Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.

None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of murder and maiming
continues unabated.
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
indefinitely furloughed.
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.

Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.

But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
turn out

#media   #humans   #bowie   #cohen   #fascism   #trump   #brexit   #posttruth  
Jan 4

She sang Hallelujah
I said Amen
sing it again
just like Leonard
in a voice
so light
and subtle
it could darken
dark eyes
and I will wear black
like a knight
who must compose
himself before day
breaks forever into
its weary fever.


Late September
when the trees begin to blush,
and everyone is cider-drunk,
along the world
is a prolonged hush.

Our breaths are still,
while your eyelids shut.
Your heart reminds your restless hands
not to make a fuss.

They're itching for a note, or two.
A song you only sang
to just a few.
But your bones send out a plea,
via wire.
Betray you, and let your lovers know,
you are tired.

October morning,
sees your arms heavy
with bottoms, thighs, and breasts.
You reassure your lovers,
the ladies man is at his best.

You are soft, because you are an empath,
but you'll still fill us with your youth.
Yet, bruises on your heart warned us
of an unfamiliar truth.

Do we notice when the trees are bare?
When they're dry, and brown, and spent?
We turn our backs, and winter's here,
with limbs, broke,
and bent.

Poem for Leonard Cohen.
Sean Hunt
Sean Hunt
Nov 18, 2016

Leonard left
Virgin words
Against the current
Of my mind
To spawn
For the first time

#leonard   #cohen  
Trevor Blevins
Trevor Blevins
Nov 11, 2016

Leonard Cohen, gone the night before we recited Flanders Field,
And our memory was still fresh with poetic inspiration,
The artistic suppression of dread.

Famous Blue Raincoat,
The feelings of despair and isolation abound.
I felt the cold New York traffic that I was separate from all the bustle
And all the life.

Chelsea Hotel with its twists in compassion,
It's all too human and vulnerable to admit your schisms,
The plight of life when it slips away from us,
Into the city and falls off the roof.

Hallelujah resonates most,
The sound of pure emotion
The feeling of triumph with your chest bare to the Earth.
Let the raw expression engulf you, spread the ashes.

#death   #music   #culture   #modern   #cohen  
Ju Clear
Ju Clear
Nov 11, 2016

Just found you have passed
Tears in my eyes as I write.
Len ,Lou and bob too
Your  sounds raised me

You thou Len I would joke about
"not more slit your wrist music "
Forgive me Len I was a kid
Your melloncolly lyrics so fluid and honest
You are the godfather of my lyrical raising .
Fair well my friend

Wrote off the top of my head when I found out of Len passing inspired by my mum and dads hippy raising  one love
#leonard   #cohen  

Before the light goes out
and the night comes in
before the Angels dance
before the dreams begin

I want to hear you one more time.


Sailors in the arcades
Jesus on the streets
news came in on Friday
everybody weeps.

Avi S
Avi S
Nov 11, 2016

Walk on, old monk, into nothingness
and know that your supplications,
your hymns to Calliope and Erato
imbued a fire of
Dionysian splendor
into these dusty old sheets...

A little impromptu goodbye to an amazing poet with a gravelly voice who wrote of the senses and sang to the Muses.
Luann Jung
Luann Jung
May 15, 2016

Everything I own, I carry with me:
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
It has done me good because of the color of the wheat
But love is not a victory march

Herta Müller
e.e. cummings
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Leonard Cohen

No copyright infringement intended; only trying to be creative in the presentation of four quotes that I happen to like.
#poems   #cummings   #saint   #quotes   #leonard   #cohen   #ee   #exupery   #herta   #muller  
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