"listeners" poems
I am told,
You think I am too old,
I am more precious than gold.
If you listen to me,
I will take you to a wonderful world;
I'm supposed to be oral,
speaking
of
myths,
legends,
fantasy,
and the supernatural.
When you listen to me,
Then you'll know,
How I become young,
How I live so long.
I am who I am.
Everyone knows me
and
all
the children love me.
I am not a lie,
In me you can find the truth,
That roots
you
To
Your Past
and
To
The Orgin
Because,
It's me, the oxygen,
That
Cultures breath,
And
The nitrogen,
With which THEY fly
Deep
In a blue sea,
Like a White Dove,
Like a Magical Butterfly,
And
With which They dive
High
in a Blue Sky
Like an Incredible fish,
Like a Blue Whale,
in a Fairytale.
I have no specific author,
You can be my author.
I have no specific time,
For all times are mine.
I had lived in your Heart
An Art.
I had had only listeners
Until I was put in a Book.
I was Invisible,
But
Now you can see me if you look,
Or
GUESS what?
I am Unseen,
Though you think that's me on that screen.
That's not me,
For I have always been...
A Mystery,
That speaks
Of
Happiness
And
Misery,
Of
Kindness
And
Treachery,
Of
Poverty
And
Luxury,
Of
Honesty
And
Trickery,
Of
Freedom
And
Slavery,
So
please,
Hurry
And
Listen to me,
Before you go to any cinema or library.
For I am
The oldest Teacher
And
The honest Preacher.
I think you know me well now,
So ask Grandma how?
When you wish to MEET me.
I can be for you a guide
And take you to another side,
I can make your world wide.
If you follow me, Child!
I can take you to the Woods,
I can take you to the wild.
In which
Animals
Talk
And
Trees
Walk.
And
In which
A Witch
Has
Hooves ,
And
An Ant
Wears
Gloves,
And
In Which
A Wolf
Sings,
And
A Horse
Has
Wings,
And
In Which
A kingdom,
And
Many other Bewitching Gems
Of
Wisdom.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Did I notice little birds early in the morning,
Flying and hopping, chirping and tweeting..
Different families of birds chirping..
Brown, yellow chested, black with long tail and orange beak, house sparrow too,
Hens and cock's crow too...
All are busy talking
Do they ever listen too??
**
As a child I remember,
**
I Came back from school and twittered about my day,
Each evening my family sat around each other,
And all had to speak at once,
None of us there were listeners..
So what one could hear was lots of twitterati..
My mom just said hmm and hmm..
Never really heard my endless stories..
My brother was gem...
He always heard..
Don't know how much.. Though
Each sentence of mine ended
on
.. Is it not bro?... And yes said he always..!
From those carefree twittering to this day,
Life has moved so much..
**
Life always moves, one always grow,
From constant chatter to a deep silence.
And so
**
I wonder do birds ever become silent..
From Cuckoo to Wisdomed Owl
From experienced Eagle to the chirping house sparrow..
Do they too grow silent when old??
The early morning chirping,
Is it from young birds??
Are the old one just saying hmmm
Are they listening ?
Or are they talking?
Ever wondered what happens in birds world??
**
Though nothing much changed now in my house..
**
We still speak at the same time
We hardly have ear for other's stories..
But now we don't speak our heart out..
We are not those chirping type anymore,
We speak about our performance,
We speak about our achievement
We speak about the praises we receive..
We give our Wisdom,
We give our advice..
**
But we hardly speak about ourselves..
**
Sometimes, I still long to be that child again..
Twittering my tongue constantly..
Till my mother yells "Shhh! keep quiet"
And my brother says.. I am listening.. you say..!!!
**
Alas, life moves on, life always make one grow..
**
Sparkle in Wisdom
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
I am
so
grateful
for
those
who
listen.
Thank you all.
Sometimes
listening
might
just
save
a
life.
Might
be
the
invisible
offering
extended
enabling
one
to
hold on
for
one
more
day.
Cj 2016
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 15th January 2016, 00:04
-------------------------------------------------------------------
So yeah this is me and Julie outside H&M;…
trying too hard to look ****
Desperate tarts more like.
We went to Starbucks after that, then the pub,
and then… the rest of the afternoon's a blur. Haha.
----------✿-----------
Oh yes and this one's me with Foo Foo,
stupid cat's sitting on top of my presentation.
She can be useless at times but she makes a good hot water bottle
when it's like, really cold? You know? Cats are great for that.
Dead sympathetic too. Good listeners.
----------✿-----------
Oh now this is a good one. This is me
with that **** actor off I'm a Celebrity.
He was in… actually I can't remember what he was in?
Really like, **** though? Yet I've only seen him on I'm a Celebrity?
Anyway he was cool with stopping for a selfie. God love him.
(Whoever he is).
----------✿-----------
Ahh… this one is me with Julie again. She's such a ******
She's got one of those light up Santa hats on. Daft *****
Never did get one for me. Not that I'd wear one.
I prefer those furry reindeer antlers.
See? There's one of me with antlers on.
----------✿-----------
Oh here's one of me and Mum.
Yeah very sad I know. She tries so hard to be cool, bless her.
Embarrassing really. I gave her my old phone and
she still hasn't worked out how to use it.
Takes loads of photos of herself though.
So sad.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
I am told,
You think I am too old,
I am more precious than gold.
If you listen to me,
I will take you to a wonderful world;
I'm supposed to be oral,
speaking
of
myths,
legends,
fantasy,
and the supernatural.
When you listen to me,
Then you'll know,
How I become young,
How I live so long.
I am who I am.
Everyone knows me
and
all
the children love me.
I am not a lie,
In me you can find the truth,
That roots
you
To
Your Past
and
To
The Orgin
Because,
It's me, the oxygen,
That
Cultures breath,
And
The nitrogen,
With which THEY fly
Deep
In a blue sea,
Like a White Dove,
Like a Magical Butterfly,
And
With which They dive
High
in a Blue Sky
Like an Incredible fish,
Like a Blue Whale,
in a Fairytale.
I have no specific author,
You can be my author.
I have no specific time,
For all times are mine.
I had lived in your Heart
An Art.
I had had only listeners
Until I was put in a Book.
I was Invisible,
But
Now you can see me if you look,
Or
GUESS what?
I am Unseen,
Though you think that's me on that screen.
That's not me,
For I have always been...
A Mystery,
That speaks
Of
Happiness
And
Misery,
Of
Kindness
And
Treachery,
Of
Poverty
And
Luxury,
Of
Honesty
And
Trickery,
Of
Freedom
And
Slavery,
So
please,
Hurry
And
Listen to me,
Before you go to any cinema or library.
For I am
The oldest Teacher
And
The honest Preacher.
I think you know me well now,
So ask Grandma how?
When you wish to MEET me.
I can be for you a guide
And take you to another side,
I can make your world wide.
If you follow me, Child!
I can take you to the Woods,
I can take you to the wild.
In which
Animals
Talk
And
Trees
Walk.
And
In which
A Witch
Has
Hooves ,
And
An Ant
Wears
Gloves,
And
In Which
A Wolf
Sings,
And
A Horse
Has
Wings,
And
In Which
A kingdom,
And
Many other Bewitching Gems
Of
Wisdom.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
wind's cool lips envelop and chill
protruding listeners, speckled stamps
on crinkled noses
or sun-bit, stacked vertebrae
dabbing each one, I count the
anatomical stars, fibers of you
glancing over with the brim of
my own beginning, parted just so
maps unwind, sighing deeply
but robustly seducing the depths
of our curiosity, condemning
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
The Great Debate started,
Parliament was the open forest,
electors were divided into two groups—
Sir Fox's, and
The Lion's,
The first group wanted to overthrow the Lion
from the sovereign head of the forest,
It was a tough job to confront Lion directly,
So, Sir Fox, appointed a Monkey as the Chief campaigner,
and that monkey appointed other monkeys in the business,
Scaring them with a story of vanishing trees, and living on
the land increases the mortality rate if Lion Party continues.
Monkey, the chief campaigner exclaimed,
“We are not living in the rule of law but in the rule of Lion,
All are equal, but the continuous target of a particular community,
Like a beautiful deer, by another community in majority
should be banned, Deers bring historic and aesthetic
significance to the forest
And need to be treated as the same,”
Deers bellowed gleefully hearing this.
Cows felt hurt,
their exclusion from Monkey’s speech
proved to be a setback to the Fox’s Party,
Cows were the most targeted community
by the Carnivores, everyone in the forest knew,
Potential voters were lost to Lion’s Party.
Polarising speeches of Chief continued,
It brought Rhinoceros to its side,
Seeing rhino in political rallies,
Hippopotamus chipped in,
To counter the increasing weight
Political advisor of Lion, i.e, Tiger,
persuaded Elephant to become an official
member of their party.
Hate speeches increased in numbers
Giraffe, the bearer and upholder of law,
Overlooked everything,
the long neck looked tilted towards
an ideology.
Rumours became truth,
truth became rumour
Monkey was good in it,
And an army of monkeys were excellent.
Parrots, Pigeons, Peacock,
**** Cuckoo, Cat,
Loved the importance they got,
Disseminated the Fox loving songs.
The listeners felt threatened,
They had an enemy living between them
and they were considering them friends,
They thanked the Parrot, Pigeon, Peacock
for pointing them out.
Now, biped hated quadruped,
Quadruped hated reptiles,
Reptiles did the same to amphibians,
And in this way the whole animal kingdom
danced in chaos,
The fiery speeches of Sir Fox helped
in creating illusion,
The slogan of the Man as a common enemy
was changed to, Feline as a common enemy,
Felines joined Sir Fox’s Party,
And Canines ran to Lion’s Party,
Obvious was difficult to observe
Obscure was easy to see.
to be continued
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 3:22 PM UTC
you turn yourself inside-out
each word from the invisible
stretches into the ear of listeners
your heart sense making sense
in a whole new galaxy
the mind and accepting hearts
forming stars in the blackness
light up and spin like ballerinas
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
Fighting against the opened eyes that don't see what is true
Refusing to accept the other point of view
Explaining things they think are not true
Expecting their stupid listeners to believe their clue
**** them and everyone who is trying to
Offend the pure spirits of brave men who could do
Many things in life but they chose dying over withdraw
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
* * *
Is a DJ - a "DJ", really?
Do we not operate in tunes?
We joggle with joy them and freely -
To ease our listeners' glooms.
Methinks -
We are ought to be "TJ"s.
For, truly, we pluck the Soul's strings.
And hearts care only for wings -
To fly with vibrations of music
And into their sanity fuse it.
(с)kRu, 11.12.2006 - 18.06.2007
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:12 AM UTC
Black dress,
Black lace shawl,
Red cherry violin,
Black frets and strings,
Black bow, white mane or tail,
Tensely poised
To move along the strings
In dances sensuously slow,
Tantalizing strings
To vibrations sublime,
Singing listeners to sway
Eyes closed, adrift, in
Streaming consciousness.
Other movements quick and sharp,
Impossible for any heavy-wielded harp,
Dancing pirouettes of sound,
Jetting needles sharp,
Then reeling tremulous...
These caterwaulings of a horse's tail
Held tautly on a stick.
A deaf man here beside me,
Only seeing, reads about
The music that I hearing, feel...
Somehow feels the Muse,
Sways to the dancing bow.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.
Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.
With smash hits like
"This traffic is ********
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals
Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.
old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.
"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.
Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"
So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
Shoot me, You might as well, cause I'm a threat
A threat to your system, a threat to your net
profit and status quo, so pick up that gun shoot me and pray to the ground I go, and when you bury me you better call me a madman and pray that the martyrs don't grow
You may as well shoot me Mr.Police officer,
It may put your employers at ease
One bless black man with a heart of power
One less antibiotic to your disease
Don't forget to tell me I'm resisting, don't forget to tase me til I fall
Don't forget to choke me so those listening won't hear my struggles, my calls
Don't forget to have the media depict me as a **** and a criminal and a menace to society
Don't forget to reprimand and berate me
Remind your older white listeners that my kind, my skin color
is still not considered American Propriety
But more like American property, disposable goods
So **** me, the cameras are recording but don't worry you'll get off free
Might be just a conviction but your Massa's new henchmen and ***** still got the key
A couple months paid administrative leave so you can sit on a beach, drink some ice tea
Mad that you can no longer put chains on our wrists so you put handcuffs instead
No longer pulling whips across our backs so you bury hot burning lead
No longer working your fields for all to see but instead privatized free prison labor with your warden holding the key.
Martin told me when he us that he had a dream
I got his same DNA in my bloodstream
And in every cell in my body I feel the effect, I teem
I boil I scream, when I see a black mother or father gunned down by police men and the children witnessing the death, the blood, the stream.....
I scheme, and when I sleep, I dream
And when I dream it's bad news for you
to avenge those we lost by crimes, undue
To put a stop to all of you.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
the waiting in hallways
lined up on the wall
with eyes following the chatterbox and her
flowing train of rabid listeners
who hang themselves ritualisticly on her
shallow water illustrations
swimming on this thin tide of unpublished lip candy
her bubblegum words are commentary
upon which her followers build temples
to the unfit mothers of televangelists
the chatterbox spills her loud thoughts
on the sun warmed concrete
as the summer lawnmower navigates
around santa and his late december reindeer
and the children's labyrinth of christams morning plans
while i sunbath nearby
she gathers her spilled thoughts
and races away proudly proclaiming that'
my poems are too short for the pulitzer
so she is ready for her laurels
and a fast road to academia
with a neatly packaged version of her inner perversions
spread like *** and lip candy
on the local coffee shop bookshelf's
for the pretty college girl with glasses to drink from
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
the church bells peeled a rhythmic ringing
tinnitus
sending us listeners racing back
into a guilty crime like daze.
the mass begins in twenty painful moments
better rush in the rustle of sunday wear
bible bolstered underarm
front pew glances at the priest
who had a back view glare at late comers.
Mama said the sins of your fathers
will visit if you
miss a mass
canned hellfire will get you
and st peter will tick mark your presence
after communion.
I listened
when I stopped
God became god
and the church bells peeled
the same way
only the new pizzas came
with canned chilli peppers!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
The rabbit haunts from a distance, patrolling fields for one to bear witness.
Gracefully the tenderfoot stalks, keeping a watchful eye out for Mr.Fox.
The creature walks with a slight limp, other animals often call him a gimp.
This way, that way, it all seems wrong, keeping time with a lost robin's song.
His home constructed as a single story wonder, located within a large tree laying asunder.
Family life wasn't right, as fleeting an image as a wayward kite.
A field mouse, left without spouse,
Stumbled upon the home in a tree, accompanied by a group of songbirds filled with glee.
The field mouse was asked to go, the creature in response, simply said no.
A man stumbled up, as mad as a hatter, his portly girth made it hard to imagine being any fatter.
He spoke of intrinsic right, boundless visions beyond sight.
Told the rabbit he had a duty to the mouse, saying it immoral to deprive him of a house.
The rabbit, reluctant to accept , found out from the man of the true evils in neglect.
He was told that he didn't own the home, it had simply been gifted as a goodwill loan.
That meant it was as his as much as the rabbits, regardless of any perspective habits.
With that the moused moved in, and brought with him his prized snakeskin.
Over a meal the mouse spoke of danger, coming in the form of a wandering stranger.
He told the rabbit, this creature travelled light, but usually shrouded in the cover of night.
Said the creature was not large in size, though his methods of thievery seemed quite wise.
The rabbit recoiled in his chair, as the field mouse offered up a demonic glare.
The field mouse grinned from ear to ear, sensing this rabbit's new grasp on fear.
Pulling the snakeskin from his sack, the dried shell was quick to crack.
The mouse spoke of a brave duel, between him and this monster, which had downed a mule.
He used every ounce of his cunning, and sent the legless beat running.
It wasn't good enough for the mouse, who was certainly no louse.
He tracked the snake for six long hours, through a field of partially bloomed flowers.
In the end he killed the snake, then took its skin so listeners knew the tale wasn't fake.
He held the skin, I mean the mouse, and said he'd hang the shell within the house.
Mr. Rabbit was found dead two days after, his body lay desecrated next to the snakes, hanging from a rafter.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
"Is there anybody there?" said the caller,
"Six ten eight oh one two four three nine?"
And his ears attuned to the empty hum
Of the long-forgotten line;
And an LED on the handset
Flashed, for a moment, red,
And he dialled the number a second time:
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one replied to the caller,
No sound but the dialling tone
Came drifting into his waiting ear
As he held that haunted phone;
But only a host of phantom listeners,
Of spectres weak and strange
Stood hearkening to that human voice
That echoed around the exchange;
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
And his heart was afraid and nervous,
With his hand on the final digit
Of that number not in service;
For he suddenly tapped the receiver
And spoke on that line of dread:
"Tell them I called, and no one answered,
That I kept my word!" he said;
Ay, they heard him replace the receiver,
And his mumbled cursing later,
With the usual subdued but enthused delight
Of the switchboard operator.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
The flapping of the listeners ears.
Their meddling noses.
Careering through the undergrowth
Thick skinned and worthy of massive respect.
Their ears listen,
But sadly their eyes didn’t see.
The poachers passing by the Baobab tree.
The huge noble beasts.
No-one supposes.
That elephants ever forget.
That’s what the people say.
I guess they forgot the sound of the poachers’ guns.
And they’re probably not scared of mice either.
Mice are pretty nice as well.
© Livvi
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.
The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.
Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.
Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.
The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.
Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.
This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then dispensed with…
With a laugh!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
There was
none
to
listen
to her
Her words were like:
- A cry in the wilderness
that broke and shattered on woody trunks
- The howl of a lone wolf
that rose in the dead of the night
- The cry of an infant
that told the world, it was hungry
The cacophony of discordant orchestra
that left a jarring effect on the listeners
Her words sounded meaningless
To a world that spoke a different tongue
With no receptacle, her words like heated waters
Evanesced into vapor and billowed upward
Like coils of smoke to freeze into clouds
But one day it rained down,
Quite unexpected…….
With thunder and lightning!
-
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
If you haven't noticed
our generation is failing
Our earth is dying
Doesn't any body understand?
Its all a reflection of us
what the earth feels we will feel
Empty
without true love
the sun is lonely
it burns what drops by
Even our earth turns away from it
what a sad existence for something that gives so much
its warmth holds us up
and we work away its light
and only come out
when the moon shadows the night
women
don't compete
men
don't back away
take what is yours darling
you'll never get another shot
fix me
fix you
please do
lend a hand
be a friend
Love
I don't get the word
its a word to disguise our pain
pain as pleasure
even on entrance
a trick of cancer
***********
risking death
the end of the ******
love may sew temporary wounds
but we are chronic
The belief is free love
in sexuality freedom
its only a myth
because of our duality
one side suffers
as one side grows to yield
one side grows to grow
eruption in the psyche
and the shamans and heroes are gone
our women are now men
and are men are now women
Visions of our future come to me
although, we are better speakers
than we are listeners
so
would
could
one soul make a difference
I could go on forever
but I will someday die
and when I returned to the earth
I expected a lot of change
but I only saw my hard work
twisted by the power people
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 11:10 PM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
This is for the doers and the seekers
the straight arrows and the tweakers
this is for the movers and the shakers
the hungry, unemployed and the money makers
this is for the girlfriends, and the secret ******
the ungentlemenly men and the ones who still hold doors
this is for listeners and the hearing deaf
the right wingers and for the liberal lefts
this is for the child who's awake at night afraid
and for the parents who'll regret not being there one day
this is for the academic scholars, and the high school dropouts
the meek, quiet talkers, and the ones who curse and shout
this is for the homeless and those braking banks to afford their mortgage rates
the healthy ones and the ones who's lives are in the hands of the fates
this is for the elderly and ones who's lives are not yet found
this is for you my brothers and sisters
for it takes all kinds to make the world go round
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 3:55 PM UTC
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where almost nothing ever happens and the universe sits mostly still, where indie music is life and where photography is heaven. Where silence is golden and life is absolute. Where we all wish to be, and where only a select few of us can go and handle it.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where we lie in limbo, waiting for the sun to come up, the moon to go down, the median between life and whats left of the dark decay of lifelessness. Where Your eyes open wide, where your thoughts wander into the void of the infinite. Where we wait to see the beginning, the middle, and the end.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Welcome to the dead, the living, the mourning, the crying, the sad, the happy, the over energetic, the under enthusiastic, the over enthusiastic, the insomniac, the insane, the beautiful, the quiet, the peaceful, the thoughtless and thoughtful, the kind, the caring, the listeners, the wonderful and magnificent, the open minded and wide eyed sleepless.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where we wander, searching for answers in our sleep. Where we wait for contact and a view into what we think is the future, and where here, we wait for the future. Where we sleep only to be dreaming of our answers we are searching for and never getting the full answer to questions like-
"Who am I?"
"What am I?"
"Who do I love?"
"Who loves me?"
"Why am I here?"
"What awaits me today?"
"Who thinks of me?"
"Who are my friends?"
"Who are my foes?"
"Who are the friendless?"
"Who am I to judge someone?"
"Who are they to judge me?"
"What is left for there to question if I already know the answers to my questions?"
This is what we ask, and wait for...
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where our mindless infinite, grows! To be ever infinite into the oblivion of exaggerated proportions and ridiculous time! Where everything meets the beginning, the middle and the end. Where life dies, starts, and lives once more for us as humanity to enjoy through one more day, for us to catch our breath, and to breathe the dead and living. For our eyes to capture the very beauty of life through blinking as if our eyes where the lens to a camera and our brains the film to feed it.
All in one quiet, peaceful, beautiful, and insane, hour. Everything lives, dies, and starts over again.
Welcome to the beginning, the middle, and the end.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Welcome to life.
Good morning.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC