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With You

The sun warms my face
My body is not cold
When I am with you

With you there is only light
The darkness is gone

An unfamiliar feeling of happiness embraces me
There is no anger, no sadness
When I am with you

Only a short time with you
I must return to the darkness… the cold
For my own reasons

I will bring the times with you in my mind
The feelings… the warmth
With you I will always be



No protests

Unjust actions
Either way

No denial
For the system has caused it’s own end
And mine as well



Crossed over the line of confession
Stepped beyond the goodness of light
A bound past the darkness of evil
I have gone crazy

Creating works of hatred
Then destroying pieces of pleasure
Crying for the moment at what has happen
Laughing at the next

I no longer need answers
Nor the use of questions
Emotions long lost
Feelings passed away

Craziness is wonderful
No moral objections
Thoughts not wasted on feelings
It is all the same, peace, hate
I am crazy


Thank you.


Roses are red

Violets are blue

Trudeau is dead

And so is my son's pet rat


raw material for a poem:

I rode past an abandoned factory today, near the northeast corner of Ossington and Dupont. It is a beautiful building underneath all the grime and neglect, brick frame, but large-paned windows making up most of the facade.

The windows are very dirty. Through them, I could see shelves on which files and binders were stacked up just as someone must have left them on his last day of work some years ago. There are things inside that building that someone just walked away from, or that many people were told just to walk away from.

It is a beautiful building.


C-section Code

They say he cried out, and lifted his head
And sat on mommie’s chest
Though he was always pale.
He was dead before we left the bay.

Compressions seemed to crush his chest,
His soft ribs bending like a plastic doll’s,
He lay in a pile of bloody trash
As we tried to think of something else to do.

Pasty, unhealthy-looking skin and a useless heart,
Flogged with epi and atropine, tossing out
A beat now and then. The tube sends air
In and out, but there’s no one there.

The white limp child is allowed to be dead.
Cleaning begins.

The suddenly idle crowd reacts
The nurse cries, and the OB cries
And the attending.
We pack our gear and leave.

Across this city uniforms alight like birds
Darkening the skies at the threat of death.
Yet elsewhere other experts in other clothes
Undo the work that others do.

This great cross-purposed machine, with equal care,
Tools and time, with the selfsame uniformed speed,
Makes more dead babies, dead boys, and dead men,
Stacking doughy white flesh like cordwood to the sky.


For skdadl:

Silent, it stands.
Bricks and mortar, erected with sweat;
Now dusty; abandoned; stark.

It stands,
Waiting for the next shift to begin;
Machines at the ready.

But the workers who once gave it life
Will not be back. (they're now working at Wal-Mart and Farmer Jack)

Still, it stands,

A hollow monument to Progress.


Thank you, steffie. [img]smile.gif" border="0[/img]

And rsfarrell, that is beautiful. May I ask: have you been a paramedic? If so, I'm sure I owe you thanks too.


[i]When Dreams Had Wings[/i]

In misty tendrils at highest peaks,
have you found all that you seek?
Has soaring breathless through the sky
Taught to you the meaning why?
With laboured breath and body sore,
what makes you love the challenge more?
What ancient bond is there that ties
you to this lonely place so high?

Or was your heart to battle born,
the roiling madness of the storm?
A coiled spring within your frame,
what makes you play this deadly game?
With charge and circle, cut and thrust,
What makes you know your cause is just?
And if your struggles bring you fame,
what gilded laurels crown your mane?

But as you fly through craggy breaches,
what darkling cloud is it that reaches
out to smash your wings and bind
you to the earth for all of time?
What stabbing pangs within your breast
Have clawed you from the highest crest?
Whose arrow, spear or poisoned dart
has flown so true and pierced your heart?

With fearsome cries the air is rent
as shudders wrack your slow descent,
but don’t you know, within your soul
the earth is not your destined goal?
The higher sphere where you have flown
will now become your final home,
and you, whom Muses have so blessed
will ride the heavens, now at rest.

~ for jonnie ~



Originally posted by skdadl:
[b]Thank you, steffie. [img]smile.gif" border="0[/img]

And rsfarrell, that is beautiful. May I ask: have you been a paramedic? If so, I'm sure I owe you thanks too.[/b]

Yes, I'm a paramedic with American Medical Response in Portland, Oregon. I'm glad you liked the poem.

