Quotes about numbed, page 8
The Edge Of Beauty...
wherein lies the edge of beauty?
of true expression?
be there more truth
in a picture of fruit....
or a picture of the eyes
of a starving child?
be there more love
in an ancient picture of Jesus,
or the picture of an addict,
shaking on a stoop?
be there more reality
in numbed words carefully written,
or in the story of the evicted family,
penned in raw blood?
be there more beauty
in a picture of supposed angels,
or in a tasteful nude?
be there more freedom
in a picture of the revolution,
or in a photo of freedom's protesters,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Moved My Cheese?
'Who moved my cheese? ' the poor mouse screamed!
He really looked distraught!
For cheese was everything he dreamed,
Worth risking getting caught!
His jaw dropped low, his shoulders slumped,
His mind was all agog!
His one-track thoughts completely numbed,
'Was it the cat or dog? '
He fumed and fumed quite powerless,
For nothing could be done!
For someone nicked his happiness
And half-inched all his fun!
He vowed someone would pay for this...
Revenge began to grow...
His hateful heart began to fizz...
This was the final blow!
He scampered cross the kitchen floor,
Ran down the garden path...
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poem by Denis Martindale
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Stanzas
IN a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
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poem by John Keats
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No Need to Flatter Yourself
Please...
No need to flatter yourself.
By declaring your lack of facts...
About a life I've had to live.
None of it had been based on gossip.
Nor was any part of your life,
Offered to me in trade to give.
And yet you embellish,
My experiences with relish!
But not one tear of mine that was shed...
Came from your heart!
Or your empty head!
But I must admit the attention you have given...
Has increased an interest I could not pay for.
If I could afford that service,
From a public relations firm instead!
So...
By all means,
Continue your activities!
At least I don't have to worry about publicity.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To Circumvent What It Is Done They Do
To do what one loves,
Becomes one's evidence...
In the doing.
Not as proof to convince,
But as a love one does.
And with a doing of it not to mention.
As observed...
People who do what they love,
Do not do it for the attention.
Then there are those who make speeches,
At social events where pretentions are invited.
And there they are...
To make unsolicited announcements,
As to what they did to do or will be done...
To show nothing accomplished.
To anyone.
But the ability to embellish is there to relish.
And people like this should not be faulted,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Bert Kessler
I winged my bird,
Though he flew toward the setting sun;
But just as the shot rang out, he soared
Up and up through the splinters of golden light,
Till he turned right over, feathers ruffled,
With some of the down of him floating near,
And fell like a plummet into the grass.
I tramped about, parting the tangles,
Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump,
And the quail lying close to the rotton roots.
I reached my hand, but saw no brier,
But something pricked and stung and numbed it.
And then, in a second, I spied the rattler--
The shutters wide in his yellow eyes,
The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him,
A circle of filth, the color of ashes,
Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves.
I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled
And started to crawl beneath the stump,
When I fell limp in the grass.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Bridget And The Bridge
Young Bridget was a cautious soul,
Not one to risk her all,
She'd rather have her self-control
Than jump up high then fall...
That's why she froze one Summer's day,
When at the bridge she stood...
She didn't trust the stones or clay,
She didn't trust the wood!
While others crossed the bridge ahead,
She watched through gritted teeth,
With one almighty sense of dread
That strengthened disbelief...
Yet there she stood while buses drove,
Full up for all to see,
Her mind, though numbed, for courage strove,
Yet brave she wouldn't be...
So Bridget made her way back home,
As if she had no choice,
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poem by Denis Martindale
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God Only Knows
Sitting around in chats,
With those looking back...
At those 'good ole days',
Are not scenes I welcome.
Since those days I lived,
Back then 'when'...
I remember mostly as unpleasant.
To rate those days,
I would say...
Good to the riddence of them.
Not that I didn't have 'some' good times.
I do remember some of them.
But where would I put them,
On a scale of 'good and plenty'?
Some I 'weeded' through...
With beer or a glass of wine.
At other moments,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An Open Boat
O, what is that whimpering there in the darkness?
'Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing, I know.
Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck' - 'The sea's rising,
The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go.'
See - quick - by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses,
The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat,
And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead lover
And wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat.
'Come, lady, he's dead.' - 'No, I feel his heart beating,
He's living, I know. But he's numbed with the cold.
See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him.' -
- 'No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your hold.
'Come. Loosen your fingers.' - ' O God, let me keep him!' -
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poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Children Of Love...
sometimes it seems we travel
on long journeys as far away from
ourselves as we can....
before we can find the way
and the means to come home.
often, somewhere in the seasons
of our living, love is like that.
we become so numbed by the struggle
to merely exist, that we lose our
intimate connection....
we lose our sense of taste, of smell,
our very sense of touch...
and it is this loss, if we are lucky,
that redeems us, that strips us
and brings us back to the basic
instincts of our heart...
the storm comes, destroying
all the false images we've worshipped....
yet the rain washes our bodies,
the very bodies of our souls clean....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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