Quotes about growl, page 13
To Big Jess Big Newfoundland Next Door
You look beautiful at least I think so
With soft black hair black as a crow
And loving eyes horse chestnut brown
You are the finest dog your side of town.
Against canines I don't discriminate
Though some give me reason to hate
they growl at me snarl and bark
And show off their teeth like a shark.
But Jess you act different that's true
And that's one reason I like you,
You wag your tail and lick my hand
And your type of dog I understand.
With Kerry your friend gone away
You've got no one with whom you can play
Save sit on your haunches and sigh
And gaze at Mt Evelyn sky.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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We are denied the warm moments to exchange kisses
Our lifestyle is this vast
love denying jail
If you don't come to me
I will not come to you
Pride is the arbitrary
arbiter of our love
You don't write to me
Technology has saddled me
With the iron grip of
The loss of memory
I have forgotten how to
write the moving love letter
of innocent old style romance
Because of some obscure reason
of life we are denied the warm
Moments to exchange kisses
And time is the match commissioner
who wants to know the results
Of whether our rematch is ill
fated for relegation and doom
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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I Am The People, The Mob
I Am the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is
done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
world's food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And
then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and
makes me work and give up what I have. And I
forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red
drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world
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poem by Carl Sandburg
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Pop-up Adverts and how They Crush Your Soul
I sat by my screen intending to write
An ode to the woman who gives my soul flight
Start up the computer and run through my mind
To see what emotions and feelings I find
‘Your eyes make my heart beat so fast it’ll pop’
(pop) SHOOT THE DANCING BEARS HAT AND WIN A LAPTOP!
I click the advert closed and try to regroup
My thoughts and my dreams and take another swoop
‘Your smile gives me joy other people wont know’
(pop) JOIN OUR NEW ON-LINE HYPER CASINO!
My flow interrupted again by this ad
I close it and try to get back what I had
‘Without you by me the world becomes scarier’
(pop) MEET OTHER HOT SINGLES WHO LIVE IN YOUR AREA!
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poem by Flying Lemming
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From Faust - II. Prologue In Heaven
THE ARCHANGELS' SONG.
RAPHAEL.
THE sun still chaunts, as in old time,
With brother-spheres in choral song,
And with his thunder-march sublime
Moves his predestined course along.
Strength find the angels in his sight,
Though he by none may fathomed be;
Still glorious is each work of might
As when first form'd in majesty.
GABRIEL.
And swift and swift, in wondrous guise,
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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Ebony Life
A frightening stillness will mark that day
And the shadow of streetlights and fire-alarms will exhaust the light
All things, the quietest and the loudest, will be silent
The suckling brats will die
The tugboats the locomotives the wind will glide by in silence
We will hear the great voice which coming from far away will pass over the city
We will wait a long time for it
Then at the rich man's time of day
When the dust the stones the missing tears
form the sun's robe on the huge deserted squares
We shall finally hear the voice.
It will growl at doors for a long while
It will pass over the town tearing up flags and breaking windowpanes.
We will hear it
What silence before it, but still greater the silence
it will not disturb but will hold guilty will brand and denounce
Day of sorrows and joys
The day the day to come when the voice will pass over the city
A ghostly seagull told me she loved me as much as I loved her
That this great terrible silence was my love
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poem by Robert Desnos
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The King
Sometimes a lion likes to pose,
To show off now and then...
You see, he's learnt to fight his foes
And knows he's feared by men...
He's seen them run like little girls
And trying not to fall!
It doesn't matter, lords or earls,
He knows he's king of all!
Sometimes a lion likes to stare,
As if he's deep in thought...
Or simply just to say beware,
'You may get caught for sport! '
He can't ignore the way he acts,
Pretend he's like a lamb...
He knows the whole world's learnt the facts...
'Yes, that is how I am...'
Sometimes a lion likes to smirk,
Like victors often do...
When sad defeated lions lurk,
That smirk says, 'I beat you! '
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poem by Denis Martindale
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My Temple
do not speak of god,
of the father, or the mother...
nor the creator...
i do not dwell in temples,
creeds, or written scriptures.
i am formless, taking forms,
i am infinite, becoming particle.
i am clay and grass,
stone and wood...
i am flesh and semen,
and intimate eyes!
i am hungry, will you share?
i have no home or bed,
may i sleep with you?
i am lonely, will you speak with me?
i listen, will you listen too?
i am star and cosmos,
a simple dropp of rain.
i am the growl of thunder,
the sudden flash of lightning.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Staying At Ed's Place
I like being in your apartment, and not disturbing anything.
As in the woods I wouldn't want to move a tree,
or change the play of sun and shadow on the ground.
The yellow kitchen stool belongs right there
against white plaster. I haven't used your purple towel
because I like the accidental cleft of shade you left in it.
At your small six-sided table, covered with mysterious
dents in the wood like a dartboard, I drink my coffee
from your brown mug. I look into the clearing
of your high front room, where sunlight slopes through bare
window squares. Your Afghanistan hammock,
a man-sized cocoon
slung from wall to wall, your narrow desk and typewriter
are the only furniture. Each morning your light from the east
douses me where, with folded legs, I sit in your meadow,
a casual spread of brilliant carpets. Like a cat or dog
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poem by May Swenson
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0417 To a Small-part Actress in the Drama of My life
Shall I compare thee to...a winter's night? ...I wish
I knew what so provokes...
is it me, is it you, is it us?
I try from time to time, to start afresh,
make overtures; but it's just like
a brick wall in the mind; as if forever you're defending
some unspoken matter from attack,
and so we all unwillingly take on the role
of chosen enemies.
What, behind this unexplained brick wall,
are you defending? So that every conversation
feels as if there's someone out there marking, like a boxing ring,
points scored? Even when you walk in through
the office door, it's like a challenge to a world
who handicapped you long before the start - so now
even your beautiful and natural blonde hair,
always so perfectly groomed and shaped and held,
seems to growl a challenge...but to whom?
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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