.
Love, dove, rove, hove, move, cove, wove;
My reward is better to me but i heard your voice!
And you are my witness of this love because,
You must be led by your husband always.
Shine and bring forth my lover!
For the right time has come for me to go to the West;
And many of my friends are being eyposed because of lust,
But the naked woman next to me is on guard.
Like the first of the tree which is sublte and crafty,
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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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