Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

The Power of The Dog

I like this beginner project



There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Youth and Age

First Love

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet.
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.

My face turned pale, a deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away.
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.

I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice
Is love's bed always snow
She seemed to hear my silent voice
Not love appeals to know.

I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling place
And can return no more.

A beautiful reading

What about moonlight
What about watching for the moon above
the tops of trees and standing
still enough to hear the raucous crickets
chittering invisible among the soon lit stones
trick pinpoints of positions even poise
sustained in solitary loss

What about moonlight
What about moonlight

What about watching for the moon
through windows low enough to let the screams
and curses of the street the gunshots
and the drunken driver screeching tires
and the boombox big beat and the tinkle
bell ice cream truck
inside

What about moonlight
What about
moonlight

What about watching for the moon
behind the locked doors and bolted shut bedrooms
and the blind side of venetian blinds and
cowering under the kitchen table and struggling
from the car and wrestling head
down when the surprise when the
stranger when the surprise when the
coach when the surprise when the
teacher when the surprise when the
priest when the surprise when the
doctor when the surprise when the
family when the surprise when the
lover when the surprise when the
friend when the surprise
lacerates your throat
constricted into no
no more sound

who will whisper
what about moonlight
what about moonlight

What about watching for the moon
so far from where you tremble
where you bleed where you sob
out loud for help for mercy for
a thunderbolt of shame and
retribution where you plead
with God with devils with
the creatures in-between
to push the power key
and set you free
from filth and blasphemy
from everything you never wanted to feel
or see

to set you free

so you could brush your teeth
and comb your hair and maybe
throw on a jacket
or maybe not

you running
curious and so excited and
running and running into the
night
asking only asking

What about moonlight
What about moonlight

Kiss The Earth

A poem from a wonderful site

Walk and touch peace every moment.
Walk and touch happiness every moment.
Each step brings a fresh breeze.
Each step makes a flower bloom.
Kiss the Earth with your feet.
Bring the Earth your love and happiness.
The Earth will be safe
when we feel safe in ourselves.

Song of the Flower

I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth; I was
Reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.

Teenage Angst

There are lots out there, another site here

your confused...he says he loves you..
but the next day he dont want to talk to you ..
you sit on your bed and cry...
you just dont know why?.
he treats you like that.
you are confused why you love him...
when ur a part .
all you do is start.
start to miss the man who confuses you
from the start

~*~SAmanda~*~

A Lover in Heat

I Love You

Poetry Unites

Wow!

Forgetfulness

Pagan Poetry

Pedalling through
The dark currents
I find
An accurate copy
A blueprint
Of the pleasure
In me

Björk - Pagan Poetry
Uploaded by Bjork. - See the latest featured music videos.

Ah Why because the dazzling sun

Ah why because the dazzling sun
Restored our earth to joy
Have you departed every one
And left a desert sky?

All through the night your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine
And with a full hearts thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine

I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea

Thought followed thought, star followed star
Through boundless regions on
While one sweet influence near and far
Thrilled through, and proved us one

Why did the morning dawn to break
So great so pure a spell
And scorch with fire, the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood red, he rose and arrow straight
His fierce beams struck my brow
The soul of nature sprang elate
But mine sank sad and low

My lids closed down yet through their veil
I saw him blazing still
And bathe in gold the misty dale
And flash upon the hill

I turned me to the pillow then
To call back night and see
Your worlds of solemn light again
Throb with my heart, and me

It would not do the pillow glowed
And glowed both roof and floor
And birds sang loudly in the wood
And fresh winds shook the door

The curtains waved , the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam

Oh, stars, and dreams and gentle night
Oh night and stars return
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn

That drains the blood of suffering men
Drinks tears, instead of dew
Let me sleep through his blinding reign
And only wake with you

The Applicant

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

(Click on title)

Another 'Beat Poet'

this poem is for deer
I dance on all the mountains
On five mountains, I have a dancing place
When they shoot at me I run
To my five mountains"

Missed a last shot
At the Buck, in twilight
So we came back sliding
On dry needles through cold pines.
Scared out a cottontail
Whipped up the winchester
Shot off its head.
The white body rolls and twitches
In the dark ravine
As we run down the hill to the car.

                      deer foot down scree
Picasso's fawn, Issa's fawn,
Deer on the autumn mountain
Howling like a wise man
Stiff springy jumps down the snowfields
Head held back, forefeet out,
Balls tight in a tough hair sack
Keeping the human soul from care
                 on the autumn mountain
Standing in late sun, ear-flick
Tail-flick, gold mist of flies
Whirling from nostril to eyes.

Home by night
             drunken eye
Still picks out Taurus
Low, and growing high:
             four-point buck
Dancing in the headlights
             on the lonely road
A mile past the mill-pond,
With the car stopped, shot
That wild silly blinded creature down.

Pull out the hot guts
             with hard bare hands
While night-frost chills the tongue
             and eye
The cold horn-bones.
The hunter's belt
             just below the sky
Warm blood in the car trunk.
Deer-smell,
             the limp tongue.

Deer don't want to die for me.
             I'll drink sea-water
Sleep on beach pebbles in the rain
Until the deer come down to die
             in pity for my pain.

Wife.... Woman.... Friend

The Fury of Overshoes

Controversial Poet

In 1990 he co-authored the autobiography of Quincy Jones, and 1998 was a supporting actor in Warren Beatty's film Bulworth.

Somebody Blew Up America

Beat Poet

I've been to City Bookstores and bought a book

Lawrence Ferlinghetti (born March 24, 1919)is an American poet, painter, liberal activist, and the co-founder of City Lights Booksellers & Publishers. Author of poetry, translations, fiction, theatre, art criticism, and film narration, he is best known for A Coney Island of the Mind (New York: New Directions, 1958), a collection of poems that has been translated into nine languages, with sales of over 1 million copies.

A Coney Island of the Mind (New Directions Paperback No. 74)