It's a privilege to be able to work in my field and help people. Even though it may seem to be in some ways a romantic occupation, everything we do is just one link in a long chain, and everyone whose work affirms life is a part of it. No thanks needed. [img]smile.gif" border="0[/img]

[ 24 June 2005: Message edited by: rsfarrell ]


Heph: Beautiful; evocative; heart-rending. Did you write it?



Yes. On the surface, it is an ode to the legend of Pegasus, but it was also written for a past BF who had just gone through a serious and traumatic (and permanent) estrangement with his mother, right after he came out. Really, that's why it was written. (And thanks for the kind words.)


Heph, it remindes me at once of Earle Birney's "David", although I cannot for the life of me find my copy of that poem.

redneck leftie

When Dreams Had Wings

OMG I dropped to my knees, it is so beautiful and evocative. I never feel that way anymore. Thank you so much heph. That poem is simply stunning in its simplicity and oh-so-easy-to-understand to its fullest.

I actually wrote one poem in my whole life. Please forgive me that it was written during my College years, when Women's Studies were not even given a credit. I was the sole "interloper" in the class. But I listened as best as I could (have a bit of a hearing problem).

Please, don't make fun of it (if you can't help yourself I understand that too)


Women are the vessels of Hope in any culture.
They contain hope within their beings, with or without Awareness. Their wisdom transcends measured intelligence, always seeking to plant the seeds of Fairness with practicality and inclusiveness. The consistent and grinding presence of Fear, generation after generation, is lifted off like a Cape when Hope enters their Hearts. When you want Truth, ask a Child, when you want Hope, ask a Woman. Women's Power is not a Secret, it is so all-pervasive that man's constructs to hold it at bay are simply manifestations of their own Hearts Fear. That fear is real even if unfounded. To feel it or even a glancing acknowledgement of it would mean a complete re-evaluation of Reality. Men do not trust Hope, it is tangible guarantees they want. Women know this and so with hope in their hearts they continue to scatter the seeds of Fairness and Justice. The necessary differences between us are for the work ahead that demands Mutality. With hope in their hearts they commit to all Oppression with Fairness. It always comes back to that Anyway. They are Women.


Names of the Dead

Who says the Great Chain is an anachronism?
Granted, Darwin left it somewhere down
Among the mussels and jellyfish of human thought,
Here is an unexpected comeback for hierarchy of life.

First come the American soldiers. They have names;
Ranks, unit designations, even sometimes,
That crimson throat-sack of memory, the Feature.

Trailing far behind we have the allied dead,
Proud Estonia, scourge of tyrants
They have their proper number, and a nation.

Beneath the list itself, invisible but present, like bacteria
The niggers in their several kinds: those that died for us,
Died fighting us, died unheeded in the skirts of our coming.

They have no number; can they be human, to die so easy?
Americans cling stubbornly to life, but they
Pass away in bargain lots, and no one says boo,
Or if they do, can’t join them soon.


The Pharaoh of NE Fremont

A one-legged black man died sometime in the night,
That being anxiously conveyed to AMERICA via the BOEC,
An emergency was declared, and a troop of men was suddenly sent
In his house, to his bedroom, ostensibly to revive him.

The wails of women filled the house.
His surgery was one month ago; diabetic, he sacrificed a limb
To go on living. What’s worse than dying at the peak of heath?
To strike a hard bargain with decay -- and be taken before the ink is dry.

Striding though the thin-walled house,
Dropping to their knees on the disreputable carpet,
They began our rituals of death,
Beating on his chest, searching for a vein, the cords.

So finally the state, so limp to the cries of living,
Floated the man along a sacred boat of lighting,
Along a river of vasopression, lidocane, and atropine,
Thousands in expensive meds trickling through his inert veins.

Never say AMERICA does not heap goods upon its people’s pyres
We practice a democracy of emergencies.
A man who lived a slave dies a pharaoh.
Though he might have wished it the other way.

[ 09 November 2005: Message edited by: rsfarrell ]

Cueball Cueball's picture

Godd going guys!

That is a good one farrel.


And just where is "Godd going", Q-ball? To hell in a handbasket?! [img]tongue.gif" border="0[/img]

And yes, RSF, that last one was great! I really liked it.


