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"cots" poems
There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain. Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
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18.5k
Pablo Neruda
Nothing But Death
There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain. Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
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48
The air is a mill of hooks -- Questions without answer, Glittering and drunk as flies Whose kiss stings unbearably In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer. I remember The dead smell of sun on wood cabins, The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets. Once one has seen God, what is the remedy? Once one has been seized up Without a part left over, Not a toe, not a finger, and used, Used utterly, in the sun's conflagration, the stains That lengthen from ancient cathedrals What is the remedy? The pill of the Communion tablet, The walking beside still water? Memory? Or picking up the bright pieces Of Christ in the faces of rodents, The tame flower-nibblers, the ones Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable -- The humpback in his small, washed cottage Under the spokes of the clematis. Is there no great love, only tenderness? Does the sea Remember the walker upon it? Meaning leaks from the molecules. The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats, The children leap in their cots. The sun blooms, it is a geranium. The heart has not stopped.
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5.2k
Sylvia Plath
Mystic
The air is a mill of hooks -- Questions without answer, Glittering and drunk as flies Whose kiss stings unbearably In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer. I remember The dead smell of sun on wood cabins, The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets. Once one has seen God, what is the remedy? Once one has been seized up Without a part left over, Not a toe, not a finger, and used, Used utterly, in the sun's conflagration, the stains That lengthen from ancient cathedrals What is the remedy? The pill of the Communion tablet, The walking beside still water? Memory? Or picking up the bright pieces Of Christ in the faces of rodents, The tame flower-nibblers, the ones Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable -- The humpback in his small, washed cottage Under the spokes of the clematis. Is there no great love, only tenderness? Does the sea Remember the walker upon it? Meaning leaks from the molecules. The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats, The children leap in their cots. The sun blooms, it is a geranium. The heart has not stopped.
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31
you haven't lived until you've been in a flophouse with nothing but one light bulb and 56 men squeezed together on cots with everybody snoring at once and some of those snores so deep and gross and unbelievable- dark snotty gross subhuman wheezings from hell itself. your mind almost breaks under those death-like sounds and the intermingling odors: hard unwashed socks ****** and ******* underwear and over it all slowly circulating air much like that emanating from uncovered garbage cans. and those bodies in the dark fat and thin and bent some legless armless some mindless and worst of all: the total absence of hope it shrouds them covers them totally. it's not bearable. you get up go out walk the streets up and down sidewalks past buildings around the corner and back up the same street thinking those men were all children once what has happened to them? and what has happened to me? it's dark and cold out here.
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4.1k
Charles Bukowski
Flophouse
you haven't lived until you've been in a flophouse with nothing but one light bulb and 56 men squeezed together on cots with everybody snoring at once and some of those snores so deep and gross and unbelievable- dark snotty gross subhuman wheezings from hell itself. your mind almost breaks under those death-like sounds and the intermingling odors: hard unwashed socks ****** and ******* underwear and over it all slowly circulating air much like that emanating from uncovered garbage cans. and those bodies in the dark fat and thin and bent some legless armless some mindless and worst of all: the total absence of hope it shrouds them covers them totally. it's not bearable. you get up go out walk the streets up and down sidewalks past buildings around the corner and back up the same street thinking those men were all children once what has happened to them? and what has happened to me? it's dark and cold out here.
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99
it's been months since I bothered opening my eyes before the birds have finished their song and the sun is casting 5 o'clock shadows on the faces of those who work and strain and cry and just want to put food on the table for their loved ones. I never thought about what was just below the surface what was edging towards the eerie fog about the lake just as I turned my back. you told me flowers always sprout when rain and snow and hail and sleet and every form of tears god could throw at us whip your face and you're still not crying and why aren't you crying you're bleeding and I'm aching and have you ever thought about how clouds are just vessels for rain and how maybe you're a cloud and I'm a torrential downpour but I'm more like a thunderstorm without the lighting because nothing shines like your eyes when you hear your favourite passage read aloud and I hope you hear my voice in your head I hope that omnipresence you always complained about comforts you when your bed is the last place you want to be and I hope you dream harder than rocks falling down mountains until maybe the figures you see in sleep become real. until the apparitions you claim have plagued your mind are left with no safe house and no real home and you can box them up like pictures and firewood and the couch cushions with the stains on them like Why the **** didn't we get those cleaned. why didn't we clean up our mess why is the window still shattered it's getting cool at night and the blankets are itchy and the grass looks comfier than cots in prison cells and what kind of prison cell is this with birds and lights and piers with boats that never seem to come in and lighthouses that never seem to guide them home. like nothing could ever guide you home, like nothing but light and wind and waves crashing and you'll probably never see the captain again. the ship is never sinking but the captain died many years ago sending smoke signals swallowed up by the clouds who lost their rain.
