Quotes about wove, page 13
Lord Of My Life
Thou who art the innermost Spirit of my being,
art thou pleased, Lord of my Life?
For I give to thee my cup filled with all
the pain and delight that the crushed
grapes of my heart had surrendered,
I wove with rhythm of colors and song cover for thy bed,
And with the molten gold of my desires
I fashioned playthings for thy passing hours.
I know not why thou chosest me for thy partner,
Lord of my life.
Didst thou store my days and nights,
my deeds and dreams for the alchemy of thy art,
and string in the chain of thy music my songs of autumn and spring,
and gather the flowers from my mature moments for thy crown?
I see thine eyes gazing at the dark of my heart,
Lord of my life,
I wonder if my failure and wrongs are forgiven.
For many were my days without service
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poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Web of Bridges
The moon broods upon her phosphors
and wove her lasso to concatenate
the sundered dispositions basked indulgently
on the filths of self-desolating defeat
and in her reflection upon the moiré undulations
I confabulated with my own flamboyant charade
inside the shallow shelves of this den
where saints knelt before burning bridges
gnarled in a prayer for vindication - I am a gargoyle
scornful and bemused upon the illusion
deferentially succumbing to a feigned oblivion
The latticing shadows of the bridges
overlaps in a consummate web of darkness
where I caught myself in the juxtaposition
of the squalid morose in our superfluous transitions
waiting for the monarchial jeopardy
while the pillars wobbled and toppled
leaving me in the taciturn propinquity
of absolute confusion, deterred absolution,
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poem by Norman Santos
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song - The Long Goodbye
I rarely thought of you
'til you finally broke through
I thought the story was complete
When we talked back in ninety three
I thought that was enough my love
But now love’s legionnaires have come
And Alison I’m thinking of
All the little things too much
Like how your d n a and such
Wove a spiders web of love and touch
into something almost glorious
But rarely could forget
That strange chemistry that crept
Between us, then entangled us
And didn’t understand at first
You know that I was crushed my love
By overwhelming chemicals
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poem by Jim Hogg
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The Weaver
All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
'Oh, come away, or we die!'
Without is a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not to kill,
The thunder of feet and the cry of the flight,
A slaughter weird and shrill;
Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight,
The weaver is weaving still.
'Come away, dear soul, come away or we die;
Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away;
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly;
The kind God hath left them this day;
The battle-axes cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and slay.'
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poem by Archibald Lampman
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Coronation
At the king's gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell one by one.
Through the king's gate, unquestioned then,
A beggar went and laughed, 'This brings
Me chance, at last, to see if men
Fare better being kings.'
The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.
'Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?'
The beggar turned, and pitying,
Replied, like one in dream, 'Of thee,
Nothing. I want the king.'
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poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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George Bush Poem = September 11th & Our Flag
SEPTEMBER 11th
After suffering the wrath of a sneak attack
America now mourns to her very core.
Though soon her enemies shall all but flee
From the sound of America waging full war.
Let there be no doubt, no doubt at all
That the devil has decided to give us a call.
We shall defeat hell's soldiers and cast them out
And if we die; that's what freedom is about.
We shall seek them out wherever they may hide
Street by street, house-by-house, cave by cave.
They will be eradicated from the face of the Earth
By the righteous, the loyal and the brave.
It's not a priest that gives us our freedom of religion
And it's not a reporter that gives us our freedom of voice.
It's not any judge, lawyer, politician, preacher or teacher
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poem by Tom Zart
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The Requital
LOUD roared the tempest,
Fast fell the sleet;
A little Child Angel
Passed down the street,
With trailing pinions
And weary feet.
The moon was hidden;
No stars were bright;
So she could not shelter
In heaven that night,
For the Angels’ ladders
Are rays of light.
She beat her wings
At each windowpane,
And pleaded for shelter,
But all in vain;—
“Listen,” they said,
“To the pelting rain!”
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poem by Adelaide Anne Procter
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The Room Beneath the Rafters
Sometimes when I have dropped asleep,
Draped in soft luxurious gloom,
Across my drowsy mind will creep
The memory of another room,
Where resinous knots in roofboards made
A frescoing of light and shade,
And sighing poplars brushed their leaves
Against the humbly sloping eaves.
Again I fancy in my dreams
I'm lying in my trundle-bed.
I seem to see the bare old beams
And unhewn rafters overhead;
The hornet's shrill falsetto hum
I hear again, and see him come
Forth from his mud-walled hanging house,
Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.
There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,
And wove into my fair dream's woof
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Lambaste Unto Your Shattered Reflection
Softly, the mist came with its trifle attention
lackadaisically promenading in the silver stillness
but nothing in this quiescence is intimate enough
to quell the raving flames of your furnace
shorn openly to desecrate the lacings of faith
I picked up the debris of your blaring tirade,
I cupped the ashes of your sterile lambaste,
I reckoned the vicarious pirouettes with death -
our hands are both tarnished but my soul stifles
under the condemns of your querulous parasol
The godly hands eloquently wove webs with you
until your fulminating repose was a perfect ensnare -
a wreck gnawing on your seams, sifting your dreams
shifting the crooked hands of your maladroit petals
Not now, but little by little, you'll know what I mean
When you catch a glimpse of horror by accident
and your mirrors unveil its light to the effluence
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poem by Norman Santos
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Consorting with Angels
I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the post,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.
There were still men who sat at my table,
circled around the bowl I offered up.
The bowl was filled with purple grapes
and the flies hovered in for the scent
and even my father came with his white bone.
But I was tired of the gender things.
Last night I had a dream
and I said to it...
'You are the answer.
You will outlive my husband and my father.'
In that dream there was a city made of chains
where Joan was put to death in man's clothes
and the nature of the angels went unexplained,
no two made in the same species,
one with a nose, one with an ear in its hand,
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poem by Anne Sexton
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