For the sake of a poetical challenge, a while ago, I decided to attempt a translation of the Old English poem [url=http://www.georgetown.edu/labyrinth/library/oe/texts/a3.6.html]The Wanderer[/url] into [url=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spenserian_sonnet]Spenserian Sonnet[/url]. The text's content needed to be abridged, as the entire content of The Wanderer will not fit into a Spenserian Sonnet (or any sonnet), but I hit upon and translated the crucial points, and stuck what I consider the key gnomic verses of the poem in the volta where they seemed to rightfully belong. I decided not to close with an Alexandrine, as I think its substantial virtue depends upon its predictability by the reader, based on sequential repetition in successive stanzas and there is of course no such repetition here, as there is the Faerie Queen and subsequently in for example Shelley's delightful [url=http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem1879.html]Adonais[/url]. I retained much alliteration in recognition of that of the original Old English. There is never satisfaction in translating a poem, as it never feels quite right, no matter what, and choosing a difficult and claustrophobic format like the sonnet (especially with the abrupt English two-line volta - my formal arch nemesis) makes the problem worse, but there's gratification in those parts that do turn out right.

[b]The Wanderer (Se Anhaga)[/b]

[i]Though sorrowful, traversing icy sea
The Wanderer oft seeks the Maker's grace.
And knowing well that what Fate wills will be
With war-like thoughts, he grieves his fallen race.
In twilight there arising from his place
He tells his sorrows to the rising sun
Remembering man's life is but a space
Of friends he thinks: of them there live now none.
A lord's heart, fast-bound lest he be undone
He knows must hold, that he survive The Fate(1).
And he must too with joy his sorrows shun
Though skies above grow dark and night grow late.
For if defeating courage he be meek,
He'll find the grace of God where that he seek[/i]

[i](1) i.e., Old English 'Seo Wyrd'[/i]

Terrible Infant


Some passable flower, passive in its passion,
Tenses beneath his fingerfrippery;
A slight wind, wafting down from heaven,
Wanders through his mimicking mind.

Up above the world, so high,
The bird-watching bishop remembers his physics
And mimes the Miltonic emotions he thinks
Thought thinks she might be feeling
As she rolls rolled green in the grass in the lolling below.

His feet...all perspective flutters away. He feels
--A fearsome feeling.
She is not far away
But rather, tiny, tiny, tiny.

His eyes become cones and fix her mathematically
To her spot, crucified
--If you’ll allow the term--
On the grid
Of Time and Space.
[img]eek.gif" border="0[/img]

Argento Shiraz

Hola, everyone. I ain't much of a poet, but I love poetry. So I add this poem by Bob Dylan to your poetry collection. I think "Our World" has gone greedy-mad and Bob Dylan's Tombstone Blues makes me feel alright in it.

Cheers to the rabble-rousers here,
Argento Shiraz.

Tombstone Blues.
By Bob Dylan.

The sweet pretty things are in bed now of course
The city fathers they're trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse
But the town has no need to be nervous

The ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
At the head of the chamber of commerce

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming she moans, "I've just been made"
Then sends out for the doctor who pulls down the
Says, "My advice is to not let the boys in"

Now the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride
"Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride
You will not die, it's not poison"

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, "Tell me great hero, but please make it
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?"

The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and
And dropping a bar bell he points to the sky
Saving, "The sun's not yellow it's chicken"

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The king of the Philistines his soldiers to save
Puts jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves
Puts the pied pipers in prison and fattens the
Then sends them out to the jungle

Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch he burns out their
With his faithful slave Pedro behind him he tramps
With a fantastic collection of stamps
To win friends and influence his uncle

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The geometry of innocent flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo's math book to get thrown
At Delilah who sits worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter

Now I wish I could give Brother Bill his great
I would set him in chains at the top of the hill
Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Where Ma Raney and Beethoven once unwrapped their
bed roll
Tuba players now rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps
for the soul
To the old folks home and the college

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues



Sometimes a suddenly sullen Sunday afternoon,
A slopply bed, unfolded landary in the gray-blue gloom,
A man is struck with a sudden fear
That no one calls because no one’s here
I am the sloppy emptiness; it’s as if
An actor standing on the stage suddenly forgot the script
Starting out into the lights, forgot it all
Lines, cues, the name of the theater, and who he was supposed to be;
Though I fold the clothes, make the bed at last, that is me.

[ 27 November 2005: Message edited by: rsfarrell ]

Brett Mann

A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

Ogden Nash

(Sorry, is this the Poetry thread? I thought I was in doggerel) [img]smile.gif" border="0[/img]


[b]11/20/05 -- 12/19/05[/b]

[i]For Dixon, smothered in his parents’ bed[/i]

Cruel as it is, I would take us all;
Friends, enemies, strangers
Place us in that room
To listen to the mother’s wail.

The pleading, incomprehension, the keening sounds of grief
Lay a weight over everything
From righteous rhetoric to riots,
Every hint of that, that ends in that sound.
The fun’s gone out of soft violence.

(Tomorrow I have to crawl
Back out into this death-eaten world
With this lesson on my back
And try to be better.)

[ 21 December 2005: Message edited by: rsfarrell ]

Ninja Dragon Slayer

Why give the children guns?
Why teach them how to hate?
Their lives have just begun ...
Stop before it's too late.

They should be laughing
They should be playing
They should be having fun ....

On the dawn of another day
another young man is dead
His family wonders why
But all they can do is pray

Screaming Lord Byron

I decided to take up poetry for want of a New Year's Resolution - so I wrote this in-between office meetings yesterday. I think it's the first poem I've written since I was 11 (which explains the terrible sin of starting three lines in a row with A)

March 24th

The ice cracks just a little,
unknown by skates above.
Tiny fissures spread like scars
across a smooth white face.
A minute more of sunlight,
a midnight less of frost
A bird above the boathouse roof
betrays a summer world.


Distant Reminders

Duty calling me away
Sacrificing my peace for another's war
Standing in a foreign land
Watching over unfamiliar people
Thousands of kilometers away from you
Counting the moments away from you
Remembering the unforgettable times together
Waiting to hear your soft voice
Desiring the warm touch of your body
Longing to hold you passionately again
In time this duty will end
Someday I will return home
Until then remember I am thinking of you


Webgear I have been reading a bit of Rudyard Kipling lately and I liked this one. I think it was Burns who said "oh that we should see ourselves as others see us" and thats difficult to do so this little bit of Kipling might help.


"All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They


Webgear I didn't mean to stop your contributions of lovely poems. This one is for you at Thanksgiving.

Lampman, Archibald (1861-1899)

The thoughts of all the maples who shall name,
When the sad landscape turns to cold and gray?
Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay,
Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name,
Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame;
And some with softer woe that day by day,
So sweet and brief, should go the westward way,
Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame
That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous
Others for wrath have turned to rusty red,
And some that knew not either grief or dread,
Ere the old year should find its iron close,
Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold,
Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.


These words hold no meaning

Now that you are gone.
My thoughts are of the past.
When we were friends and comrades.

I have tried to write down the words, which describe you.
Attempt after attempt I fail.
No words hold the memories of you.

In my mind and soul there is a special place.
Where the past lives.
Where memories are recreated again and again.
And we are still friends.

Until we meet again.


In The Rain

In the eerie darkness of nighttime storm
As the rain the falls in an unnatural manner
A forgotten ritual is preformed
Long dead ghosts dance to the howling wind
Wise old specters whisper tales lost memories
In the silence I dance with these fiends
Listing to each creature’s tale
Watching each pain movement of remembrance
Remembering my part in moment of lost life
We are all kin of the night
Brothers of the rain


The thin rays of light, cut their way through the darken clouds.
Even from the distant ground, I can see how far I have fallen.

Cold mists surround me, as the winds tear across the wastelands.
The light reminds me of a long forgotten past.

The image of your face, still hunts me.
The scars covering my heart are in constant pain.

The light is gone in a matter of moments and the darkness covers me again.
The pain you caused me is pressed deep into my soul.

Travelling the wastelands, I seek to find the answers of why I failed you.
The cold mist blocks my vision, prevents my understanding.

The pain in my soul thrusts me in direction in which I hope the answers lie.
I have fallen however in days or years I will find away out of the darkness.

Cueball Cueball's picture

Thanks for posting that.


If only for a few moments you made me feel human again.
Foreign to me as much as the world has been, your dancing movements made me alive.
You have awake a lost life within the deepness of my soul.

Your acceptance of me stirred thoughts of what has been lost over the years.
I understand that what has been lost was worth the price.
The music so strange to me yet I can feel the sadness of the song.

We have both have lost love for different reasons.
Desperation, hatred and tragedy have taken away your friend.
Believing in heroism and honour cost me my love.