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Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
katryna
I'm drunk and thinking about clouds
it's been months since I bothered opening my eyes before the birds have finished their song and the sun is casting 5 o'clock shadows on the faces of those who work and strain and cry and just want to put food on the table for their loved ones. I never thought about what was just below the surface what was edging towards the eerie fog about the lake just as I turned my back. you told me flowers always sprout when rain and snow and hail and sleet and every form of tears god could throw at us whip your face and you're still not crying and why aren't you crying you're bleeding and I'm aching and have you ever thought about how clouds are just vessels for rain and how maybe you're a cloud and I'm a torrential downpour but I'm more like a thunderstorm without the lighting because nothing shines like your eyes when you hear your favourite passage read aloud and I hope you hear my voice in your head I hope that omnipresence you always complained about comforts you when your bed is the last place you want to be and I hope you dream harder than rocks falling down mountains until maybe the figures you see in sleep become real. until the apparitions you claim have plagued your mind are left with no safe house and no real home and you can box them up like pictures and firewood and the couch cushions with the stains on them like Why the **** didn't we get those cleaned. why didn't we clean up our mess why is the window still shattered it's getting cool at night and the blankets are itchy and the grass looks comfier than cots in prison cells and what kind of prison cell is this with birds and lights and piers with boats that never seem to come in and lighthouses that never seem to guide them home. like nothing could ever guide you home, like nothing but light and wind and waves crashing and you'll probably never see the captain again. the ship is never sinking but the captain died many years ago sending smoke signals swallowed up by the clouds who lost their rain.
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1
What once was warm and welcome Is now but distant cold and silent death. But the setting of a friendships sun Not quite as yet a souls dying breath. - Up in arms and marching forward There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight. - From cradles and cots When were we supposed to learn That parking lots and graveside plots Were our only future to discern. And just like all of those bedroom eyes friendship itself also often dies. N.H.
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Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
nihl
Company
What once was warm and welcome Is now but distant cold and silent death. But the setting of a friendships sun Not quite as yet a souls dying breath. - Up in arms and marching forward There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight. - From cradles and cots When were we supposed to learn That parking lots and graveside plots Were our only future to discern. And just like all of those bedroom eyes friendship itself also often dies. N.H.
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17
I wish you well My dear old friend My green-backed flame Set along the clouds. You lie beyond the night When the people have all Fallen asleep in their cots Doomed to awaken To a gilded sky that brews With unseen grace Not invisible because eyes Cannot track it But invisible because gazes Are melded with the grass.
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Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
aj-jacono
I Wish You Well
I wish you well My dear old friend My green-backed flame Set along the clouds. You lie beyond the night When the people have all Fallen asleep in their cots Doomed to awaken To a gilded sky that brews With unseen grace Not invisible because eyes Cannot track it But invisible because gazes Are melded with the grass.
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14
Us girlies in our cots, our beds, rise at the sound of the morning gunshot. half past 8, the blinds bolted shut like some sort of gilded prison put on these socks now, o rubbered and friction you don't want hepatitis now. the bell jangles, no that must be the phone and 8 foxes of the den stand in a line. phone home will you, doktor calls with your paper cup. run like you're freed and ceased. lukewarm water, O now is she on Lithium? nine hundred. the morning gunshot fires into the ceiling speakers, ringing like the salvation army.
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Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
goldendagger
Morning Gunshot
Us girlies in our cots, our beds, rise at the sound of the morning gunshot. half past 8, the blinds bolted shut like some sort of gilded prison put on these socks now, o rubbered and friction you don't want hepatitis now. the bell jangles, no that must be the phone and 8 foxes of the den stand in a line. phone home will you, doktor calls with your paper cup. run like you're freed and ceased. lukewarm water, O now is she on Lithium? nine hundred. the morning gunshot fires into the ceiling speakers, ringing like the salvation army.
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32
Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure Waits innocence and pleasure), Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs, Were patriarchs, saints, and kings, How happened it that in the dead of night You only saw true light, While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay Without one thought of day? Was it because those first and blessed swains Were pilgrims on those plains When they received the promise, for which now ’Twas there first shown to you? ’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go That serve Him here below, And therefore might for memory of those His love there first disclose; But wretched Salem, once His love, must now No voice, nor vision know, Her stately piles with all their height and pride Now languished and died, And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped While all her seers slept; Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all Polluted through their fall, And those once sacred mansions were now Mere emptiness and show; This made the angel call at reeds and thatch, Yet where the shepherds watch, And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack) To be a common rack; No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury In those thin cells could lie, Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots Which never harbored plots, Only content, and love, and humble joys Lived there without all noise, Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day Did in their bosoms play, As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook, What springs or shades to look, But that was all; and now with gladsome care They for the town prepare, They leave their flock, and in a busy talk All towards Bethlem walk To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come To bring all stragglers home, Where now they find Him out, and taught before That Lamb of God adore, That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished And longed to see, but missed. The first light they beheld was bright and gay And turned their night to day, But to this later light they saw in Him, Their day was dark, and dim.
