Quotes about singular, page 6
The Writing Of The Poem/ Seems
THE WRITING OF THE POEM /SEEMS
The writing of the poem
Seems to be more to me
Than its reading.
I do not savor as I should
Each poem.
I do not wait with it long enough
And work on it long enough
And memorize it
Into precious possession.
Too many poems
Kill the singular poem
And as I write one more
I regret
How soon
I will forget it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Wayfarer
The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."
poem by Stephen Crane
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One Way Street
All traffic moving forward
One singular direction
Non surveying the scenery
Non looking back
Wheels turn slowly
In the same way as the others
Feet stepping in unison
March ahead steadily
No back tracking here
No second thought given
Just the rule of the street
One way, one way only
A single file of traffic
Going nowhere fast
In the same direction
The next one follows the last
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Her Majesty Deception-The Governess
realities are thousands of skies
reflected in thousands of eyes
closing down because of too much light
blinking helplessly relentlessly
each blink entitled to its own sight
truely blind
mistaken mind
mere reflections of singular needs
mirroring themselves within an otherness
ashes of words where each lie feeds
Her Majesty Deception-The Governess
inspired by Carl Gustav Jung
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Ceaseless Brain
Ceaseless activity attacks the singular brain,
In those mayhems the chivalry acts and collapses.
Clever are deep and devilish contracts
For the anatomy of the human body.
The active ones are the clammy humans,
Dead as well, death has overtaken them.
Elegant and disgusting are the limbs,
Elderly and eager are the electric ties.
May chilly winds overtake us in sin,
Deeds of the days and nights shall enchant.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Pestilence Hortative
Dirty deck was always
stacked against one.
Even losing haggard moral
unesteemed victory was won.
Worthless heartless soulless being
out strives ostracized otiose bum.
Upward struggling parrying patchily
life’s jagged razor-race edge is run.
Marked deck was always unethical
stacked against honourable singular one.
Man race erasing earth code moral
unbalanced industrial victory patchily won.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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No Sorrow Peculiar To The Sufferer
The lover, in melodious verses,
His singular distress rehearses;
Still closing with a rueful cry,
'Was ever such a wretch as I!'
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumber’d Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
poem by William Cowper
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The Supremes
The United States
Supreme Court
lacks creditable
determinable
unity of purpose.
Guantanamo Bay
is a geographical
miscarriage of justice.
The first amendment
protects the rights
of citizens individuals
but not at the expense
of national security.
There is no greater
singular unity
of purpose
than protecting
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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This Crazy English Language
English is crazy, we do explore
Singular and plural, probe for more
If goose for geese and tooth for teeth
Why isn't the plural of booth, beeth?
English speakers, verbally insane
Learning this language is really a pain
Index to indices, teachers taught
Why didn't those preachers praught?
Feet that smell, noses that run
Away with murder, such a pun
Play at recital, recite at play
Oral asylum, what else could it be?
poem by Noel A Medina
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To Be Awakened
Write in a cradle of luxury:
And wait for the traffic to pass by like
Beautiful lures
And housewives in their mouths:
Now I do not know which way I am going—
The concrete is so singular—
Airplanes touch-down maybe fifty feet
Away from me—
It is the year of the dragon, and she is my wife
As the angels fly into her,
Burning themselves—wishing to be freed,
As her hair darkens
Until it is finally time to be awakened.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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