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Drug Scene

Who cares about the middle classes
Sitting on their opulent arses,
Drinking wine and snorting coke,
Respectability a joke?
This is the land of the living dead
Who put their children safe to bed
And feed their head, feed their head.....

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Autumn

They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia,
Opulent, flaunting.
Round gold
Flung out of a pale green stalk.
Round, ripe gold
Of maturity,
Meticulously frilled and flaming,
A fire-ball of proclamation:
Fecundity decked in staring yellow
For all the world to see.
They brought a quilled, yellow dahlia,
To me who am barren
Shall I send it to you,
You who have taken with you
All I once possessed?

poem by Amy Lowell
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To Marc Chagall

Donkey or cow, cockerel or horse
On to the skin of a violin
A singing man a single bird
An agile dancer with his wife

A couple drenched in their youth

The gold of the grass lead of the sky
Separated by azure flames
Of the health-giving dew
The blood glitters the heart rings

A couple the first reflection

And in a cellar of snow
The opulent vine draws
A face with lunar lips
That never slept at night.

poem by Paul Eluard
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Fascinating Figures In A Flickering Candle Light

The candle flickering
throws fascinating figures
to dance across the walls.
Silhouettes that move
in opulent rhythms,
which are hidden, from our ears.
Fascinating figures that capture
all our imagination can see,
dancing on a faint breeze
that wafts the candle flame
in jubilant games
into the darkened night.
We sit mesmerized by it all
as the silhouettes dance
and sway across the walls,
brought to life by
the flickering candle light.

poem by David Harris
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Anarchist Song

Who cares about the middle classes
Sitting on their opulent arses
Eating cheese and drinking wine,
Who cares about these privileged swine?
They send their kids to Public Schools
And raise a generation of fools
Who never have an original thought
Or question anything they're taught!
They're happy with the status quo
And think that it's a JOLLY GOOD SHOW
That poorer people have to sweat
For every little thing they get,
Yes, Mrs Thatcher taught them well
And the rest of us can go to hell! !

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Stoning

A weeping willow was telling
a trove of memories,
for an ancient provenance
where the lake sleeps.

Why the sheen of water brings out
ephemerality of ‘if’. You want to
take a holy dip, never to come up again
in the throes of birth and death.

And waves, why they clap when they
are hooked up with the winds? Was it
to marry the sky? I am counting
the stars fallen to the street.

Back to the moon in skunk night
of slimming curves and opulent
nose for a ride in bed, sorting out
the remaining stones.

poem by Satish Verma
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Drooping

For a desolatory trident
I was feeding my anger.
I could not do it, sell
myself for punitive lenses of my calculus.

A nymphalid arsenal.
The war was still going on
to strike in deep poctets, demolishing
nascent hope. Future will

ponder at the mascots. The grief
of rags and riches will continue
listening to eternal conflicts.
The wounds will develop whiskers.

Not for the opulent pain in the body:
we were crying for the glory of the man
which was disappearing fast,
under the whirling snow of broken stars.

poem by Satish Verma
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Speechless.....

it is blank, i do not see anything
but here is everything
spread before me, all, all of it,
tiny little things, with all the colors
in broad daylight,
i simply have not chosen any word yet for it
i am confused, there is so much
abundance, profuse,
opulent
light and dancing leaves
wind, and breeze and colored clothes
hanging there
boats with their rainbow sails,

i am speechless
there is so much and i have no word for all
these beauty,

perhaps, there is no fair word to describe
what beauty is, or

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Be Thou My Guide

Be Thou my guide, and I will walk in darkness
As one who treads the beamy heights of day,
Feeling a gladness amidst desert sadness,
And breathing vernal fragrance all the way.

Be Thou my wealth, and, reft of all besides Thee,
I will forget the strife for meaner things,
Blest in the sweetness of thy rare completeness,
And opulent beyond the dream of kings.

Be Thou my strength, O lowly One and saintly!
And, though unvisioned ills about me throng,
Though danger woo me and deceit pursue me,
Yet in the thought of Thee I will be strong!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Salvationists

I
Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection
We shall get ourselves rather disliked.

II
Ah yes, my songs, let us resurrect
The very excellent term Rusticus.
Let us apply it in all its opprobrium
To those to whom it applies.
And you may decline to make them immortal,
For we shall consider them and their state
In delicate
Opulent silence.

III
Come, my songs,
Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities-
Beginning with Mumpodorus;
And against this sea of vulgarities
Beginning with Nimmim;

[...] Read more

poem by Ezra Pound
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