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2.3k
Henry Vaughan
The Shepherds
Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure Waits innocence and pleasure), Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs, Were patriarchs, saints, and kings, How happened it that in the dead of night You only saw true light, While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay Without one thought of day? Was it because those first and blessed swains Were pilgrims on those plains When they received the promise, for which now ’Twas there first shown to you? ’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go That serve Him here below, And therefore might for memory of those His love there first disclose; But wretched Salem, once His love, must now No voice, nor vision know, Her stately piles with all their height and pride Now languished and died, And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped While all her seers slept; Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all Polluted through their fall, And those once sacred mansions were now Mere emptiness and show; This made the angel call at reeds and thatch, Yet where the shepherds watch, And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack) To be a common rack; No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury In those thin cells could lie, Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots Which never harbored plots, Only content, and love, and humble joys Lived there without all noise, Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day Did in their bosoms play, As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook, What springs or shades to look, But that was all; and now with gladsome care They for the town prepare, They leave their flock, and in a busy talk All towards Bethlem walk To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come To bring all stragglers home, Where now they find Him out, and taught before That Lamb of God adore, That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished And longed to see, but missed. The first light they beheld was bright and gay And turned their night to day, But to this later light they saw in Him, Their day was dark, and dim.
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54
Last night I found the troubles of the irony of my life The fascination of non-fictional figures and new strife I ask death to keep his promise and bless those who took me out this earth And if I die....by my own hands don't bless me but replace my curse See when the lights are down low is when the truth stands behind But lies of us is better in the light of the shadow we like to disguised And she once asked me whats love with out recognition And what's hurt with out any truth behind the decision And what's your hurt..... Or are you to ***** to express that emotional feeling I look at her with pain and a disgusting illing Because only me and the ones that hurt me no's the horror behind my revealing My brother and sister promise that they will sing about me And if my girl is dieing of thirst they will refill her with me The story's we kept and the memory's we felt My sister is my number one love It's crazy how much emotions we delt And I never new I had another part of me that was older then me Met him when I was 5 now he's apart of my history at 23 All we shared .. was gun shots blood cots abused and welfare And as it got better our separations will never compare So where's my promise .. World where's my promise You promise me opportunity and equal values But curse from being called ugly and now handsome limited my statues So you can understand that my middle finger is the only way I show my gratitude And what happens when the lights are up high and the smoke is down low Cuz gun powder is what I saw when I road on east New York streets And who would believe a good kid like me I was more into bitxhes **** history and open heart poetry But mistaken and moved to the south Showed me new patterns so I had to finish my own Brooklyn's route I did....Taken what I learn in NYC and planted into these tre4 kids But I never got caught but I guess I got caught for what I use to do did And challenged me to fix the out come of a new level grid Now I'm better off in the books of lost souls And the scriptures of old scrolls and new roles Still catching duty of my past fixtures in my head And I can't seem to let these demons go even if I was dead But ill follow these angels to see the  games they play Cuz ill never fade away...  ill never fade away ...ill never fade away .. Ill never fade away.... Just sing about me Just sing about me Just sing about me Just sing about me ................I promise
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Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
steven-rude-harris
Promise
Last night I found the troubles of the irony of my life The fascination of non-fictional figures and new strife I ask death to keep his promise and bless those who took me out this earth And if I die....by my own hands don't bless me but replace my curse See when the lights are down low is when the truth stands behind But lies of us is better in the light of the shadow we like to disguised And she once asked me whats love with out recognition And what's hurt with out any truth behind the decision And what's your hurt..... Or are you to ***** to express that emotional feeling I look at her with pain and a disgusting illing Because only me and the ones that hurt me no's the horror behind my revealing My brother and sister promise that they will sing about me And if my girl is dieing of thirst they will refill her with me The story's we kept and the memory's we felt My sister is my number one love It's crazy how much emotions we delt And I never new I had another part of me that was older then me Met him when I was 5 now he's apart of my history at 23 All we shared .. was gun shots blood cots abused and welfare And as it got better our separations will never compare So where's my promise .. World where's my promise You promise me opportunity and equal values But curse from being called ugly and now handsome limited my statues So you can understand that my middle finger is the only way I show my gratitude And what happens when the lights are up high and the smoke is down low Cuz gun powder is what I saw when I road on east New York streets And who would believe a good kid like me I was more into bitxhes **** history and open heart poetry But mistaken and moved to the south Showed me new patterns so I had to finish my own Brooklyn's route I did....Taken what I learn in NYC and planted into these tre4 kids But I never got caught but I guess I got caught for what I use to do did And challenged me to fix the out come of a new level grid Now I'm better off in the books of lost souls And the scriptures of old scrolls and new roles Still catching duty of my past fixtures in my head And I can't seem to let these demons go even if I was dead But ill follow these angels to see the  games they play Cuz ill never fade away...  ill never fade away ...ill never fade away .. Ill never fade away.... Just sing about me Just sing about me Just sing about me Just sing about me ................I promise
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45
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795 With many a pause and oft reverted eye I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock That on green plots o’er precipices browse: From the deep fissures of the naked rock The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs (’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me, Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea. Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.