Yet for a few fleeing movements in a strange land,
You have made me discovered a new flame to a dead soul.
I will hold this moment close for a long time.


This morning, I lost count at 26 names. 

Maim, injured and dead friends all remembered.

Many more likely will likely be torn and killed in the years to come.


This morning, I realized that 7 years at war has taken its toll.

My body is a broken shell, mind and soul is tattered.

Yet there is another half decade of servitude ahead of me.


This morning, I discovered much that has been lost and gained.

Battered and disfigured, I have experienced more life than most others.

Each day is one to pleasure; every moment has something to be gained.


Lost In The Tower

Horribly, I have failed
For no knight is without a maiden
No legends will be told of a feeble knight

You slayed the dragon, my princess
While I was lost in the tower
No songs for a pitiful knight

You had to rescue me
A princess that saved her knight
No tales will be written of that pathetic rescue

You told everyone that I saved you
And they told legends, wrote tales and sang songs of my courage
That is why I tried to save you, my love


Rexdale_Punjabi Rexdale_Punjabi's picture

Id post here but mine too long yall want poety Ill put up a link to all the shit I ever wrote Ill read thru this later it late now but dotn give that link out the lyrics one that for yall u know not ppl to steal lines from



lonewolfbunn lonewolfbunn's picture

As much as I am against the current war, I know that soldiers are not enlisting so they can kill civilians - and they certainly did not intend to go there to die protecting oil reserves.

I wrote this for them.


Fallen Soldiers
Stood for the American Dream
Fell for the Oilmens' Scheme

Yesterday another brave one in his prime,
Left to defend freedom and the American Dream.
From the poor side of the tracks,
He'll be put in the frontline,
And he won't be back.

Today another mother fell to her knees on the kitchen floor,
Opening a letter stating she lost her son but we're winning the war.
From the poor side of the tracks,
She'll be put in the back of the welfare line,
So she can remove her boy's funeral bill from the stack.


LoneWolf Bunn © 11/09/2008


Bits of string

I knew it was strong enough

for Toby

unless he should cut
up a little,

and that's just what he did.

and broke some of the straps
and strings.

Is Toby the name of your pony? asked Sue.

Yes, little girl,

Toby is his name.

And he is a nice little Shetland pony,

and he stroked the fluffy mane and rubbed the velvety nose

of the little animal

It may be conceaued thus, at noone day, when it is just twelue a clocke, turne your face towards the South, and then imagine with your selfe two circles drawen, one in the Heavens, passing from the North iust over your head through the body of the Sunne downe to the South, and so round vnder the earth vp againe to the North Pole. Another vpon the surface of the earth

and he stroked the fluffy mane and rubbed the velvety nose

Thy light doth ever guide me, O beauteous Morning Star. Lo, I'll be ever ready Thy goodly help to claim, When wicked men blaspheme thee I'll love and bless thy name.

Daily, Daily Sing to Mary 1.

Daily, daily sing
to Mary

Sing, my soul, her praises due;

All her feasts, her actions

With the heart's devotion true.

Lost in wond'ring contemplation, Be her majesty confess'd; Call her Mother, call her
Virgin, Happy Mother, Virgin blest.

and he stroked the fluffy mane and rubbed the velvety nose

© 01/15/2010 Jaswinder Singh Dev (aka 'Ayn Thatcher')



Touching your soft checks with my hands

I will look in to your eyes for one last time

You will know my love

You will have my love


Kissing your tender lips

You will feel my love for one last time

You will know my soul is yours


For this night I am yours

For this moment you will be mine

Nothing will deny us

To have love for this one last time


And when your eyes close

I will be gone

Forced away by love and hatred


I will leave you a spark of life

As you have touched me


I will not force you down

I will not allow you to fall

I will alone be judge at the end

I will not you be harmed


Very moving, Webgear, and good to see you around!




Exhausted, cold and disheartened.
My sword is broken, my armour damaged.
My shield is long lost in the wilderness.

I slowly mount my efforts to resist you.
Breathing deeply, the last of my strength is fading.
I am afraid that your love will strike me down.


I am afraid to fail my blood oath.
Afraid that I will bring my dark soul onto your lightness.
I am afraid I will love you.


Slowly as the sunsets behind the greyness of the clouds.
The shining moon is being to raise the dark sky.

I travel towards you, knowing my fate is sealed.