#leonardcohen
the mistakes i've made
have made me question -
the boy who wrote
his plan, as a freshman,
on piece of paper
so fragile, and brief -
it drifted away,
somewhere down the cliff.
sounded like the truth,
but it’s not for me to say;
i better hold my tongue -
the lies are close; too grave -
to utter in vain with
but a forked tongue;
i must wipe the poison
off my plate.
there’s not enough blood
to quench the thirst -
of the beast that feeds
on the power of my lust;
i hope it finds
it’s peace, when i lay:
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
i better take my place:
stand guard for the day -
at the palace of my mind,
where once, i would play;
a child of destiny -
fumbling to say the grace;
reading into his mistakes;
seemed the better way.
Dec 24, 2024
Dec 24, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
To reconcile us
I sing appropriate words --
the old well-known song.
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 3:07 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Upon Reading Who by Fire: Leonard Cohen in the Sinai
Cohen took his soul out into the desert
He may have left part of it there to burn
Upon the sands of war and the sands of time
A chord that echoes in an Egyptian wind
As with a corpse-like tank in hull defilade
Or an *** rusting among the rocks
The prayers of Yom Kippur in whispers sung
The desert waits for us to worship there
Cohen took his soul out into the desert
We should gird our ***** and go look for it
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 9:34 PM UTC
When Leonard Cohen Met Charlie Daniels, The Devil Went Down to Georgia
~~~
The Devil Went Down to Georgia ¥
https://youtu.be/wBjPAqmnvGA
Charlie Daniels, the country music legend who died July 6, 2020, was part of the 1970 Leonard Cohen tour. (see notes)
This one is a gift to a recovering addict and a poet, for whom that peculiar, par-articulate, addictive passion, thank the Lord, got no cure.
<£>
two country boys, ok, so different countries, but both intimately
a-cquainted with the Devil, his song & music-making-copious
a-bilities, his other trois backup ass-sin-tants, The Sin Sisters,
a/k/a wine and women and sweet poetry...
now the Devil mostly gets his due, you pay his price twice, in daily
wear ‘n tear on body and soul, always trying to keep one step ahead,
taking his best, sometimes leaving the rest, but ha! not always cause sometimes a...
bargain needs keeping, gotta keep your word honest, still if you can find a wile e coyote-wriggle-way to be a tad faster, keep them ten fingers crisscrossed, you might steal a tune or three, before you chanter la finale, sing/pay the last installment...
now these boys were multilingual, one spoke french, the other, southern, but two-gether, they could harmonize the Lord’s Prayer on a banjo, fiddle and a guitar, in une langue ancienne#, formerly spoke in those United States and Canada, now only in the heavens above...
cannot truthful say I ever saw them play on the same stage, no matter,
cause the parallels are clear as a night sky starry moon, the stories they told, in lyrical verse, different cuzins, slightly incestuous, and
infectious too, cause you catch yourself singing redneck in a foreign
language and you’re liking the way women looking at the big star on
a tour bus...
now the devil wanted these bad boys real bad in his pantheon, went
down to Georgia and back up to Montréal au paradis, said to them “no more diddling, just fiddling and singing, time to make that finale payment, principal and interest, come to collect my country boys and all what they got left...alors allons en enfer mes bébés..”##
now the sounds they made was just too good, the Lord heard it, it was like Picasso painting the sky, and came to collect Charlie yesterday, (07/06/20), Leonard had come up earlier, and if you need to learn how this story ends, well, there’s a poem listed down below avec tous les détails.
but as my straight laced pappy, use to say in his German accented english, in his morning suit, striped pants and Homburg hat, all’s well that don’t end in hell
or something like that anyway.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
It’s been months, love,
and you’re far, and have someone new,
but I’ve been dancing all this time,
in our living room, with you.
Even this Cohen record tires,
of playing this song you loved most,
but I swear I feel your hands in my hair,
and you make a handsome ghost.
And I know that this glow is your tail lights,
but I love how it bathes your skin.
I’ve missed all these meals waiting,
so I’ll have my white dress taken in.
Give me a few hours, to tape my face on,
to my bones, my heart: our plans;
truth is, while you were saying goodbye,
I was memorizing your hands.
I hope you don’t mind living this double life,
because I need just little more time,
and if all I have is your absence,
that’s fine.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
We are tied in this together
harder, closer and tighter
I had this kind of bad fever
that I can see this last forever.
We are so compatible
like long lost friends
you are my decible
in the tightest wavelengths.
We are close to each other
like long lost siblings
you are my unending river
in one of the world's greatest findings.
We are so wide awake
like a record put on shuffle sings
you are my deadly snake
in the need of poisonous stings.
We are almost inseparable
like a fit thunder and storm
you are those birds that dabble
in the strike at sea out of norm.
We are hardly intangible
like hydrogen oxide in the air
you are the only trouble
in the search for lone hydrogen in pair.
We are so great in tandem
like Leonard Cohen's words of rhythm
you are the heart of my poem
in the greatest invention since algorithm.
You are surely the best ever
as,
I have lost count of my own blinks
you assured me that everything will be better
as,
I will never know what the future bring.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
Coffee spattered on
My notebook and my copy
Of Book of Longing
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
You will not long be remembered,
Not with the perspective you gave me.
But what you have done will forever affect history.
You've left the wire,
Like a man, fighting a fire,
I'm just glad,
That you got to be free.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:32 PM UTC
You were the perfect offering:
You wrote,
You sang,
You played,
Did anything,
But now -
Are there any cracks or crevices,
Windows, holes or doors;
Has the pine split below?
With the leafs gone,
Under Supermoon or blazing sun,
Does the light get in,
Or was it just
Another song?
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
You took me to the Mekong River,
handing my documents over the border,
to the temple of the left-handed Buddha,
in the hope it would all make sense.
You took me to the brink of a stolen calamity,
you stayed with me in poetry; my eventual insanity.
You kept me with your golden voice,
you kept me with your wit.
You lost me with your genius;
how you discarded it.
You drove me to a calling that I could not fulfill,
just make statuettes from the ash that lines my windowsill.
Call it art, or call it a longing,
call it that animal burn for some kind of belonging.
You were a father, you called off the saints,
you cooled my tongue, my off-white yogi;
taught me these songs of pain, these songs of love
were meant to be sung by everyone.
Not the clever mind, nor the metronome heart
that keeps time with this life, that keeps pace from the start,
but for the stumbling folk, the slow off the blocks,
the maladjusted, the criminal; those who only see dark.
That this chip on my shoulder is a flute in which to sing,
that each failure I live, is a story I should bring
to the table of life, to the feast of recovery,
for every impatient soul with a hunger for discovery.
Each broken chord is a chance to sound alive,
amongst the crackle of the static, there is another side.
Another wasteland companion, another strangled voice,
that amongst all this hopelessness; we always have a choice.
To bend or to break in the shatter of our soul,
sometimes the glass must be half-empty in order to feel whole.
That some convenience pleasure is not always enough,
sometimes we must bear the burden;
sometimes we must hang tough.
Because the words will come, the sun will rise,
amongst the debris of yesterday, there is another side.
You took me to the temple and on bended knee I pray,
that I could lift a suicide, with just the words I say.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
The hat he wore with ease
Indoors and onstage
The raspy baritone, the sage
The jeweler with words
That sparkled in our minds
The smiling cynic
The optimist at times
Brave, uncompromising
Knowing it would soon end
We wanted it darker
He knew we did
So he gave it to us straight
Our rhyming friend
I've been to Hydra
Stood outside his home
It's a simple place
Where cars do not roam
I breathed the same air
Marveled at the deep blue sea
I was drawn there by his spirit
By his poetry
And now he's gone
We shall carry on today
We have to
He would have wanted it this way
And we will surely miss him
For us, he does pray.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
The words have stopped,
The music aint flowing,
There's been the death of a lady's man,
The death of one Leonard Cohen.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
Consider the couplets
Cohen sings,
And the rhyming lyrics
Rappers bring;
And tell me
That ain't poetry.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Take my hand guide me through this crowded room, dance me to the end of love. and I will lead you into this beautiful dance called us . Mr. Cohen told me the future is ****** but I am trying to live into now. See the crumbling obstacles and tear them down. I was falling and I felt your hand reach out, but that is old news now. Ill take you in my arms, and embrace what life is now.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
A day to climb the
Sunlight
Thoughts swirling within a
Cage
You felt like an endless search.
The snowcapped Swiss alps
Seems so morbid
Like they knew everything
Even the love letters have
Turned to dust.
Years later there’s still a
Vacuum in the cold
Meditating night
The scotch brings you alive.
Your staring eyes are
The reminder of the song
In the city traffic.
You were there all
Along in the words
Of my poem.
© Wanderer 2015
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
She was going on
About something,
But the metaphor
Wasn't universal.
Not like,
The funeral was as sombre as Cohen.
When I heard, ... blah, blah, yada, yada,
My attention span snapped,
Started thinking about those born
With a golden voice.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Some writers are like comets,
A flash, and soon gone;
Some that burned brightest,
Are rocks that don't burn long.
Some writers are like meteors,
Burning hot through spheres;
As meteorites they stay with us,
Though brighter in younger years.
One writer, Leonard Cohen,
No brighter light revealed;
Still yearning for the fire,
Still burning all these years.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
THE RED DIGITAL CLOCK REMINDS ME I AM at 21,112 feet,
a palindrome at 6.06 in the morning,
drifting from sleep to wake,
back to dreams of reality.
The man in my dreams.
The man of my dreams.
Somewhere over the rainbow,
crows scream ****** at each other and the world turns.
Men at work.