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2k
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Brockley Coomb
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795 With many a pause and oft reverted eye I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock That on green plots o’er precipices browse: From the deep fissures of the naked rock The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs (’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me, Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea. Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.
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17
Aye think o this When winter breezes blaws aroun' whare silent thochts are filled wae gloom and drifting words,they echo past frae fearful man an fearful lass In haunted hooses and misty lans whare Ghosties an gobblins an unco bans Pass atween this an theirs, that form amidst tha thunders crashing storm. Aye tucked up aroun yeer mithers apron wae teeth a nashing an voices wailing Fine ye ken this unhaly nicht tis filled wae all unGodly licht Craw tha Banshee frae tha Ben like howlet song throughoot tha Glen. Satan, Auld horney casts his lots for innocent bairnies fresh frae their cots An' ancient stories there arise an fly Like shooting stars that fill tha sky for here in tales tha croonies dae rattle in haunting airs and fiendish battle leagons arise tae tha masters calling This nicht hell awakens, aahhh tha heevens are falling. Here in blackened darkened skies whare lichtning flashes weaves an cries An mortal man fears fa his soul against that heelish burning coal Ministers intae their beds are fleeing wae ranting verses fa all their Dealing. Whare auld worn hags an witches cast upon tha waters that blaw an blast drooning mony tha ship an sailor all fa tha glory O their Demonic tailor when cauldrens stir in bubbling brews An damnation demands its richtful dues tha lan' it heaves and haws devouring all within its jaws A Blood red Moon casts her lot whare evil men have Died an fought tha Earth auld an worn frae tribulation demands the blood of every nation. Here within the fields o life brither against brither in war an strife hae released all this fiendish nightmare fa all their guilt,fa all they share Alisdaire O'Caoimph
0
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 8:05 AM UTC
alisdaire-ocaoimph
Tales -Scots Doric
Aye think o this When winter breezes blaws aroun' whare silent thochts are filled wae gloom and drifting words,they echo past frae fearful man an fearful lass In haunted hooses and misty lans whare Ghosties an gobblins an unco bans Pass atween this an theirs, that form amidst tha thunders crashing storm. Aye tucked up aroun yeer mithers apron wae teeth a nashing an voices wailing Fine ye ken this unhaly nicht tis filled wae all unGodly licht Craw tha Banshee frae tha Ben like howlet song throughoot tha Glen. Satan, Auld horney casts his lots for innocent bairnies fresh frae their cots An' ancient stories there arise an fly Like shooting stars that fill tha sky for here in tales tha croonies dae rattle in haunting airs and fiendish battle leagons arise tae tha masters calling This nicht hell awakens, aahhh tha heevens are falling. Here in blackened darkened skies whare lichtning flashes weaves an cries An mortal man fears fa his soul against that heelish burning coal Ministers intae their beds are fleeing wae ranting verses fa all their Dealing. Whare auld worn hags an witches cast upon tha waters that blaw an blast drooning mony tha ship an sailor all fa tha glory O their Demonic tailor when cauldrens stir in bubbling brews An damnation demands its richtful dues tha lan' it heaves and haws devouring all within its jaws A Blood red Moon casts her lot whare evil men have Died an fought tha Earth auld an worn frae tribulation demands the blood of every nation. Here within the fields o life brither against brither in war an strife hae released all this fiendish nightmare fa all their guilt,fa all they share Alisdaire O'Caoimph
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46
listen up all tube socks draped lightly over stiff cots rise to the knee this is a call to arms. cleanse yourself of nostril snot store it in a safe spot this is for a poor old sot with whiskey-breath whimpering forget-me-nots. drop pure silver into jangling slots while your veins rot and your heart and brain begin to clot ask your neighbor for a quick five-spot spin the wheel again, sonny this time, give it all you got
0
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
david-badgerow
all you got
listen up all tube socks draped lightly over stiff cots rise to the knee this is a call to arms. cleanse yourself of nostril snot store it in a safe spot this is for a poor old sot with whiskey-breath whimpering forget-me-nots. drop pure silver into jangling slots while your veins rot and your heart and brain begin to clot ask your neighbor for a quick five-spot spin the wheel again, sonny this time, give it all you got
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15
Lord Henry Dickenbottem Lived among his peers A mind of deepest arrogance Concealed between his ears He spent his nights in gross misconduct Lounging in his secret quarters Mistress, maid and washerwoman Ousted mothers, secret daughters Hiding sordid love affairs His endless line of ******* heirs ***** Henry Dickenbottem Stalked above the stairs Lady Mary Dickenbottem Did her wifely duty The slenderest of all her kin Considered quite the beauty Though in the dusk the candle burned Alone, she stitched a pallid face And in the dark she sought its words To gain her shallow masters grace Guiding will and fooling eyes Beseeching of the dead to rise Demon Mary Dickenbottem She the pure despise Master Neville Dickenbottem Best of all his class Beaten all the school boys And bedded every lass Allies of the strongest kind And making merry of the weak The liberties were his to take And never one he wouldn’t seek His gaze surveyed that which he ruled All logical and water cooled Nasty Neville Dickenbottem Devil-fire fuelled Young Jemmima Dickenbottem Innocent and slight Playing on the borderline And darting out of sight Only ever at her ease When no one else was close about And etched upon her baby face The guilty shadow of a doubt Always blamed if something broke And speaking just above a croak Shy Jemmima Dickenbottem Tangible as smoke Old Mother Dickenbottem Lounging in her chair Lavender and nicotine Are fighting for her hair Beware, at night she ventures forth So best keep safe your tiny tots She’ll creep up to the windowpane And ****** them, sleeping, from their cots Humming in discordant tones Nimble fingers, cold as stones Hungry Mother Dickenbottem Gnawing on the bones Dear Major Dickenbottem Five years in the ground Hoarded every ha’penny But frittered every pound Long he served his king and queen A gentlemanly thing to do He left the port with many men And brought back homeward very few He died away in foreign lands Of syphilis and swollen glands Dead Major Dickenbottem Killed by wandering hands
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Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
ben-jones
The Noble House of Dickenbottem
Lord Henry Dickenbottem Lived among his peers A mind of deepest arrogance Concealed between his ears He spent his nights in gross misconduct Lounging in his secret quarters Mistress, maid and washerwoman Ousted mothers, secret daughters Hiding sordid love affairs His endless line of ******* heirs ***** Henry Dickenbottem Stalked above the stairs Lady Mary Dickenbottem Did her wifely duty The slenderest of all her kin Considered quite the beauty Though in the dusk the candle burned Alone, she stitched a pallid face And in the dark she sought its words To gain her shallow masters grace Guiding will and fooling eyes Beseeching of the dead to rise Demon Mary Dickenbottem She the pure despise Master Neville Dickenbottem Best of all his class Beaten all the school boys And bedded every lass Allies of the strongest kind And making merry of the weak The liberties were his to take And never one he wouldn’t seek His gaze surveyed that which he ruled All logical and water cooled Nasty Neville Dickenbottem Devil-fire fuelled Young Jemmima Dickenbottem Innocent and slight Playing on the borderline And darting out of sight Only ever at her ease When no one else was close about And etched upon her baby face The guilty shadow of a doubt Always blamed if something broke And speaking just above a croak Shy Jemmima Dickenbottem Tangible as smoke Old Mother Dickenbottem Lounging in her chair Lavender and nicotine Are fighting for her hair Beware, at night she ventures forth So best keep safe your tiny tots She’ll creep up to the windowpane And ****** them, sleeping, from their cots Humming in discordant tones Nimble fingers, cold as stones Hungry Mother Dickenbottem Gnawing on the bones Dear Major Dickenbottem Five years in the ground Hoarded every ha’penny But frittered every pound Long he served his king and queen A gentlemanly thing to do He left the port with many men And brought back homeward very few He died away in foreign lands Of syphilis and swollen glands Dead Major Dickenbottem Killed by wandering hands
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72
At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands; He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands; The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. "Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee! Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be! I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart." He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near; They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across; The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribands toss. The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring, She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring, They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers, "And ** young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!" Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away. They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn, Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in. The second morn is risen, and now the third is come; Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home? Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air; There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there. The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down; You see it by the lightning--a river wide and brown. Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar, Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore. "Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell. Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout, While me alone the tempest o'erwhelmed and hurried out. "Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks! Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks! Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot, That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not? "Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein, Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back."
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1.4k
William Cullen Bryant
The Count Of Greiers (From The German Of Uhland)
At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands; He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands; The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. "Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee! Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be! I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart." He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near; They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across; The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribands toss. The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring, She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring, They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers, "And ** young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!" Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away. They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn, Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in. The second morn is risen, and now the third is come; Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home? Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air; There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there. The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down; You see it by the lightning--a river wide and brown. Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar, Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore. "Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell. Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout, While me alone the tempest o'erwhelmed and hurried out. "Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks! Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks! Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot, That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not? "Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein, Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back."
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40
--To A. J. A black and glassy float, opaque and still, The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill; Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze; The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke; The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke, They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze. The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore A noise of running water whispered near. A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore, Yellow with **** there wandered, vague and clear, Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.
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1.4k
William Ernest Henley
Attadale West Highlands
--To A. J. A black and glassy float, opaque and still, The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill; Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze; The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke; The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke, They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze. The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore A noise of running water whispered near. A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore, Yellow with **** there wandered, vague and clear, Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.
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15
The name of this tune is Mississippi ****** And I mean every word of it Alabama's gotten me so upset Tennessee made me lose my rest And everybody knows about Mississippi ****** Alabama's gotten me so upset Tennessee made me lose my rest And everybody knows about Mississippi ****** Can't you see it Can't you feel it It's all in the air I can't stand the pressure much longer Somebody say a prayer Alabama's gotten me so upset Tennessee made me lose my rest And everybody knows about Mississippi ****** This is a show tune But the show hasn't been written for it, yet Hound dogs on my trail School children sitting in jail Black cat cross my path I think every day's gonna be my last Lord have mercy on this land of mine We all gonna get it in due time I don't belong here I don't belong there I've even stopped believing in prayer Don't tell me I tell you Me and my people just about due I've been there so I know They keep on saying "Go slow!" But that's just the trouble "do it slow" Washing the windows "do it slow" Picking the cotton "do it slow" You're just plain rotten "do it slow" You're too **** lazy "do it slow" The thinking's crazy "do it slow" Where am I going What am I doing I don't know I don't know Just try to do your very best Stand up be counted with all the rest For everybody knows about Mississippi ****** I made you thought I was kiddin' Picket lines School boy cots They try to say it's a communist plot All I want is equality for my sister my brother my people and me Yes you lied to me all these years You told me to wash and clean my ears And talk real fine just like a lady And you'd stop calling me Sister Sadie Oh but this whole country is full of lies You're all gonna die and die like flies I don't trust you any more You keep on saying "Go slow!" "Go slow!" But that's just the trouble "do it slow" Desegregation "do it slow" Mass participation "do it slow" Reunification "do it slow" Do things gradually "do it slow" But bring more tragedy "do it slow" Why don't you see it Why don't you feel it I don't know I don't know You don't have to live next to me Just give me my equality Everybody knows about Mississippi Everybody knows about Alabama Everybody knows about Mississippi ****** That's it!
0
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
l-4
Mississippi ******
The name of this tune is Mississippi ****** And I mean every word of it Alabama's gotten me so upset Tennessee made me lose my rest And everybody knows about Mississippi ****** Alabama's gotten me so upset Tennessee made me lose my rest And everybody knows about Mississippi ****** Can't you see it Can't you feel it It's all in the air I can't stand the pressure much longer Somebody say a prayer Alabama's gotten me so upset Tennessee made me lose my rest And everybody knows about Mississippi ****** This is a show tune But the show hasn't been written for it, yet Hound dogs on my trail School children sitting in jail Black cat cross my path I think every day's gonna be my last Lord have mercy on this land of mine We all gonna get it in due time I don't belong here I don't belong there I've even stopped believing in prayer Don't tell me I tell you Me and my people just about due I've been there so I know They keep on saying "Go slow!" But that's just the trouble "do it slow" Washing the windows "do it slow" Picking the cotton "do it slow" You're just plain rotten "do it slow" You're too **** lazy "do it slow" The thinking's crazy "do it slow" Where am I going What am I doing I don't know I don't know Just try to do your very best Stand up be counted with all the rest For everybody knows about Mississippi ****** I made you thought I was kiddin' Picket lines School boy cots They try to say it's a communist plot All I want is equality for my sister my brother my people and me Yes you lied to me all these years You told me to wash and clean my ears And talk real fine just like a lady And you'd stop calling me Sister Sadie Oh but this whole country is full of lies You're all gonna die and die like flies I don't trust you any more You keep on saying "Go slow!" "Go slow!" But that's just the trouble "do it slow" Desegregation "do it slow" Mass participation "do it slow" Reunification "do it slow" Do things gradually "do it slow" But bring more tragedy "do it slow" Why don't you see it Why don't you feel it I don't know I don't know You don't have to live next to me Just give me my equality Everybody knows about Mississippi Everybody knows about Alabama Everybody knows about Mississippi ****** That's it!
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88
I don't need no lemon drops To take away the cough. Don't need to be round beds and cots, Or pills for sleep being lost. Don't need antibiotics To relieve an infection. Though this seems idiotic, Don't need vaccine protection. What I really need is love, They say that it's a cure-all So I pray to God above That one day I will fall. ©
0
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 7:20 AM UTC
norris-rolle
lOVE PRESCRIPTION
I don't need no lemon drops To take away the cough. Don't need to be round beds and cots, Or pills for sleep being lost. Don't need antibiotics To relieve an infection. Though this seems idiotic, Don't need vaccine protection. What I really need is love, They say that it's a cure-all So I pray to God above That one day I will fall. ©
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13
bitter winds bite a desperate heart as early darkness unsheathes winter's slivering moon the perfect celestial sickle threatens to thresh exposed digits wayward trundlers heaving bulky sacks of woe scutter down the city's darkest side streets making haste to the only lighted room that still welcomes them cots boast lumpy clots of errant springs and jagged hooks grappling the lodger atop a mattress in bumpy knots of institutional green coughs and snores cusses and laughter sighs and tears all ceaseless prayers some mumbled some shouted some thought some roared some farted some cried some sung speaking mutely of the weighty day resenting new hard memories hoping for a dreamless sleep Friends Shelter NYC 12/31/08 jbm Music Selection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers: Moanin
0
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 9:51 PM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
Homeless Shelter
bitter winds bite a desperate heart as early darkness unsheathes winter's slivering moon the perfect celestial sickle threatens to thresh exposed digits wayward trundlers heaving bulky sacks of woe scutter down the city's darkest side streets making haste to the only lighted room that still welcomes them cots boast lumpy clots of errant springs and jagged hooks grappling the lodger atop a mattress in bumpy knots of institutional green coughs and snores cusses and laughter sighs and tears all ceaseless prayers some mumbled some shouted some thought some roared some farted some cried some sung speaking mutely of the weighty day resenting new hard memories hoping for a dreamless sleep Friends Shelter NYC 12/31/08 jbm Music Selection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers: Moanin
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52
I've toed the line between sane and absurd, I've held on to your every last word. But the day has come, and you still aren't here. And this was the sum of all my fears. The thoughts I had would make a saint blush. I honestly hoped this was more than a crush. I went out on a limb, but under me it broke. I became the punchline to your elaborate joke. So here I sit, alone in my thoughts. Trapped like prisoners isolated in their cots. Watching the world crumble beneath me. I gave it all but you refused to see. Never have I ever wanted it to end, But that was the message your absence would send. So now I'm here, back to square one. Left alone to bask in this hollow sun.
0
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
nolan-davis
Hollow Sun
I've toed the line between sane and absurd, I've held on to your every last word. But the day has come, and you still aren't here. And this was the sum of all my fears. The thoughts I had would make a saint blush. I honestly hoped this was more than a crush. I went out on a limb, but under me it broke. I became the punchline to your elaborate joke. So here I sit, alone in my thoughts. Trapped like prisoners isolated in their cots. Watching the world crumble beneath me. I gave it all but you refused to see. Never have I ever wanted it to end, But that was the message your absence would send. So now I'm here, back to square one. Left alone to bask in this hollow sun.
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16
This hotel serves green tea on golden platters I bite into it like liquid has a spine, circular piston cradling a ladder to my tongue the giant beanstalk, I sleep here and awake somewhere else with morning meals already stomached in a stasis – just how ****** lucidly bled the rugged hand he forcefully bled under her summer dress: I am here, I am her with you as I hike teapots and escape each new room. For the next, it has squeaky cots – you heave me to the breakfast bar prior to sun so I do not whine when heat hits my face, there is not tea here, bottles of Coke are okay: a slow content because they’ll hear if we churn. And unlocking the stall from an exterior view, it is the wall that looks attractive for one lollylike little girl, the old man warm & ugly, insomnia only goes when he wants to fly south.
0
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
sarina
flock
This hotel serves green tea on golden platters I bite into it like liquid has a spine, circular piston cradling a ladder to my tongue the giant beanstalk, I sleep here and awake somewhere else with morning meals already stomached in a stasis – just how ****** lucidly bled the rugged hand he forcefully bled under her summer dress: I am here, I am her with you as I hike teapots and escape each new room. For the next, it has squeaky cots – you heave me to the breakfast bar prior to sun so I do not whine when heat hits my face, there is not tea here, bottles of Coke are okay: a slow content because they’ll hear if we churn. And unlocking the stall from an exterior view, it is the wall that looks attractive for one lollylike little girl, the old man warm & ugly, insomnia only goes when he wants to fly south.
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19
O, Mighty King of Igneous and Summer, Cape the earth within an icy quilt And freeze the ****** in their cots. All without enough covering To remain warm, Yet enough food alone to remain strong --- Freeze, mighty King. Let their knee caps grow frigid And their lives cease to exist, Then tomorrow They’ll wake up in some fancy mansion of nothing Where trivialness is everything and Everything is trivialness.
0
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
glenn-mccrary
Brave II
O, Mighty King of Igneous and Summer, Cape the earth within an icy quilt And freeze the ****** in their cots. All without enough covering To remain warm, Yet enough food alone to remain strong --- Freeze, mighty King. Let their knee caps grow frigid And their lives cease to exist, Then tomorrow They’ll wake up in some fancy mansion of nothing Where trivialness is everything and Everything is trivialness.
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13
Mystic The air is a mill of hooks - Questions without answer, Glittering and drunk as flies Whose kiss stings unbearably In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer. I remember The dead smell of sun on wood cabins, The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets. Once one has seen God, what is the remedy? Once one has been seized up Without a part left over, Not a toe, not a finger, and used, Used utterly, in the sun’s conflagrations, the stains That lengthen from ancient cathedrals What is the remedy? The pill of the Communion tablet, The walking beside still water? Memory? Or picking up the bright pieces of Christ in the faces of rodents, The tame flower- nibblers, the ones Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable - The humpback in his small, washed cottage Under the spokes of the clematis. Is there no great love, only tenderness? Does the sea Remember the walker upon it? Meaning leaks from the molecules. The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats, The children leap in their cots. The sun blooms, it is a geranium. The heart has not stopped.
0
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
wordvango
'Mystic' by Sylvia Plath
Mystic The air is a mill of hooks - Questions without answer, Glittering and drunk as flies Whose kiss stings unbearably In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer. I remember The dead smell of sun on wood cabins, The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets. Once one has seen God, what is the remedy? Once one has been seized up Without a part left over, Not a toe, not a finger, and used, Used utterly, in the sun’s conflagrations, the stains That lengthen from ancient cathedrals What is the remedy? The pill of the Communion tablet, The walking beside still water? Memory? Or picking up the bright pieces of Christ in the faces of rodents, The tame flower- nibblers, the ones Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable - The humpback in his small, washed cottage Under the spokes of the clematis. Is there no great love, only tenderness? Does the sea Remember the walker upon it? Meaning leaks from the molecules. The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats, The children leap in their cots. The sun blooms, it is a geranium. The heart has not stopped.
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32
is empty echo stacco on the walls through the halls we run and ride bikes hikes we planned but never did parents put the lid on our dreams and thoughts now the cots and pots are set up on the floor I just want you more with jelly jello jiggling right to my core pour pouring rain raining training yourself to starve a little more more ore or oranges stacked stupidly packed all the dishes are broken and here is this ****** token to replace the love I could never give you here is your cue to take all you have and leave leave leave leaving you are always just leaving leaves are always just leaving and thieves are always just coming cuming on my nose pose hose down you hopes its only about how she copes mopes mops and brooms scattered in rooms overlooking gray grass and blooms and the wind blows the petals hard card signed only with your name I don’t blame you or her for preferring your and hers second chance dance dance dancing in the empty house echoing.
0
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
ann-beaver
Empty Echo
is empty echo stacco on the walls through the halls we run and ride bikes hikes we planned but never did parents put the lid on our dreams and thoughts now the cots and pots are set up on the floor I just want you more with jelly jello jiggling right to my core pour pouring rain raining training yourself to starve a little more more ore or oranges stacked stupidly packed all the dishes are broken and here is this ****** token to replace the love I could never give you here is your cue to take all you have and leave leave leave leaving you are always just leaving leaves are always just leaving and thieves are always just coming cuming on my nose pose hose down you hopes its only about how she copes mopes mops and brooms scattered in rooms overlooking gray grass and blooms and the wind blows the petals hard card signed only with your name I don’t blame you or her for preferring your and hers second chance dance dance dancing in the empty house echoing.
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59
the little dots, the little dots, the clever tasks of hit-me-nots, the flavor chase of over-cradle tones,       the rounded bore, the tasted lore, the keenest sweet of evenscore, the purgey smile of freshly-rattled bones,       will leave us here, with blanketsmear, the slowest breath of hold-me-dear, though room reverbed with slender, ghosted moans.       the little dots of eyelid knots will crest and lumber sandy cots, we roll the night like sunny, bleaching, stones.
0
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:42 AM UTC
keith-ren
the afters
the little dots, the little dots, the clever tasks of hit-me-nots, the flavor chase of over-cradle tones,       the rounded bore, the tasted lore, the keenest sweet of evenscore, the purgey smile of freshly-rattled bones,       will leave us here, with blanketsmear, the slowest breath of hold-me-dear, though room reverbed with slender, ghosted moans.       the little dots of eyelid knots will crest and lumber sandy cots, we roll the night like sunny, bleaching, stones.
Continue reading...
26