6:16 says the flashing clock,
flashing to remind me,
flashing to forget.
The man in my dreams
The man of my dreams.
Pilots fly me onwards
to a knowing destination,
a truly murky crystal of logic and stupidity.
The Chelsea hotel reminds me
that love is not dead,
that it lives on in the hearts of the workers of song,
at least for those of them left.
Mountains of things,
rings,
wedding bells chime and time,
time slowly marches by,
races,
paces,
one way streets.
Time.
Castles the colour of ink,
landscapes of pink mountains.
Snap back to reality.
The sun kisses the distant horizon,
as planes tear holes in the sky below
and the old women weep for the days that will never shine again.
But the children laugh for the days that are yet to be born,
the days of promise and peace,
war and understanding.
A new era?
A new beginning?
A twist in time to take us to where it all began
and the beautiful moon watches raucously from above,
smiling on his children,
sending kisses to his cheating lover, who still wrestles with the horizon.
Colour floods.
Grey, grey, grey.
A dulux of colour.
Man made.
Your body searches for me.
My mind wanders to other things.
The heat of your stare envelopes every pore of my being
and I freeze,
immersed in a mountain stream,
drenched in the sweat of love.
Doors open,
archways scream
and silence is our only food.
And yet reality still twists you from me.
The man of my dreams.
The man in my dreams.
Crows cry and children sing.
Happy nightmares, wearing thin.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
And as I lie here I think of you, to bring me back to my dream of yesterday. Sleeping sound on my island listening to that Leonard Cohen play, hoping that dream will become reality by day, being with you is golder than the dragons treasure and gem named Kai turns my mind to clay.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
it's true that all the women you knew
were more than you could ever know and it seems
they never cease to surprise you
i know that kind of girl
its hard to grasp the idea of she
who is looking for nothing more than pure pleasure
who is looking for nothing more than ****** favors
so i grabbed up all my precious things and set out
to meet this vicious queen with hopes
of love and *** and drugs and laughter
but as you should know my hopes were high
and with their faults i set myself up
for a pure and sure tragic disaster
i was just some fool trying to find some comfort
i was a god **** fool out looking for some comfort
so i met up with the queen divine
and at her palace i did find
some of the things that i was sure to cure my illness
and pulling from my pocket
a collection of narcotic aides, i said:
we might as well be ****** up, my fellow stranger
we're all a little ****** up, my precious stranger
so we opened my bottled offering
of liquid gold and began to drink
a cheers to all night's planned adventures
as my senses they began to dull
my lust for her began to swell
and hers for me was burning bright and vivid
two twisted souls reaching out to feel one another
yes two twisted souls desperate to feel the other
so we made out for a round or two
an exploration of the other's mouth
a new land for each to **** pillage and plunder
interjected by **** here and there
an intermission conversely shared
talk was cheap, but my body was surely cheaper
something to be used up by a stranger
a torrid holy land for another stranger
the tension it was unbearable
for ****** games unmentionable
to twist and writhe with misplaced passion
two bodies bare in ecstasy
becoming one through misanthropy
a battle scene grand for ages and ages
she cut me deep with intimate relentless
yes she struck me deep, she was relentless
so i felt her body close to mine
and worshiped it as if some shrine
a true testament of flawless perfection
and with my sword so righteously
i pierced her shrine so godlessly
i was fallen priest and her body was my alter
and when she came i felt the strangeness falter
when we came all the strangeness faltered
we laid upon the war torn sheets
to experience that awkward feat
of replacing loneliness with ****** conviction
i fell asleep in her naked breast
a solider starved for tender rest
i was relieved of all my woes and endless sadness
and i found it at this dear strangers address
so i spent the night in the comfort of her prowess
until we woke to say goodbyes
and possibly share one more surprise
of additional intimate relations
i was sad to go but couldn't stay
for fear of love to show its face
a mutually agreed upon resistance
no we would not let our lonely hearts misconstrue this
no we could not let our raw hearts go through this
so i'll lend you my last offering
of knowledge to pain and suffering
you'll find a place to bury your sickness
you'd be surprised what comes around
when you sell your soul underground
you'll be a poster child for unashamed *** and danger
yes you will find your solace within some stranger
so don't be afraid to find it, fellow stranger
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me
and I forget where my life is.
I forget about you and your fluent tongue
of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation.
I forget the speakers and soundscapes;
wires and ties and strings attached,
the way I struggle to sleep alone,
but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay;
the need to borrow words and feelings
just to make sense of my own.
Distraction and hunger for nicotine
become near-echoes of a past life-
an umbilical bond to old decades
of habit and mistrust for the sober mind.
I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space,
only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath
to still my own, reducing my identity
to fractals of self-interest and oneness.
I forget who I am amongst the writing desk,
The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea;
the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire,
violent *** and apologetic *******
I forget, for once, the need to live,
amongst all of this living.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC